Sixpenny

Not my first tour of duty at Sixpenny, but undeniably my favourite. How I ever managed to let this gem slip under the radar last time is beyond reckoning. Starting off with an understated bright ale accompanying the (as we would learn) amuse-bouche, a trio of cured cuces in shiso-kombu, pumpkin scollops and (fantastic) Gruyere gougeres of tomato consomme. For those playing at home, the kind of entre that says we are not fucking around.

And not a beat was dropped from go to woe, even the bread blowing minds left and right, a stunning rendition of Bob, their sourdough, in all its pain rustique and coffee-rye glory. For justice i’m compelled to list, heirloom tomatoes in clam butter and salmon roes, those delicate morcels dehydrated and rehydrated in their own jus, venison tartare with hazelnut and beetroot, potato and mushroom aside oyster reduction, finishing off the “official” entre trifecta with their umami-laden under-stated richness. Hard fish main came in a succulent and delicate spanish mackerel under raddichio, bitter leaves and fragrant fish complementing the pungent tomato-cucumber reduction drizzled overtop. The true main, a lamb (making me the winner of the feathers v fur wager against Matron) on demi-glaze with pumpkin puree beside charred leek, classic.

And here, cunning reader, swaddled as I was by booze and mirth, beset by three of the best deserts ever Ive had the grace of sitting behind. Frozen raspberry jewels on mead vinegar custard with strawberry consomme, mint shaved-ice over cucumber with reduced milk ice-cream and sour-apple puree, capped off with salt and candied-farro-studded cacao-nib ice cream on burnt caramel. As Patron put it, a three-horse race. It has been many years since my socks were so thoroughly blown off by a restaurant, will be returning