According to St John

By Andrew Tomenson

There are restaurants that I’d like to visit but for some unfathomable reason never have. Maybe it’s the travel, maybe it’s the price, but there’s been one place on my bucket list since I was old enough to lift a pan or peel an onion: restaurant St John in the heart (no pun intended) of Farringdon. This whitewashed shrine to nose-to-tail eating sits like an old post mortem theatre where you are encouraged to examine the innards of British cuisine with holy reverence. Almost as if you have wandered into a monastic order devoted to the sanctum of offal. Now, I know exactly where I wanted to start, and the temptations of the other food on offer didn’t convince me otherwise. It was the standout, the one thing I’ve always wanted to try, one of two menu items at St John (alongside the rarebit) that have lasted the test of time since 1994: roast bone marrow and parsley salad. However, I didn’t. At least not straight away, because on this day, London’s 28 degree heat first made me dive straight into an ice cold pint of pilsner. Poured into a simple no-fuss non-branded pint glass, the beer did the talking. Our unpretentious, not overly smiley or try-hard waiter had us in the palms of his hands with practiced ease. “Wine lads?” Well yes, and a fantastic wine it was, St John’s very own white Bordeaux, a steal at £40.

Now for the good stuff: table bread and butter, baked freshly on site. A sourdough with a blistered brown crust that couldn’t have gotten any closer to my nostrils, trying to hold on to that beer-like smell that can evoke childhood memories of high streets lined with bakeries. The marrow arrives, like a stack of chimneys in a Lowry painting, next to a meadow of parsley. I dive straight in with my lobster fork, scraping and battling for every gram of rich velvety indulgence. It spreads on my sourdough toast like butter, I pile it with bitter-sweet parsley salad and take a bite. As I do, I take my time and look around the room. I want to remember this, the time, the place, the aroma, I’ve finally made it. Do I order another ? I look over at my dining partner, my older brother. His face reads the same as mine, a wry smile and a nod. I’m hoping he won’t finish his.

I’ve never eaten hare before, simply because I’ve not eaten anywhere with it on the menu. I’m glad I did on this occasion. Served with peas and trotter, its rich delicate gaminess was balanced by the sweetness of the braised peas and gelatinous mouthfeel from the trotter and reminded me why, on a Wednesday lunch time, this restaurant was full. My brother’s lamb, a huge plate of meat, bone and leeks, is hard to describe apart from what it is. I thought if I stare at it long enough I might get an offering but no such luck, until I gently placed some hare saddle on my brother’s plate, hint hint. A mouthful of British farming excellence. Buttery leeks, sweet tender lamb and umami lava-bread, a harmonious trio each enhancing the other, the dish a perfect example of St John’s philosophy of simplicity. “Are you not ordering the rarebit?”, our waiter asked, knowing full well he was asking the easiest question he would ask all day. Of course, let’s share one. He was already writing the order down before I said yes. Who knew cheese on toast could be this good, but alas, I can never eat another again to satisfy my craving unless I take on the 350 mile round trip.

Finishing off with a dessert wasn’t the plan, but finishing off with a stiff drink and a dessert was. The fergeroni, a take on the classic negroni by chef owner Fergus Henderson, makes the classic look like a choirboy. The gin is switched out for Fernet Branca, bold, bittersweet and beautiful, not for the faint of heart. And finally, a plum sorbet, a palate cleanser that wipes away the sins of the meal. Smooth, sweet, sour and even better served with a shot of vodka. Minimalist and clean (there’s a theme here). St John isn’t a restaurant, it is a reckoning with mortality. You leave not just fed, but reminded of the transience of life, stripping meat to the bone, where marrow is sucked dry, and all that’s left is a bitter tang of sorbet on your tongue and a buzz around your brain.

St John, 26 St. John Street, London, EC1M 4AY

Instagram: @st.john.restaurant

Website: stjohnrestaurant.com