Hawksmoor. I nearly fainted.
I have to make a big fat confession before I start. I was meant to review this for The Lawyer for breakfast. I did have the breakfast, sharing the room with only two other punters, which, given the size of the place was a little disconcerting, but I didn’t get round to posting the review and I need to rectify that. The breakfast was fine by the way, but unless they get more people in to have it, I can’t see it’s worth their while to staff up to fill that cavernous space.
And it’s a bit grim for breakfast, being underground. But there you go.
Having recently started to eat meat again, I thought I’d go for the jackpot with a big steak. No pussyfooting around with a little bit of mince or chicken. No, I was basically looking at a big chunk of cow. And although my head doesn’t love that phrase, my stomach does.
And I started with a half lobster, cooked in the shell.
At £17.50, not starting to look great value when compared to £20 for the whole lobster at you know where. But delicious and fresh nonetheless. I had that because the two other things I wanted were off that day. So I can’t tell you about the ribs. Or the crab.
My companion had the salmon with rye bread.
No complaints but no fireworks either.
And then the main event. A massive slab of sirloin. A side of heritage tomatoes and buttered greens and a pot of chips, for my companion, of which I touched not one. Until I can fit into more than one skirt in my wardrobe, I’m afraid carbs have no place in my life.
And the steak was good. Properly charred, good flavour, cooked perfectly. I’d recommend it. I’m not a big one for sauces on steak, but you can have a variety here. I’m an old-fashioned English mustard woman, myself.
And we didn’t have any of the delicious cocktails. Partly due to the carb thing and partly because I needed to retain my composure, as I was meeting a potential recruit and it was lunchtime. Hard. But I have indulged in the past and I can vouch for their potency, not to mention inventiveness. It’s worth a trip to the bar for the cocktails alone, in my view.
And can I just also mention that, unlike the morgue-like breakfast, the place was heaving. And perhaps it was all the hot air coming from those City boys which made the room unbearably stuffy and warm, or maybe I’m just at that age, but it was so intense, I thought I was going to faint. And that wouldn’t have been impressive. Or pretty.