Le Relais de Venice "L'Entrecote"

Working in The City came as a bit of a shock. I’m a countryside girl born and bred and the pace is a lot slower out among the cows and sheep. My office is in Bank, inhabited by a swarm of stressed businessmen and women on strict time limits. This means that any luxuries, such as eating (gulp), must be easy, convenient and incredibly quick. As a committed foodie, I cherish a menu and will ponder upon each dish with precise analytic consideration so my ultimate decision is worth my taste buds’ time and effort. This did not go down well here- sauntering into Itsu in my first week, the man behind the till almost broke into a cold sweat waiting for me to decide whilst I became increasingly panicked by the crush of suits edging ever closer behind me. The plus side of this need for food on the run means there are a million and one incredibly efficient restaurants and cafes of all different formalities and price ranges literally within a 30 second stroll from the office door, meaning you can treat yourself to a delicious meal without having to invest 2 hours of your day in it.

Seeing as my dad also works here and can be held accountable for my love of food, he conveniently knows all the best restaurants within a mile radius of the office and, also knowing my love of steak, very kindly took me to Le Relais de Venice “l’Entrecote” for slap up steak frites on the fly.

Located in the buzzing heart of Bank, by the time we arrived L’Etrecote was packed full of suited and booted men and women catching up and talking business over plates piled high with steak and salty, yellow mountains of frites. The restaurant has stayed true to its roots and ensured the décor has a quintessentially French brasserie style, echoing its original counterpart in Paris, with painted scenes of Venetian markets on the walls, long lines of closely packed tables adorned with colourful tablecloths and a lot of mirrors and light. L’Entrecote are so dedicated to consistency between their branches that their frites are hand chipped (no pun intended) to the exact same dimensions as those in Paris. The phrase ‘life’s too short’ comes to mind a little over this extravagance (I couldn’t give two hoots whether my chips are identical or not), however it does add a certain specialness to the experience, as if every chip has been painstakingly measured just for your enjoyment. Everyone likes a bit of theatre, after all. They have a strict no booking policy and luckily dad and I chose a time when the queue was very short. The smiling waitresses (all French- another authentic touch) decked out in traditional French waitress uniforms led us promptly to our table, before taking the one order of the meal- How do you like your steak?

As proper meat lovers, dad and I like our steak good and rare. The waitress jotted two little ‘R’s on the paper tablecloth cover and before we knew it the only starter available- a walnut salad with mustard vinaigrette- arrived. This was delicious: fresh, crisp leaves and crunchy walnuts, offset by a deliciously creamy and sharp dressing.

This is promptly followed by the signature dish. The steak (all from a rump cut) was succulent and just about as rare as I like it (haven’t quite ventured to blue yet- next on the list) and you are given a pot of perfect Dijon mustard to smother over your steak. The secret recipe sauce is scrumptious and the chips were the perfect combination of fluffy and crispy without being saturated in that dreaded greasy oil. You are initially presented with half of your steak, while the other half is kept back to keep warm so that you can enjoy it at its best temperature the whole way through. This is the kind of detail I like- it shows a true passion for food, ensuring the customer experiences the full potential of the meat.

After mopping up the sauce, the waitress was at the ready to deliver the second half of our meal in a flourish of silver platters and another mountain of frites and the fun continued. The small plates mean that you feel as if you are being treated to two portions and you don’t suffer that sinking feeling of finishing a delicious plate of food- never fear, another is on its way!

Dad and I were in and out within half an hour and ready to face an afternoon of work. L’Entrecote have branches in Marlybone, The City, Canary Wharf, New York and, of course, Paris. Ever classy, L'Entrecote achieve an elegant French simplicity with no unnecessary pomp, frills or questions- only the one: How do you like your steak?

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Peckham, Pizza and Parking

Peckham wouldn’t immediately spring to mind when thinking of hot, young, alternative spots in London. Step off the train and you are met with dirty streets, fluorescent plastic shop signs which look like they’ve seen better days and a questionable lingering… aroma. My brother and I came to meet some of his friends at a ‘rooftop bar’ just off Peckham high street and admittedly my heart sunk a little when stepping out of the station. Never one to bail on a plan, we soldiered on looking for our intended destination and eventually stumbled upon The Bussey Building. It turns out this wasn’t where we were actually meant to be, but after walking through the alleyway leading to its outside courtyard there was no way I was leaving without exploring. Beautifully detailed black and white graffiti sprawled up the brick walls and the muffled thump of bass drifted through a side gate. The music and street art together screamed Bristol to me and left me itching to get inside.

