Darby’s
3 Viaduct Gardens, London SW11
Police. At least half a dozen, just over the road. Bulletproof vests, tactical caps, big bloody guns. Less Bill, more kill. ‘Some sort of incident,’ I say knowingly, as if I’m privy to the emergency frequencies of SCO19. ‘Probably terrorists. Just keep your head down and keep walking.’ Laura laughs. ‘Yup, that. Or they’re protecting that rather large new building, in whose shadow they stand, that just happens to be the new American Embassy.’ Ah. Right. Yes. ‘Well,’ I mumble, my law-enforcement credentials rather tarnished. ‘Shall we just go in?’
Darby’s, the new restaurant from the very talented Robin Gill (and wife Sara), sits in Viaduct Gardens, an ‘NYC inspired oyster bar’, bakery and grill, named after Gill’s jazz musician father, Earl ‘Darby’ Gill. It hopes to be, says Gill, ‘the quintessential neighbourhood joint’. I only wish I lived nearer. Because despite the welcome chill of the air conditioning, the room is suffused with an easy natural warmth, modern without trying to be trendy, comfortable rather than contrived.
The room at Darby’s is suffused with an easy natural warmth, modern without trying to be trendy, comfortable rather than contrived
There are tiled walls, parquet floors, high ceilings, an open kitchen, sinuous, marble-topped oyster bar and the sweet smell of melted dripping. It’s the sort of place that puts you at ease within moments of arriving, a place to linger with intent, the merry din of diners mixed with the merry din of disco classics. I usually hate music in restaurants, but it’s impossible to hate anything about Darby’s.
The service, friendly, not over-familiar, slick but not pushy. So much so that when my order for a Gibson martini is misheard (and it is loud in here, folks), and a dirty martini arrives in its place, it simply doesn’t matter. A damned fine dirty it is too, cool, briny, with the merest hint of tinny dank. Truffled arancini come out unbidden (and don’t appear on the bill), coated in crisp panko crumbs, as fine as you’ll find anywhere. Just like a dozen pristine Dooncastle oysters, cool and fat and clean.
Boozy chicken liver mousse is blissfully light, and blanketed in a generous flurry of summer truffle. Sourdough bread, baked in-house and toasted, is charred and chewy. Proof that the bakery is every bit the equal of the kitchen. A lobster roll, New England via New York, melds soft brioche bun with great chunks of fresh lobster, enveloped in a cornichon and roe studded mayonnaise. I wolf it down in two soft, salty bites. A proper slow-cooked veal ragu coats great fat ribbons of home-made pappardelle, the sort of dish you’d hope to find in your local Italian. But rarely do. While there’s still more of that summer truffle infused within Baron Bigod, a wonderfully creamy, English brie-style cheese, melted on more of that toast. Smoother than a Roger Moore chat-up line, and every bit as sweet, this is cheese on toast with serious allure.
Darby’s is one of those rare restaurants that is born near perfectly formed, radiating pure succour and good cheer
We share a whole turbot, cooked, just like at Brat, over coals. It’s pristine in its freshness, though a smidgen overcooked. I crave translucence at the bone, and the flesh, though sweet, veers towards the soft. A minor quibble, and they let me take away the bones for stock, vacuum-packed and slid into a Darby’s paper bag. Earthy, buttery new potatoes sit merrily by its side. There are beef fat potatoes too, great rectangular slabs of sliced, pressed and roasted delight. In a place that has Irish blood coursing through its veins, two kinds of spud seems entirely apt.
It takes a huge amount of hard work to appear this laid-back, yet Darby’s is one of those rare restaurants that is born near perfectly formed, radiating pure succour and good cheer. You can’t buy or manufacture charm, heart and soul. What you can do, though, is slog your guts out, both in the kitchen and the front of house, to give the punters a good time. As a restaurant, Darby’s is a blast. And the most splendid of tributes to Earl ‘Darby’ Gill.
About £40 per head