Cigala is a Spanish dining room like they used to make them. It manages that rare achievement of being neighbourhood for WC1, yet cosmopolitan – and, in fact, very urbane.
This year it’s celebrating sixteen years of residence on Bloomsbury’s loveliest stretch, Lamb’s Conduit Street – opposite the very fine Noble Rot, which we reviewed last year – and nestling amidst the capital’s best selection of menswear boutiques like Folk, Universal Works and J.Crew.
Having spent many years travelling around Spain as well as at the family home in AndalucÃa, owner Jake Hodges, son of novelist and film director Mike Hodges (Get Carter), knows a thing or two about Spanish cuisine.
But Cigala is not trying to be hip in the same way as the likes of Barrafina or Salt Yard. Instead, it’s old-fashioned in a good way; the kind of place where secret trysts are – we imagined, anyway – taking place in every nook and cranny. As we took our seats, older couples (conducting clandestine affairs?) chinked glasses, while a well-dressed man awaited his companion nervously.
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And the pale wood-panelled room seems to absorb all-comers, its pristine white tablecloths both functional and intimate. Lighting is effortless, too – no candles, but the globe shades cast a flattering hue, and there’s a rosy glow from the pavement heaters beyond the big windows.
So yes, the scran Andalucian all the way, rustic in presentation and armed with robust flavours.
An extensive list of tapas is sensibly divided into meat, fish and vegetables: things like cute and meltingly soft bacalao, on a punchy alioli; a piece of squid, all chargrilled edges, with zingy mojo verde; and padron peppers, scorchingly deep fried, everso moreish once they’d cooled down.
Homemade bread is on hand to mop up juices – especially those of our star starter, the waiter-recommended pan-fried chicken livers with softened onions. A dark brown masterpiece, it exuded syrupy, sticky and savoury flavours, heightened by the raisiny pull of Pedro Ximenez, one of the world’s sweetest sherries.
Mains were similarly easygoing: a whole grilled sand sole came buttery soft, its relative asceticism compromised by a thrusting green sauce of purple sprouting broccoli, cream and anchovy. Our only criticism was that there was not enough of it – and, I think, the fish would be improved if it were filleted and laid over the delicious ensemble.
The best thing we ate? Braised Iberican pork cheeks. Warming, tender, and hearty, the slow-cooked meat was matched with silky smooth judion white beans (the extra large ones), its rich earthiness deepened further by artichokes and the spicy heat of choricero peppers. Try it before the season changes.
Desserts dazzled less, although an orange flan was just the right side of bitter, and a chocolate and almond tart with cream aided a glass of red dessert vino delectably. Speaking of which, wine discovery of the night was a sommelier-tipped Moli dels Capellans Trepat, a light, slightly chilled red akin to a pinot noir.
And food aside, we loved the service: the skilled front-of-house duo acted like they genuinely wanted us to become regulars – unlike those tiny, over-subscribed places in Soho or Shoreditch that treat everyone like a transient, or tourist.
As we left, my partner whispered that it’s the kind of corner joint where you want to go back the following night. We nearly did.
