This is an ode to friendship. To new friends, old friends, chef friends and internet friends.
I probably dine at St. JOHN Bread and Wine once every two months. Usually with family or longstanding friends, maintaining new traditions and old habits. Occasionally, I visit with newer friends, and sometimes those who are more recent London residents, wanting to try the other (better) St. JOHN. I don’t necessarily plan to eat there so often, but I’m drawn in, and I find myself noticing both the shifts and continuities of its familiar space, re-entering my comfort zone each time, yet always leaving with a different experience.
Bread and Wine holds a special place in my heart for many reasons, and my camera roll features 279 images on location. It’s the first St. JOHN I dined in with my mum and dad in 2018. I asked to eat there when I knew I wanted to work in restaurants but didn’t know how, and as we devoured hearts and tongue, I realised I’d find my way. Bread and Wine is where, since 2019, Esther and I enjoy a glass of crémant and a mince pie every December. It’s where I had photoshoots with Farokh, Paris and Sam through lockdowns, when the world of restaurants was closed, tucking into pies and staging full table spreads. It’s where I’ve had work dos - leaving lunches and publication launches - as well as jewellery shoots and business meetings-cum-dinner dates with Kitty over the years.
Bread and Wine is also where I went to work FOH for three months, at a time when I was making major life changes. I made friends with fun free-thinkers, I loved the weekly rhythm of two doubles, and I felt free. I strode around in my cowboy boots during service, enjoying the chaotic opulence of the festive season, and that room became my cocoon.
It’s where I met Miles, at a mutual friend’s 30th birthday lunch. We were put next to each other because I’d asked the birthday boy to sit me with someone “sexy and single” and we, as two people who like food and design, were paired together. When I spoke of St. JOHN’s chips being cooked in beef dripping, Miles referenced the Vittles’ piece on Cypriot chip shops, and the rest is history.
I’ve carved suckling pigs tableside, eaten Knickerbocker glory on hot summer evenings at the bar, added more rivulets of Lea & Perrins to rarebits than I care to count, and taken many a bathroom selfie, tracking my existence.
Walking in to find Ed behind the bar, or Wioletta on the floor, lifts my spirits. Hugging a friend as you enter a restaurant - not your expected dining parter but a person who’s there to take care, who you’re surprised yet thrilled to see, and who knows a version of you - is the cosiest feeling. I quietly celebrate if Paris is on the pass, knowing we’ll chat about our dreams of Greece, and I’m touched if I see my name on the top of my bill at the end of the night: evidence of a note from the floor to the kitchen. Even more so when, on occasion, it’s embellished with a love heart.
Two Wednesdays ago, I met Lauren at Bread and Wine. Lauren is a chef and journalist who I met in spring last year. This was our first proper date, and before I could even say hi to her, I had a big hug with Wioletta. It was one of those evenings where service was steady thanks to several large tables, so Farokh had time to sit and chat with us. Lauren’s a fan of his book Parsi, we spoke about the industry-at-large and we filled Farokh in (he’s famously offline) on the chef world happenings of that ridiculous week. Lauren tasted a rarebit - I’ve been privy to few rarebit cherry pops in my time, and I love to watch the faces of delight at the first bite - and I drank a Rob Roy (a Manhattan but with Scotch) experiencing something new there, once again.
Farokh brought us a scoop of brown bread and marmalade ice cream, which had been scratched off the specials board making it all the more exciting when it reached our table, and it was the best rendition I’ve ever tasted. We were silenced, stunned, by its richness, the bread’s deep caramelisation, and the almost-boozy cut through of the marmalade. It was mind-bending, and the ideal finish.
Last Wednesday, I had another new friend dinner date with Carmen. We’re not quite internet friends (though I have several, and highly recommend online-birthed friendships) as we met IRL at a party and decided to eat together. We had intended to dine at Ducksoup - a Soho default when Chinatown has been overused - but their kitchen flooded that day when the skies wept, so we went to its sister spot Camille, where Elliot is head chef.
I met Elliot a couple of years ago through Kitty - he was once sous at St. JOHN Smithfield - and he’s a very sweet, funny guy. I set him up at Carousel in early 2023 with his pop up Hashtroudi and Smith, he went on to cook at 107, and was then snapped up to open Camille (at the time when CODE named him One to Watch, and I was in their 30 Under 30 list). They’ve just celebrated their one year anniversary, and it shames me to say that it took me several months to dine. It’s important to give breathing space to new openings, to let the team find their flow, but I probably waited a little too long. Then again, I didn’t know what I was missing.
Camille got swept up in the French wave of openings, which took the city by storm in late 2023 early 2024, with the likes of Joséphine and Bouchon Racine, Henri and Bistro Freddie. This bistro boom was written about as recently as last September in the FT, and I’ve been lazy before in drawing parallels between them all. I no longer wish to think of London’s French wave so one dimensionally. Camille’s trendy room, painted red and yellow and clad in dark brown wood, could be mistaken for having style over substance (à la Bistro Freddie) but the cooking is clever and creative - offal is treated with flair - and there’s so much care, for team, produce and provenance.
As I walked in the door last week, Danny greeted me with a hug. I went to university with Danny, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew he now worked at Camille, but I was amazed to see him, excited to reconnect. We had a brief moment catching up, and later on, Elliot introduced me to chef Frankie, who, like me, grew up in Sheffield. Though a few years younger, he knew the guys I hung out with as a teen, and so, in this one warm room in Borough, threads of my past life and the various versions of myself, converged and collided. A sort of magic that only seems to occur in spaces of hospitality.
Carmen and I ate dinner at the counter, just by the pass, and we were brought two glasses of fizz to start. There’s not much else that will give you that buzz, that sense of welcome, than an impromptu moment of celebration. And of course, it’s ideal for showing off to your date. Camille is a place to eat with appetite, and we ordered with enthusiasm. Then, a few extra dishes were delivered, some bread was gifted for mopping up sauce, and our boundaries of fullness were pushed to their limit. Some items were deducted from our bill, and though I won’t tell you about all the extras in detail (that would be showing off) know that we were treated like queens. It was a lavish evening of eating and seven off-menu Maltesers, usually reserved for staff, were given to us on a plate as the final friendly touch.
Regardless of my bias, Camille should become your Borough default. A place to go for years to come, where the menu is edited and experimented with frequently, and you will always feel so very welcome.
Hospitality is a world of give and take. To take care and give back. To be taken care of and give more in return.
Does getting special treatment mean you have a warped opinion on a place? Yes. But do you enjoy a meal more if you receive a few extras? Usually. And, does something taste better if it was delivered to you by a chef or server, who’s also a friend? Of course, it means it comes with an extra dollop of love.
So, does fizz on arrival make you feel like you’ve made it in life, like the stars are aligned in your favour? Well, duh.
A pleasure to read
So good 👏🏼👏🏼