I was already very aware of Brindisa before lunch in Soho. My fridge and cupboards are filled with their basics; they are the fundamentals to most things I cook with at home. My extra virgin olive oil is their Arbequina, the anchovies are their Ortiz salted variety. I have their chickpeas, picante olives, non-picante olives, jarred peppers, breadsticks, Iberico hams, manchego, lentils, pickled chillies, and large bags of crisps in truffle, jamon, and egg flavours. Yes they are to blame for those crisps. Basically, if you want to create great Mediterranean cooking, you need to start with great Mediterranean produce. It’s why my online spend with them is problematic.
I’ve eaten at the counter in Borough Market on a few occasions, and tried and failed miserably to write about the Borough restaurant. I have pictures of Matt’s arm and a blurred memory of more bottles of wine than dishes of food. I have zero recollection of what was eaten, which is never a good starting point for a review unless you are sat in Bundobust. Still, take two at a different site with far more polite company. We’ve done Termini and French House already this morning, walking through a gloriously sunny Soho to lunch. A cava sangria to start and most of the menu between four. Some pan con tomato; nothing more and nothing less than the sum of its parts, and those impeccable olives, brightened with a little orange. Toasted bread with caramelised onions and anchovy, gloriously deep in flavour and almost pissaladiere-like, and plates of ham with gossamer ribbons of fat which melt placed between forefinger and thumb.
I remember the prawns from the last visit, the seething oil causing the jetsam of garlic and red chilli to bob around the prawns. The eating of them is simple; first the prawns so that they do not overcook in the oil, then the perfumed oil itself via the way of sodden bread. And I also remember the black rice with squid, treated with care if missing the socarrat at the base. There are blistered padron peppers as good as I’ve eaten anywhere, and some chicken, tinged with the back-note of smoke, but really a vehicle for a mess of chopped olives, lemon and salt for which I’m still trying to recreate the balance of at home.
And then, just like the last visit, it all becomes a bit of a blur. Maybe it’s the sheer quantity of food that we’re repositioning like jigsaw pieces, maybe it’s the wine knocking onto the negronis I’d warmed-up with. My phone tells me there was a cursory green salad though you don’t get a figure like this eating things like that. I just about recall croquettes oozing with piggy béchamel, and the broken eggs with spuds and spreadable chorizo, though maybe that’s because its my favourite thing they serve. There is not a dud on the menu to be found.
We finish with Forest Hill’s superb gelato, ideal for the blistering June sun, finishing off the wine and digestifs before a slow winding walk to Somerset House via Kwant. Good Spanish food isn’t difficult; at its core is a simple respect of ingredients, value, and the seasons. Brindisa gets it, but then I gather it always has. I would love to see them arrive in Birmingham.
8/10
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