pollen shirt social

There are so many positives about lilies that their only downside never occurs to me. Today I noticed the gent covered in orange and it did then come to mind that their pollen is particularly difficult to erase from garments. Especially shirts from expensive shirt-eries.

It is a shockingly bad pun, but we were headed to Pollen Street social that night, so as I brushed and soaked the shirt, I couldn't help but chuckle at my own joke (see title of this post if you can stomach it).

Having read AA Gill's review, aghast at being explained the 'concept' of this new restaurant, I did anticipate a little pretension. And having read about everything from the 'roasted squid juice' to the 'clam and cockle emulsion', I began to feel I had already eaten there - so I promptly gave up reading reviews and didn't even look at the menu beforehand.

All of which ended in a pleasantly surprising evening. Our dining companions were the delightful Mike and Alice who were on an amazing gastro-weekend, eating at four London foodie-havens (five Michelin stars between them) before heading home. We were honoured to be invited along to the Pollen stage of the tour.

There was a zingy, lemony shellfish-based paste to spread on bread. Then I had
Escabeche of quail, chicken liver cream, nuts & seeds. Or, as I typed a few hours later 'little hams of quail, toothpick-bone sticking out, chicken liver butter on wafer-thin toast, carrot, pickled onion shells, nutty something'. It was fantastic and I barely had time to stop and taste the gent's scallop ceviche. Which was also great.

I then focused my entire attention on ox cheek with tongue and sirloin. I chose this as (a) three meats on one plate sounded an excellent plan and (b) I don't like tongue and was hoping this would convert me (still not something I'd eat quantities of...). The surprise star was the cheek, slow-cooked until the connective tissue rendered gluey, the whole thing sweet and falling into dessication. There was a pureed horseradishy thing too, which was perfect. The wine - Côte-Rôtie La Viallièret - was heady: tobaccoey, and smelling like a gentleman's library*.

Sated, I was able to look about the room. The lighting reminded me of the recent 'Frankenstein' set at the National Theatre. Then I found the (transparent) cold-room for meats, and another floor-to-ceiling wall of wine bottles in storage, all on the way to plush-grade rest rooms. It was all so beautiful I almost asked for my desert to be served there, instead.

Back upstairs my 'ham, cheese and herb' dessert arrived: watermelon granita, a 'ham' of thin-sliced melon with gelatin 'fat' attached to look like a slice of ham, intense basil sorbet (like falling face-first in a herb bed) and soft cheese. Great fun, but the only dish I didn't quite finish. We enjoyed an after-dinner Armagnac at the bar, unwinding from the sensation assault and making a mental note to come back for a post-work drink another time.

It is hard not to mention the party bags, uncovered from a little locker to which we held the key, which contained 'Breakfast on us' mini cakes and a teabag. Funny, sweet. The most charming thing about the evening was the excitement and adventure in everything, but if I go back, the reason would be the really good food, cooked perfectly.


* the gent is verbally adding descriptions, but they are his views not mine, and also I don't have a oenophile dictionary to correct the spelling. So if you are interested, then I think it's best you follow him on Twitter. And then you can argue back, too! @jamesdoeser