40 Commercial Street, London E1 020 7247 5371. Meal for two, including drinks and service £70
The main thing to know about the Culpeper pub in London’s Aldgate is that they grind up pork scratchings and use the rubble as a seasoning for popcorn. This has to put them on the side of the angels, doesn’t it? So hold on to that thought while I rant for a while. I can’t help myself. It’s one of those moments when you know what you’re going to say is really annoying but you still say it because you hold it to be demonstrably true.
The Culpeper, which sits in a traffic-clogged corner of London, sells itself on one fact over all others, which is its rooftop “farm”. Nico Treguer, described as a “rooftop growing entrepreneur”, has joined forces with Bash Redford of Forza Win, which stages large-scale “ethical” pop-ups, and brought in Sandy Jarvis, former head chef of the much-admired Terroirs. On their Facebook page and menu they bang on about this rooftop “farm” and how they want it to supply all their vegetables “where possible”. Really? I have to ask: why? I put this question to our waiter, who mumbled words like “freshness” and “wholesomeness”. Given the particulate count in the air over this corner of London, it really doesn’t strike me as especially wholesome.
It’s definitely not a sustainable model of food production. The carbon footprint of small-scale urban farming – which requires vast inputs in the shape of wooden-cased beds, brought-in soil and dedicated tools for a tiny yield – is awful. And then there’s the carbon footprint of whoever labours over it for that tiny yield. Localness isn’t an argument either. Once you do a full life-cycle analysis of your food, you find that the transportation generally accounts for only 2-4% of its carbon footprint. That’s why the rest of London gets its ingredients from farms outside the city. It makes more sense. Against that, notions of “freshness”, which are in the eye of the beholder, start to look flimsy.
There are good reasons for growing your own. It’s good for mental wellbeing and educational for small people who don’t know enough about where food comes from. It greens the hard-edged, concreted corners of the city. And, of course, the pub is named after Thomas Culpeper, the great 16th-century herbalist, so there is a reference point. But is it the way forward for anyone who really cares about their food? No, I’m afraid not.
See. I told you I was going to be annoying.
I suspect I’d be less annoying about it if, having made such a noise about their rooftop farm, they really did serve food from it, but at our meal all we got was a lettuce salad. And jolly nice it was, too, though its quality had little to do with the fact the ingredient was grown above our heads. It lay in the mustardy dressing, which was one of those muscular jobs; the sort that, were it a bloke, would be wearing a sleeveless T-shirt just to show up the hard-won ripple and curve of bicep.
The food works. It has an internal logic. It all makes sense. They don’t need silly advertising gimmicks because they’ve got something much more important, which is a chef who knows what he’s doing and a menu of good things to eat. This old London boozer has been given one of the more pleasing makeovers I’ve seen in recent years. It’s industrial lite, with a hint of Rennie Mackintosh. The key material is dark wood, but with angular wooden window frames, a hard-topped central bar and brilliant turquoise-leather banquettes. There is a feeling of air and space amid the noise and clatter of London outside.
The food, like that salad dressing, is solid and dependable without being silly about it. So deep-fried pig’s head is less a big, shameless chunk of offal than three crisped and delicate croquettes that crunch under the teeth to reveal the inner steamy and wobbly bits of the animal. They come with more leaves and chopped pickled walnuts to cut through the fat and jelly. Their own taramasalata is a long way from the usual DayGlo pink a six-year-old girl would want to paint her bedroom with. It is smoky and creamy and well served by the crunch of radish and pickled cucumber. It’s a perfect vehicle for their dense sourdough.
A grilled pork chop with chargrilled courgettes, mustard potatoes and a bowl of their own chimichurri – a vinegared sauce of chopped parsley, oregano and garlic in olive oil – is a very dark plate of food. Much of it looks blackened beyond the bounds of health and safety. It sucks light out of the room. But boy, it’s good: a fine, properly seasoned and rested lump of porker, halved courgettes that have taken a beating on the outside while still retaining a sense of self, and some sprightly sauce to bring it all together. A huge pillow of brandade – salt cod mixed with mash – is only let down by the fish not having been sufficiently soaked. It becomes relentlessly salty. We don’t know whether to eat it or sleep on it. The green beans with almonds alongside are a calming influence.
Dessert suggests someone in the kitchen has done serious time in a hardcore pastry section. A chocolate and walnut brownie is another dark and fearsome thing, but in the service of high-end bitter chocolate notes and squidge and sweetness. There is a thick puddle of salted-caramel sauce and the crunch of honeycomb on top to give it all a bit of texture. On another plate, a crisp shortbread biscuit spread with raspberry jam sits beneath an impeccable frangipane sponge, itself topped with glazed raspberries. It is a beautiful thing to look at it, regardless of whether the fruit started on the roof or 50 miles away on a farm engineered for the purpose of growing them.
Within the context of London, the Culpeper is priced to be a regular rather than a treat, with starters around £6 and mains in the low teens, with much cheaper lunchtime options for local office workers. It has a smart drinks selection including locally brewed beers and a cocktails list which uses words like “tincture”. In short, it’s all thoroughly hip, as befits this part of town. Hipness is fine. It’s hep to be hip. What matters is substance, and they have that in spades. They don’t need silly gimmicks. After all, they have pork-scratching seasoned popcorn. What more could anyone need?
Jay’s news bites
■ The Three Mariners at Oare in Kent is very much a pub that happens to serve food rather than a food pub. You could come here for a pint and feel at home. Better still, come for properly garnished fish soup with aioli and croutons, or local skate cheeks with lemon, garlic and parsley. The mains pay as much attention to the proximity of the sea, but there are also strong offerings for carnivores. Finish with a strawberry pavlova (thethree marinersoare.co.uk).
■ Novikov, that temple to good taste and understatement – can you smell the sarcasm? – has introduced a takeaway menu for people with private jets. They will deliver the food to the airport shortly before departure. Let’s just hope those using the service will be leaving the country for good (novikov restaurant.co.uk).
■ Raspberries ahoy! This year’s British raspberry crop is forecast to be up 15% on last year. The mild winter has also made them sweeter and juicier. What’s more, in the past decade the raspberry crop has risen from 3,700 tonnes a year to 10,000 tonnes. That’s a lot of raspberries.
Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk. Follow Jay on Twitter @jayrayner1
