venta

Sometimes, of a evening, ChrisC and I leave work at similar times and walk towards each other with the intention of meeting up for a beverage. The obvious way to do this is down Oxford Street, but that's so crowded it's easy to miss each other (not to mention the acrimonious "but why would you even be on the north side?" argument). Accordingly we've evolved a wiggly route through Soho.

We usually bump into each other not far from what Google maps calls Denmark Street and everyone else calls Tin Pan Alley. Around there is a restaurant called Flat Iron, which we'd had recommended, but which has always has a waiting time of over two hours when we've enquired. But early on Monday, we walked in and found empty tables.

Despite an impressive menu of wines, beers, cocktails and side-dishes, there is only one main course of the menu: a flat iron steak. The very pleasant waiter explained that that's a shoulder cut (I forget what the British name is).

There were also a couple of specials (tri-tip steak, or burger) but do not go here if you don't want to eat beef. I actually approve of not having to choose what I'm eating, so a menu with just one thing on it is fine. We also ordered a heap of side dishes.

The steak arrives pre-sliced, which is slightly weird. But it was good steak, tender, very fine-textured and almost delicate in favour. Not quite up there with the Hawksmoors and Gauchos of the world, but for £10 it's a bloody good steak.

All the sides (chips, baked aubergine, steamed white broccoli and creamed spinach) were excellent, though all the food was noticeably salty. My 250ml giraffe of French Malbec was smooth and bramble-y, service was efficient, informed and friendly. They provide statements about the welfare of their own cattle, which they butcher on site. They take care of little details like a jug of water on the table as a matter of course.

But...

(Could you tell there was a but?)

But the place is just a little too hipsterish for its own good. The steak arrives on a strange metal sheet embedded in a board (incidentally, I commend to you the Twitter feed @WeWantPlates). The table is set with dinky Flat Iron-branded cleavers which are sufficiently impractical that it's just as well the steak comes sliced (plus you just try eating creamed spinach with a fork, a cleaver and no plate).

The pepper pot and the overhead fan system were, in fairness, works of steampunk genius. And the place was lovely, and the food good. But sometimes, y'know, a little less fannying around with the concept wouldn't go amiss :-)

Unrelatedly, courtesy of this morning's 6music trailer for a programme about Kevin Rowland, I have the opening riff from Jackie Wilson Said firmly wedged in my brain[*]. What's more annoying is that I can't actually remember how the rest of the song goes.

[*] Now you do too? Don't mention it. All part of the service.