Imbibe

“A restaurant devoted to cheese? This is the best birthday EVER,” my email to R read after she suggested a celebratory meal. Let me give you some context. Upon leaving a job a few years ago, one of my leaving presents was an M&S cheeseboard in honour of my habit of having a bowl of feta drizzled in olive oil on hung-over mornings. The morning after more than a few ‘I’m leaving!!’ drinks, I woke up to find a half-gnawed Camembert lying, still on in its wrapper, on the side table. Other people get the meat sweats, I get the cheese sweats. You get the idea.

Aptly enough for a chapel of cheese, L’Art du Fromage - in Chelsea’s World’s End- has an Edam-shaped stained-glass window, and whey-coloured walls. The first thing I did reaching our table was to drop R’s birthday present of three very heavy candles over the balcony of the mezzanine where we were seated. I blame it on the over-excitement caused by the initial perusal of the menu (“Whaaat, you can have goat’s cheese on your pudding TOO? Jesus” etc). The waitress took it the potential braining of her customers on the lower level in her stride and maintained her smile throughout our meal, much to her credit.

The boys strategically placed themselves towards the end of the table to man the raclette machines, while the girls pretended to not care. The non-cheese lover in our party (who ordered a very tasty Boeuf Bourguignon) was placed in the middle as a buffer. I can only date a man who can handle seeing me eat a baked Camembert, and having passed this test with flying colours in the early stages in our courtship, he was the impartial voice of reason when supervising the allocation of melted cheese onto waiting plates.

The beauty of the raclette at L’Art du Fromage is you can eat until you are on the verge of exhaustion. Replacement tubs of boiled potatoes and plates of meats and cornichons are dished out when depleted, whilst the cheese drips its seductive charms onto plates under watchful eyes.

After this calorific, endorphin-releasing, pleasure-boat journey I had to pass on dessert - but I watched with a regretful heart and confused stomach as a flaming ‘apple pizza’ with Calvados and tarte tatin with a scoop of goat’s cheese were brought to the table.

We were gently prodded from our table an hour and a half later for the next sitting but in such a charming, Gallic way that we left with huge, vacant smiles, looking forward to crazy cheese dreams. I tell you what – I cannot wait until fondue season.

People can mimble on about the regeneration of Kings Cross but I’m not convinced – the hookers may have moved on but in the pouring rain, it’s still pretty grim. Acorn House is not easy to find, being on the ground floor of a grey, unprepossessing office block (albeit with their lovely logo with its tinge of whimsy on the wall) away from the main drag, but the chill and raindrops were chased away the minute we stepped inside. LC’s birthday flowers were whisked off out of her way and placed on the front window sill of the restaurant in view of the sodden passer-bys, which we thought was adorable, and the room buzzed with chatter from couples and families with teenage children (I really was an adolescent in the wrong age).

The food was perfect for the weather: homey, filling and rib sticking. I plumped for the Jerusalem artichoke, goat’s cheese and almond salad with chilli and kale – I made the mistake of crumbling rock salt over it (it’s part of my default dining setting as a smoker), which it didn’t need.  I followed up with a bloat-inducing tikka chaat on a potato cake with chickpeas in a rich tomato sauce and carrots. JB and LC didn’t go any lighter with the meaty venison and juniper pappardelle, and fatty porchetta.

Perhaps unwisely we also decided to stuff dessert down our straining sides – and just to add to the porcine vibe of the evening, a sticky (a wonderful word from my dad’s day, which I can always hear him saying in his over-loud voice). My walnut and semolina tart tasted like the ‘healthy’ snacks from Holland and Barratt my mother used to palm off on me in the late eighties in lieu of chocolate, but the accompanying barley ice-cream tasted marvellously of Maltesers.

The service was gently and unobtrusive and discovering from the menu at the start of the meal that all proceeds go to the Terence Higgins Trust made the evening even sweeter.

On first impression, Boho Mexica ticked all the right boxes.  Random location on an ugly stretch of Commercial Road so it glows like a kiddies jewel box - check. Cosy interior with mismatched lightshades and old-school kitsch Mexican posters – check.  Low ‘authentic music’, which made us all unconsciously shimmy and JB remark it felt like being on holiday- check.

Like most first impressions, it was wrong. We were shown to a cramped area to the right of the restaurant next to a couple with a small child rather than the area with dining couples and groups of friends on the other side. I had no beef with the baby, it’s just that I always feel I have to watch my language around tender ears. Then a large group of local office workers arrived (seemingly all huge bearded men over six foot, but maybe that’s because my stool was so low) and the what-had-before-been-pleasant-before music was cranked up to an unsociable level, giving the room the feel of a suburban Mexican-style chain resto. And the food matched.

Things started off promisingly enough with LC’s tamarind drink (she was on detox) and some pleasant carnitas tacos with shreds of slow roast pork. The dishes then all arrived in a rush. The guacamole was bland, as was the ceviche, which had an unpleasant cotton-like texture and none of the kick its description promised.

The crowning glory was the chicken in chocolate sauce which none of us had tried before. The sauce tasted of burnt molasses and the chicken was layered with flaps of unidentifiable carbohydrate. ‘Like Compeed’, said JB.

It was such a shame as we were all desperate to like Boho Mexica – we even gnawed our way through half the chicken in case we were missing that ‘something’. There was a never-ending stream of chirpy staff, but they were over-attentive to the point of taking away our cutlery before we’d even finished eating. The lack of uniform is also confusing – I was trying to shovel some food into my mouth using a napkin when someone we assumed was a waiter came up to offer us the dessert menu, but as he was wearing a rugby shirt it was hard to tell whether he was staff or just a random who felt like pitching in.

