Yet it’s as addictive as any other hedonistic – if slightly dodgy – pastime, which explains the relentless queues at vogueish places of a similar ilk across Soho or Shoreditch. And despite the unalloyed heat, even at this time of year, I would always chose side by side with my dining companion over a more conventional table in a subdued quiet corner.
The upshot of all this? We put up little resistance the other night when ushered to such a spot in front of half a dozen chefs hard at work at Galley, one of Upper Street’s latest openings.
The brainchild of siblings Oriona Robb and Marcel Grzyb – she a stylist, he a self-taught former head chef at Randall & Aubin in Soho – it’s an inevitably modern place, whose name hints at the long, narrow interior that was until recently a ramen joint. There’s Moroccan tiling, an antique mirror or two and Bauhaus pendant lights. If you eschew the counter, comfy dark green velvet banquette seating is on hand, too.
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Polish-born and bred, Marcel takes his inspiration “from the cooking styles and flavours of North Africa, Asia, South America and Europe.” Which doesn’t narrow it down particularly, so we skipped any familiar-sounding mains – steak, fish and chips, chargrilled chicken salad – in favour of ubiquitous small plates.
“Why do they always give you three things when you’re sharing?” asked my mate Nikki, as we tucked into a trio of “hand-picked” Cornish crab crostini, smoked garlic aioli, and confit tomatoes. It was something to ponder, glass of Kentish Chapel Down pink in hand, especially as trios of things often seem to be the least substantial of starters. Still, the crab was dainty and elegant, complementing a just-scoffed round of oysters, both naked and in tempura.
And then there’ll be one – in this case, the zingy tuna tartare with mango, avocado and wasabi – that gets eaten at the expense of, say, a far more impressive octopus and chorizo, its only crime that it had been left too long. Still, we loved the charred, tender tentacles (pictured below), given oomph by a smoked garlic pesto, while the spicy cured meat and smooth white bean purée balanced things out respectively.
Even better was crispy Cornish squid with a Japanese pepper sauce, the warm hit of coriander never far away. In fact, this was our favourite dish all in all: chewy in a good way, sticky, and fought-over (another downside of sharing). It was, in fact, far more memorable than a creamy blob of burrata – on the diddy side – with roasted tomatoes and a small square of focaccia that actually didn’t share that well, either.
We were about to leave, but suddenly the promise of dessert winked at us. A salted caramel tart with green tea ice cream was a colourful combo straight out of Charlie and Chocolate Factory, but its textures and juxtapositions were as powerful (and grown-up) as any of the savoury dishes. And an intriguingly floral lavender and raspberry crème brulee was improved when paired with a dessert granita that combined rum, apple juice, bitters and prosecco. The only dud (at least for our taste buds)? A sickly cocktail of bourbon, chocolate bitters and double cream, although it would appeal to the very sweet-of-tooth.
By now things were getting pretty sweet the other side of the counter, too. The charmingly cocky sous chef was flinging orders about – as flames soared on the hob, and brows glistened – calling his colleagues “darling”, with a bit of a cuddle (sorry, man-hug) here and there.
A little intimate to witness, for sure, from our ringside seats – but, in truth, just as entertaining as the many creations we had devoured.
