Smoke existed before Stu Deeley. I know because I went before it opened, invited by James in the first official break of lockdown; me, Paul Fulford, some other press people whom I have zero memory of, all wearing masks when walking around the estate. We saw the bones of what it is now, before the extensions, before they changed the greenhouses into dining spaces. When it was the small brick outbuilding and most of the cooking was done from the oven inset in the wall. If memory serves me correctly we had lamb for main, I think the shank, slowly roasted until the bone came away clean from the muscle. Afterwards we went back to the house to drink wine and play pool, only heading home when my ex fell to sleep in the corner.
It is fair to say that it never really came into its own until Stu arrived. For me, and I hope I don’t piss anyone off by saying this, but Stu Deeley is Smoke. Maybe that’s why come the start of spring it starts a new life as Kynd, with a new, just released, ethos. There is less than three weeks of Smoke left, it is in that transitional period right now, though when I went two days before the turn of the year Stu was there cooking his little arse off because he has idiots like me begging for a table.
As such we see Smoke off with a selection of our favourites. The little tartlets of cheese and onion, then two more please if that’s okay. That scallop dish with black pudding and thai green sauce, a riff on the dish that practically won him Masterchef The Professionals and more importantly has featured on my top ten dish list for the past two, maybe three years. Agnolotti of smoked potato, delicate and refined, with vichyssoise that is bright with verdant allium notes, and another soup-based course of butternut squash gazpacho with a loose, bulbous burrata, sunflower seeds, croutons. Yes, that is three starters. We shared just one dessert. It was that kind of night, I don’t need to explain myself.
Without wishing to turn this into a eulogy, I think the attraction to Smoke was always two parts; firstly, that good old fashioned choice of what to eat, sadly missing from just about anywhere decent these days, and more crucially, the feeling that the food was interesting enough to always appeal and always find something new. What’s not to love about a piece of fish with crisped-up skin in a puddle of warm tartare sauce, or guinea fowl where the greens are bolstered by a sauce of cured pig which adds smoke and fattiness to the dish? It dawns on me that this will likely be the last time I eat the smoked boulangere spuds with caramelised onions. An accidental signature dish and one I expect that he’ll likely be glad to see the back of. No chef in their right mind wants to be known for their exemplary use of the potato. Not even Koffman.
Dessert is a chocolate and malt number shared between two with some cocktails to finish. Stu comes out briefly, we share a few words and he reels off all the chefs that have been in the days prior to we have before telling me a little about his next moves. Restaurants are way more than just food; they are capsules of time, which, when done correctly, create memories and make life better. I have so many memories at Smoke, all of them great, but maybe the greatest Sophie’s birthday, sat with her parents on a warm spring day, drinking negroni and champagne, her eating practically her dream menu, listening to her favourite songs now that the other diners have left. You can’t buy those moments – well, you can, because I did – but you get what I mean. Still, this is the world we live in now, one where change is inevitable. One where even the greatest of places have a shelf life. Come the end of February a new restaurant opens, the old one gone up with the Smoke.
