Munch brunch
Neither breakfast nor lunch, the Tom Hardman heads down to The Pantechnicon to see if the portmanteau is worth the fuss...
here is something inherently annoying about places to eat that cannot decide whether they are restaurants or pubs. They fall face first on clumsy formulations such as eatery or bistro and tend to resemble All Bar Ones with extra trimmings. The schizophrenia rubs off on the crowd. The logic is that the atmosphere of the pub and the quality food of the restaurant combine. The reality, however, is that the food comes overpriced and the atmosphere remains about as colourful as the new Farrow & Ball paint job. So the summons to taste the brunch menu (brunch, the feast invented by parents whose novel interpretation of the Sabbath was to subtract a mealtime) at one of the doyens of culinary identity disorders, came about as welcome as an invitation to the nightclub Boujis. Fortunately, judging the firstborn of the gastropubs by the standards of their lesser offspring is about as fair as judging Elvis by the quality of his impersonators. As summer tickled the room through wide open windows, and relaxing Sunday tunes coaxed my partner and I into life, a Stolly Screwdriver made from oranges that could have fallen from Valencian trees moments before lulled us into believing that we were nearer to Barcelona than Victoria. No brunch would be complete without a Bloody Mary with an arm-thick tree of celery in it. And in spite of the fact the tomatoes had been bludgeoned to death by a close relative of BBQ sauce, it worked. The menu is helpfully split into a lighter earlier section and a heavier later section. My dining partner, with all the imagination of
It [the fig tart] bossed everything around the plate, chasing every mouthful like a schoolboy attacking pigeons
an accountant, plumped for fresh fruit and honey. We can testify to the fact the fruit was fresh and honey did make an appearance. I was naughtier, and my cheek paid off. The softest chocolate waffle, crispy at the edges, yielded its shape to a deep, richly spiced cherry compote that fought what looked like a chess game out on the waffle squares with the whipped vanilla mascarpone. My guest demanded I swap before I could swallow my third mouthful. The service of the chap in charge Rob Jones was exemplary. The 2012 Chapeltown, a Kentish wine he recommended, is a bacchus, a grape famous for its ability to ripen in cool temperatures. Light bodied, melon-noted with a jazz-hand finish, it was the perfect accompaniment to my caramelised shallot and fig tart. The fig tart itself played second fiddle to the goats cheese and baby beetroot that crowned it. Not because it was unpleasant but because there was just too much of it. It bossed everything around the plate, chasing every mouthful like a schoolboy attacking pigeons. Not that it mattered. The icy flecks of citrus granite the mango sorbet, with a texture so smooth it was hard to believe it was not simply puree that had been rendered immobile soon ensured that the fig was humbled. My senses reassembled at the behest of a caffeine injection and I rose for the door
The Pantechnicon Public House & Dining Room, 10 Motcomb Street, SW1X 8LA, 020 7730 6074 ([Link])
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