The way they treat their meat says everything that needs to be said about the cooks and the kitchen, so vegetables are bound to be treated likewise - with utmost respect. A memorable starter I had in the restaurant a few years ago was simply a large bowl of impossibly fresh peas in the pod. How they picked, transported, and served them in a short enough time as for them to retain their intense sweetness, I'll never know.
When we first moved to London, Jon and I had an expensive habit of eating out somewhere special once a month, and St. John Restaurant became a regular hangout. 8 years later, the blinkers are off, and our expensive habit suppressed (with regret). The bare, white-washed Bar and Bakery you walk through to reach the Restaurant offers a more affordable taste of former architect Fergus Henderson's gutsy and seasonally-inspired food.
The menu, as you'd expect, changes day to day. On a snowy, bitterly cold Tuesday night in January, the savoury offerings were as follows:
- Roast Bone Marrow and Parsley Salad (Fergus's signature dish)
- Bread and butter
- Welsh Rarebit
- Cheese and Chutney Sandwich
- Egg Mayonnaise and Watercress Sandwich
- Middlewhite [pork] and Mustard Sandwich
- Crisp Pintail Legs with Watercress and Pickled Walnuts
- Parsnip Soup
- Whole Crab and Mayonnaise
- Cheese and Biscuits
The duck legs were intriguing. Apparently, wild Pintail ducks feed largely on small fish so I was told to expect a "hint of fish" in the flesh. The small legs had been slow cooked and fried, and the flesh was rich, dark and intensely gamey. A sure sign of well-sourced wild fowl.
The Welsh rarebit was as it should be, predictable in the best sense of the word. A thick piece of toast smeared with a rich combination of strong Cheddar, mustard, and beer, served cermoniously with a large bottle of Worcestershire sauce.
To cleanse and refresh, we nibbled at a generous plate of dressed salad leaves. Whenever I visit a St. John establishment, I have their signature salad. There's something special about the creamy mustardy dressing, and I just can't replicate it at home for some reason. I'm sure it's simple enough - maybe they add sugar, or use a particular white wine vinegar? Anyone know?
Without pause, we tried two sweets: not-overly-sweet damson ice cream, and an exceedly rich mound of bitter chocolate cream with stewed prunes. Both were around the £7 mark, decidely expensive compared to the rest of the menu, but servings were again generous. Our gluttony proved our downfall, and neither of us finished (my chocolate cream was wrapped, on request, in cling film for me to take home and finish in my own time).
We left heavier and happier, with no complaints, but did regret our over-indulgence, and eyed up with envy a packet of Gaviscon someone - with foresight - had placed next to their plate of cheese and biscuits on the bar.
Time to send St. John a tweet: what is the secret of your divine salad dressing?