To my delight, we had managed to hit upon an outdoor street food festival. Pop up food stalls were scattered everywhere serving everything from burritos to oysters. The mix of reggae, soul and world music boomed away as people bustled around, following their noses to their cuisine of choice. Giant letters decorated the brick courtyard and, although I don’t have a clue what they were meant to spell, they added to the fun and quirky vibe of the event. While the boys queued to get some drinks I took a wander and absorbed all the various sights and smells. 

One of my favourite stalls was ‘Van Dough' which, as the name might suggest, had an actual pizza oven… IN A VAN. If that’s not innovative I don’t know what is. Not only does the name of the van fill me with joy, but I would also happily lop off an ear to get my hands on one of their pizzas. Unfortunately, due to the surprise nature of our visit, I had no money on me so had to simply look on and drool as cheesy, meaty, doughy and generally delicious looking pizzas were whisked past me. 

There's no rest for the wicked, however, and we promptly moved onto the second leg of the evening. The boys led me around the corner to a car park- again, heart = sinking. Oh ye of little faith. After trekking up the grotty stairwell, which also featured a questionable lingering aroma, we arrived at the top two levels, which Frank's calls home. I was surprised to see a long queue of people snaking back through the empty parking spaces. Still feeling slightly bemused, I looked to my left and saw what all the fuss was about. From the upper floors of this humble car park in Peckham we had a spectacular view of the London skyline, complete with sunset. Heading on in, the 2 upper floors were dotted with sofas, cafes and other fairly bizarre things you wouldn’t expect to see in a car park, including this very cool moving light display:

The very top level featured even better views than those of two floors below. Here friends gathered around long rows of picnic benches getting steadily more pissed. Deciding this was a fantastic idea, we parked ourselves down while one of the boys went and ordered an enormous round of beers (the bar also had a very British queueing system that earned it top marks in my books). More than anything else, the atmosphere was buzzing, vibrant and relaxed and topped off a lovely evening of pleasant Peckham surprises. Lesson well and truly learnt – don’t judge a book by its cover. Or smell come to that.  

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Tutto Bene, Mamma?

As my post on Moonfleet revealed, I’m a big fan of theatre. I studied drama all through school and absolutely adored it, trying my hand at everything from horror to kitchen sink to farce. Sadly, in the crazy and confusing rush that was the first year of uni, my acting fell by the wayside somewhat and I haven’t quite recovered it since. However, drama is in my blood and I am determined to revive it. As a way of jolting my theatrical juices into motion, I am on the lookout for alternative new theatre to challenge my theatrical limits. I am currently doing an internship in London, meaning I am luckily in the cultural hub of the country, seething with young new talent and the perfect breeding ground for creative minds. While flicking through the paper during my commute (the slightly less creative breeding ground of London), I noticed an article on a new play called ‘Tutto Bene, Mamma?’. Originally written by Gloria Mina and set in Naples, the play has been adapted by April de Angelis and was showing at The Print Room, a converted 1950s graphic design workshop nestled quietly in the heart of Notting Hill. However, the theatre’s quirky history isn’t the interesting part of the tale. ‘Tutto Bene, Mamma?’ is performed completely in the dark. And I mean completely. All windows and doors are blocked off, lights are extinguished, mobile phones strictly forbidden, even glow in the dark watches are banished to the realm of the light. Ushers with night vision goggles (seriously) lead you in groups of 4 to your seats and even the actors are in pitch darkness. Sight is brutally ejected, leaving room for the usually second rate senses to roam free. Shakespeare, with a lexicon that would give the OED a run for its money, used to say that you went to the theatre to hear a play. I reckon Will would have given this concept a reverberating nod of theatrical approval. Who said there’s no room for the old in the new? 