We were so discouraged we left without having dessert – a first. Instead we headed over to Spitalfields market for a cheese board and more wine. Yes, we had to wait half an hour before getting served but at least it was worth it.

There is a definite low-level buzz to Pizza East – being checked in by the Grace Jones look-alike at the door was enough to make us feel special. “You here for pizza’? she quizzed us, squinting at a list.  I later discovered in a woozy wander downstairs to find some fags that there is a smart-looking bar in the basement.  It’s a far cry from the T-Bar which was the place’s grubby previous incarnation.

Joining in the scrum at the check-in desk with the other hopefuls who’d booked added to the air of exclusivity, but the feeling of being underdressed for the occasion disappeared with the waft of yeast and the sight of the wood fired oven burning merrily in the restaurant kitchen. The décor is predictably low-key Shoreditch chic with scrubbed woodwork and exposed pipes, as is the clientele – moustaches and oversized glasses provide any embellishment the place lacks. The soundtrack is low but insidious and caters to the 20something crowd - I never thought I would end up desperately Googling the lyrics to an overheard Jimmy Somerville song when I got home, but such is the power of a good ambience.

We were seated a nicely secluded table with a pleasant view of Jonathan Rhys Meyer (cue drunken dribbling – us, not him).  I’ve been meeting up with these two girlfriends for supper once a month for over eight years and you can never predict the sound levels or topics of conversation. We work for the same company, started off in the same department but never see each other outside these evenings, apart from the odd harried hello, which gives these suppers a cloistered, cosy feel. Tonight there is a black veil over the evening – the light shines through, but the tone is definitely dark. Over talk of Yorkshire, depression and the (lighter) joys of fancying someone so much you can’t look them in the face, we fell like gannets on our starters. The sheep milk ricotta bruschetta was a fresh breath of spring topped with lamb’s lettuce and a drizzle of honey. Butter-soft shreds of mozzarella with taggiasa olives (no idea either - but tasted delicious) followed along with calamari with a novel caper aioli, which was scraped clean long before the squid was eaten. Our pizzas were richly tomato-ey and generously topped, but tardy – however our crush-worthy, bespectacled waiter brought us a plate of meats over to compensate. They didn’t last long either.

The biggest hit of the evening however was the salted caramel tart, which we attacked like sharks, eyes rolled back in sugar lust. It was gone in five seconds, leaving us licking our lips and feeling slightly dirty.

The only disappointment was the wine – I’m an unabashed Chardonnay fan but we were served an unpleasant acidic specimen which we were assured ‘tastes great with pizza’. It didn’t. I would recommend stoking up at the fabulous Green & Red a few doors down first….after all, pizza is a good sop for booze, right?

B was clutching his iphone with the navigation switched on (‘don’t turn it off’, I yelped) as we alighted the bus and crossed over the road in the dusky Dalston night. We passed a group of hood-clad guys loitering outside a cab office – no doubt sniggering at the sight of yet another pair of middle-class, East End newbies looking terrified. Turning up a dark passageway we spotted a fairy- lit entrance, pushed open the peeling blue door - and walked straight into a fabric-swathed cave complete with ‘80s soundtrack and glitter balls, filled with tables and staring faces. It was a bit like walking into a house party where you turn up spannered, don’t know anyone’s name, where the kitchen is, you’ve forgotten to buy any booze and you don’t even know who the host is.  However the panic didn’t last long (nor did the other guests’ interest) as we wandered through the rickety tables to have a closer look at the slightly spooky vintage shop décor.  Once spotted and greeted, we were led to a tiny table in the corner covered in a patchwork quilt, a vase of flowers and – the beauty of an unlicensed restaurant – an ashtray.  Seconds later we were joined by another guest – a disdainful, fashionably skinny cat mincing its way through the sawn off stools made out of armchairs. This ‘sinister cute’ theme was echoed throughout the décor (the house is owned by set designer Tony Hornecker) – for example in the dolls and taxidermy sitting side by side, staring down at the diners.

The set menu was simple but gutsy and served in generous portions on mismatched vintage plates (the crockery magpie in me got itchy fingers): a simply dressed tomato and feta salad with pita bread to start; hunks of roast beef with a hearty dose of horseradish sauce, served with mustardy potatoes and cabbage and apple crumble and filter coffee to finish.  The flyer for the night had specified the £30 per head cover charge included a half bottle of wine (or a very civilised G&T to start), but a full bottle was craftily placed on our table and it seemed rude not to drink it.  Or to refuse a second from our oddly attractive drag queen waitress who was very impressed with B’s Lomo. He also treated us to a couple of ‘80s-stubbletastic, breathy lip-synching solos, resplendent in glitter and an array of wigs. At the end of his last number he gave each diner a mint-scented smacker on the lips (‘that was the first time I’ve ever had a kiss from a man’, said B. ‘Was yours open-mouthed?’)

We left at around midnight in search of further Halloween festivities so we didn’t hang out in one of the various rooms hidden away up in the rafters, with Post-it festooned cardboard boxes, unsettling doll-sized furniture and an outdoor roof areas full of smokers (smoking ban habits die hard), and followed the cat out into the night leaving the mischief- and cigarette-scented den behind us.