I’m as keen as mustard on this sublime steakhouse

I’m as keen as mustard on this sublime steakhouse

Hawksmoor

5A Air Street, Piccadilly, London W1

Rating:

Sometimes, when the deluge of institutional stupidity threatens to drown the archipelago of common sense, when civilised debate and common courtesy seem but ancient relics, when the weary travails of the daily grind become too much to bear, the soul seeks higher sustenance. But not for me the solace of the pulpit, nor the guru’s honeyed words, rather something altogether more earthy. A primal urge, born of gloomy caves and flickering fires, the fruit of the chase, the sizzle of auroch fat over glowing coals. The eternal allure of steak.

Hawksmoor, with its slick but learned service, the clubby but not overly macho rooms, the admirable ethos of employment, the absolute consistency of the meat

Hawksmoor, with its slick but learned service, the clubby but not overly macho rooms, the admirable ethos of employment, the absolute consistency of the meat

All right, so a slab of expertly aged cow, cooked rare, can bring out the mock heroic in us all. Vegetarians, of course, excepted. But decent steak is a relatively rare thing, its creation a complex, nuanced balancing act of breed, feed, age and butchery. I tend to crave the robust, mineral-flecked chew of the grass-fed beast, although grain-raised cattle, so beloved by Americans, do have a sweet, tender, buttery allure of their own. And it’s a dish I cook at home too, ideally outside, over charcoal. Failing that, a cast-iron pan, heated until it glows with the fury of Vesuvius, to which a steak (preferably rump or sirloin) is introduced, anointed with a slick of good oil and lavished with a fistful of salt. A couple of minutes each side, a decent rest to let all those fibres relax, then a sharp knife and a great splodge of mustard. English, French, Polish. Anything with kick and honk.

But to go out to eat steak. Well, that’s a whole different matter. It’s something to be taken rather seriously, a mission rather than a whim. This is not the time for risks, to gamble with the new and untested. Good steak will always cost good cash. Because the hard work of the farmer should be justly rewarded. And while the likes of Goodman and The Guinea Grill will never let you down, it’s to Hawskmoor that I invariably turn. The slick but learned service, the clubby but not overly macho rooms, the admirable ethos of employment, the absolute consistency of the meat. In Air Street, just off Piccadilly, they have fish too. Damned fine fish. Under the wise and learned eye of no less a master than Mitch Tonks. The turbot is a thing of piscine beauty, but tonight it’s all about the turf. The walls are wood-panelled, the hubbub thick enough to spread on toast, the lights alluringly low. This is a place to sink into and escape, a place of gentle carnivorous worship. Potted beef, sealed with a lid of butter, has the depth and consistency of slow-cooked stew. You pile the soft strands into Yorkshire pudding and drench in proper onion gravy.

There’s no need for endless chat about breed, or how long it has been aged, because at places like Hawksmoor, they know their stuff

There’s no need for endless chat about breed, or how long it has been aged, because at places like Hawksmoor, they know their stuff

Sides are suitably robust. Jansson’s Temptation, that Swedish symphony of cream, sprats and onion – no re-imaginings here, just creamy, pointedly saline stodge; an immaculately dressed soft lettuce salad, with a scattering of tender herbs, as quintessentially English as Elgar in a well-mannered queue; the sort of macaroni cheese that’s more cheese than macaroni. With the sort of luscious stringiness last seen in the final scene of Asterix In Switzerland. Only the beef fries fail to please. Suitably dripping with flavour, but a touch undercooked.

No such problems with the beef, a vast 120g slab of Chateaubriand, cooked the rarer side of pink. Exactly as we want. There’s no need for endless chat about breed, or how long it has been aged, because at places like Hawksmoor, they know their stuff. Have faith. There’s a serious char to the exterior, a deep bovine base note, and a long, languorous depth that lingers long after the last bite has gone. This cow did not die in vain. In short, steak as both succour and high art, in a restaurant that never lets you down.

About £60 per head

 

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