Heading straight from work, Moni and I met at the station and wandered through Notting Hill gawping at the splendour of the town houses and looking out for that famous blue door. We found The Print Room down a wide alley lined with candles in jars and laundry hanging from lines across the ceiling. Slightly bemused at this bizarre spectacle at first, we soon realised this was part of the set. Having no visual aids throughout the actual play, they cleverly begin the experience the moment you step off the street. What better way to portray the grotty urbaneness of downtown Naples than with old socks and camisoles strung between imaginary buildings, as if limply dripping after a good hard scrubbing? Passing through this rustic Naples backstreet, the front of house team thrust cups of beer into our hands- another nice touch which moved away from tradition. A plastic cup of Fosters somehow managed to hold a lot more charm than your bog standard glass of Pinot Grigio. We were then presented with the instructions, outlining the regimented rules required to watch the play. I loved the fact they were so strict. It gave me that excited nervousness you get when you are about to do something dangerous and reckless.  I’m not entirely sure how dangerous and reckless Notting Hill really is, but the feeling was there either way.

The theatre truly was pitch black. It wasn’t even that kind of darkness that your eyes get used to- light in any form was no friend to this space. We clutched onto the person in front of us (a great social ice breaker for us awkward Brits) as we were led to our seats. The stage was in-the-round, meaning wherever you sat you would have a different experience. After a few minutes of nervous giggles and clumsy grabbing of friends, the performance began. 

As soon as the actors began speaking and moving around the stage I realised just how heavily we rely on sight in theatre. It was strange to say the least, as well as unnerving; how was that voice from across the room suddenly standing next to me? Where did that character just go? What time of day is it? There were so many unanswered questions and it was actually a little bit frightening. However, once I let myself relax into it, the performance took a hold on my emotions in a way a play never has before. Having only three characters, a mother, her partner and her child, meant the audience could build an extensive relationship with each one without getting confused. Laura Donnelly, who played the mother, had a softness to her voice, which evoked a caring tenderness. Her tone, however, had an undeniable hint of sadness and combined with the softness conveyed her utter exhaustion, vulnerability and fragility. It’s hard to imagine someone’s voice being heart breaking, but Donnelly’s captured the sympathy of the entire audience. 

Georgia Groome, who played the little boy, pulled off an absolutely stunning performance. For starters I had no idea the actor was not an 8 year old boy, but was in fact a 21 year old girl, until afterwards when I met her at the bar across the road (where, incidentally, I also managed to score a certain male celebrity’s number- no biggie). This shows the power of theatre in the dark- many basic stumbling blocks which prevent theatrical scope and freedom are broken down and allowed to flourish. With the aid of Groome’s voice, the audience were able to conjure an image which they empathised with and responded to the most. For me the little boy took the form of my brother when he was little, mixed vaguely with some other figure of my imagination. For whatever reason, this allowed me to fully connect with the character. His heart wrenching innocence, devotion and desperation brought me to tears on more than one occasion. Without giving too much away, when he spends his food money on bruise cream for his mother is one such occasion. His unconditional love meant he had an almost indomitable hope, which was extremely poignant through the darkness, and made his descent into madness all the more agonizing. Despite the majority of the play basically being one long monologue from the boy, Groome was so completely engaging that I found myself laughing, crying, wincing, clutching to Moni in fear and even retching. 

Few plays have ever made me react so vividly. The darkness allowed my imagination to roam free and create a mental scene which I felt most reflected the voices and their individual plights. Moni and I both left absolutely astounded, agreeing that it was one of the most incredible pieces of theatre we’ve ever experienced. There are inconsistencies, admittedly. The Moped buzzes and low chattering of the Naples backstreets jarred with the mother’s Irish, the child’s English and the partner’s rough London accents. It didn’t quite make sense. The smells of pizza, burnt toast and lavender which wafted across the stage at various points were a genius way of surprising and actualising the audience’s experience, however if we could smell those, how could we not smell the inevitable stench of rotting flesh and squalor? Personally, I liked to view it as experiencing everything through the little boy’s astoundingly positive outlook, where reality and logic took a back seat to hope and love. 

It breaks my heart to say that ‘Tutto Bene, Mamma?’ has now stopped showing, but it really opened my eyes to the possibilities theatre allows. It may sound totally illogical, yet often the things which make little sense can be the most powerful. We are given 5 senses for a reason, so next time you find yourself stumbling across the mundane, try turning down the lights and really experiencing them. 

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