[Disclosure: We paid in full at Fallow, they didn’t know I was a blogger]
I didn’t want to like Fallow. Yes, it had had plenty of rave reviews, including from people whose opinion I rate. But I still kind of hoped it would turn out to be over-priced, snooty and steretypically ‘London’ so I could dismiss it as just another faddy place that’s cool to be seen in but not all that.
As we walk through the door and under a strange, heavy velvet curtain into a chaotic throng of people, I have a moment of smug satisfaction that I was right. And then as if by witchcraft the crowd clears. I can vaguely hear a smartly dressed woman at the check in desk who had previously been hidden muttering instructions discreetly but efficiently.
Group by group, the former door crowd are escorted to tables and within minutes my friend and I find ourselves perched at a table by the window, menus in hand, as the chaos melted away along with some of my negativity.
I’d love to say it takes until the end of the meal for me to completely reverse my view of Fallow as an over-priced, over-rated London restaurant. But that happens with the first sip of my white miso and butter cocktail – up there with the best cocktail I’ve ever had. Along with my mate’s oyster shell martini that is equally as good and sets the tone for a debaucherous afternoon.
It all sounds very OTT and the exact thing I was thinking I’d hate about Fallow. But the decadence (made more extreme by mine and my friend’s life choices) is coupled with a straightforwardness in the food that couldn’t be further from the wanky Londonness you’d expect from a place in the heart of St James’s that describes its food as ‘conscious gastronomy’.
It may sounds a bit high falutin, but this is indeed a place where sustainability matters. Fallow is famous for its smoked cod’s head dish – the most obvious example of how we too often ignore parts of animals that could be eaten, and waste food that we should be appreciating, not turning our nose up at.
Yet that doesn’t mean the menu is full of virtue-signalling starters and worthy mains. Yes, the meat is ex-dairy cow, but the menu itself is an appealing selection of small plates and snacks, plus dishes from the sea and the land.
It’s the kind of place that lends itself to ordering everything and digging in. Of course, you can have a starter and a main and never let your fork wander to anyone else’s plate, but with cocktails like this and a wine list like that, why would you be restrained.
We embrace the occasion and the venue and order too much, any semblance of politeness disappearing with each glass of the very lovely wine we order thanks to help from the endlessly knowledgeable sommelier, a young woman who has the so often missing knack of describing wine in ways I can actually understand.
She’s just one example of a generally high standard of service at Fallow. There’s an efficiency that gets stuff done and somehow stays on top of what should be a chaotic environment coupled with a patience that means our gabbling inspires a smile rather than a smirk and no eyelids are even batted when my pal stipulates the particular order that she wants everything to arrive in as I mumble apologetically.
We’d been tempted by the selection of breads to start, but given our desire to try most of the menu, decide to choose a half dozen Carlingford oysters instead. They’re served simply, and of course they’re top quality, but it’s the bottle of Fallow’s own sriracha that has me ooh’ing and aah’ing. Because every venue should have its own branded sriracha.
Burrata is brought to life with sticky sweet caramelised onions and a crispy chilli dressing – the whole thing a heady mix of creaminess with a kick, finished with fragrant herbs.
Glazed chipolatas from the small plates menu are world’s apart from what you might imagine of a dish with that name. Sturdy, fat, meaty things buried under a pile of more crispy onion with some bacon thrown in for good measure. An ominous brown blob is a prune ketchup that reminds us that we’re really not in Kansas anymore, where sausage and ketchup would be standard. As with everything here, even the simplest stuff has been given a bit of oomph to befit its location and audience. Again, what I was waiting to hate but enjoy every elevated second of instead.
Smoked beef ribs are from ex-dairy cow too. They’ve not been messed with too much, and if your idea of ribs is gelatinous meat smothered in an MSG-loaded, over-sweetened sauce then you can think again. These are smokey, with a natural sweetness from the meat, and fall off the bone at the touch of a fork or – if you’re me – as soon as you wrap your greedy chops around them to suck them from the bone, no teeth required.
I feel we might have peaked, but my pal has insisted on the main course plate of venison that we’ve elected to share coming last. This kind of decision is exactly why I’m friends with her, even if I momentarily doubt the wisdom of us sharing, given how great it looks.
Tender chunks of meat from the Bathurst Estate in Cirencester. Rich and tender, its slightly gamey notes meet their match in the earthiness of Maitake mushroom that’s littered around the plate, while a heap of what I think is cabbage is a delight, partly because it’s drowned in the rich sauce that coats the whole dish. Horseradish cream is the elevating element here, with a pop of fire that simmers down into a creamy warmth courtesy of the cream.
A mixed salad had been a mere concession to something green when we first ordered, but it’s a welcome crisp, crunch and tanginess thanks to the dressing in between so much rich meatiness that we’ve devoured since arriving.
When we finally look up, things have calmed down. The lunchtime rush has dissipated, but there is still a healthy buzz thanks to many a table who appear to have had the same idea as us – to luxuriate over every second of this experience and fail miserably at resisting more wine despite knowing it’s far from necessary.
Scrap that, it is necessary. Because a chocolatey, creamy, pretty-as-a-picture dessert whose details escape me thanks to the cocktails, wine and general giddiness, deserves a decent glass of wine to go with it. So that is what we do. It’s a final demonstration of how posh can be simple, comfort food can be refined, and even London types love chocolate and cream.
I’ve love to say we leave immediately. We don’t. This place I had planned to hate has become somewhere I don’t quite want to leave. I like what it stands for, I like the way it smashes hospitality with high standards and zero excuses, and produces great food that manages to be that little bit special without losing its way, and somewhere that we can all feel comfortable eating in.
The bill is less comfortable, but on closer examination it’s more to do with our over-zealous enthusiasm when it comes to ordering everything – food and drink – rather than horrendously over-priced items. No, it’s not cheap as chips, and some dishes are pricey, but others are in line with what you’d expect to pay in a restaurant in this location. And cheaper than some places with far inferior food and service.
I didn’t want to like Fallow. And actually I didn’t. I loved it.
