Sam’s Riverside
1 Crisp Walk, London
There’s something reassuringly straightforward about Sam’s Riverside, a new restaurant that sits on the Hammersmith stretch of the Thames. No slavish adherence to trends, no pickles or ferments, no greeters, dancers or million-pound sound systems. Just a handsome, light-flooded room with sinuous, deep blue banquettes, a good-looking bar and leather upholstered booths with marble-topped tables. It’s a place designed for long, civilised lunches, and dinners that linger merrily on.
Sam’s Riverside is a great neighbourhood restaurant that actually happens to be in my neighbourhood
Front of house is equally unfussy. The eponymous Sam, who previously had a couple of popular Sam’s Brasseries, is a natural host, ever warm and smiling, but he misses nothing. His team are similarly adept, slick and professional, yet endearingly human too. Glasses, good heavy water glasses and proper wine ones, are eternally refilled, dropped napkins whisked away. No request or whim is too much trouble.
It reminds me of the late, much lamented Café Anglais. Which was, along with Kensington Place, one of my favourite restaurants of all time. My kids pretty much grew up there. Sam’s Riverside has a similar sort of feel. Which makes sense when you learn that Rowley Leigh, who was chef proprietor of both, has been brought in to consult on the menu. It reads well, with a pronounced Anglo-French accent, and eats even better.
It’s Sunday lunch and the place is already booked out. The locals know a good thing when they see it. But booths are kept free for walk-ins. Dogs are allowed there too. So Snoop settles himself under the table, emerging only to beg a scrap or grumble at a passing waiter. Bad dog. Freddy orders two dozen Jersey oysters, fat and bracing. And Carlingfords, softer, and sweeter. They’re expertly opened, with the muscle cut and the bivalve neatly flipped. ‘I’m in my happy place,’ says Freddy, grinning between slurps. High praise indeed.
A few metres away, the kitchen goes about its business, with head chef Harvey Trollope, who trained under John Williams and Marco Pierre White, commanding the pass. Pans clatter, orders are shouted out, and the whole hubbub is strangely soothing. Even the muzak is soft and unobtrusive. All around us, families gather, couples chatter and children run free. Plates filled with billowing Yorkshire pudding, thick slices of rare roast beef and burnished roast potatoes fly from kitchen to dining room, but we’re in a picking sort of mood.
Butterflied sardines, wearing the char of the grill, are just underdone, and possess the elusive sweetness of the truly fresh. There’s a nudge of chilli and whisper of marjoram. But nothing to get in the way of their oily allure. Then beef tartare, slick with raw quail’s egg yolk and lustily seasoned, the old- fashioned way. The meat is exemplary, beautifully chopped too. I smear it thick on brittle dripping toast.
The eponymous Sam, who previously had a couple of popular Sam’s Brasseries, is a natural host, ever warm and smiling, but he misses nothing
Sweet clams come with white beans and great chunks of trotter, all glistening fatty wobble. The dish has a gloriously mouth-coating richness, yet acidity is expertly applied. That final squeeze of lemon really makes it.
Cauliflower cheese is a course unto itself, more cheese than roux, the vegetable still left with a little bite. Simple things, done properly. There’s an interesting wine list, with lots available by the glass and carafe. And that feeling, after a decent lunch, that all is well in the world. Snoop snuffles happily under the table, Freddy wants to come back. As do I.
In short, a great neighbourhood restaurant that actually happens to be in my neighbourhood.
Hurrah. 2020 is suddenly looking up.
About £35 per head