Morchella, London, UK

A restaurant in Clerkenwell that retains my interest and theirs .. well some of the time.

What do you call a thousand bankers at the bottom of the ocean?
…….. a good start!

In case you are wondering, insurance brokers, German tourists, Fred West (and his adorable wife) are all buried miles below them. Bloody bankers, the most rotten head of the slimy, corporate hydra. These louche finance pimps are unfortunately one of life’s necessary evils. Or are they?

I am fairly certain that all of my banking is now processed offshore by an automated algorithm, via a VPN to a sex bot voiced by an artificially intelligent young Indian woman called Jennifer. Siriously.

Oddly, I have just spent two and half hours in a bank; well, it used to be a bank. It is now a restaurant called Morchella. I do love the deliciously masochistic irony of opening a restaurant in an old bank.
The one redeeming trait of those poorly dressed, arse kissing, leasing agents is their morbid black sense of humour. They take a business that barely makes a 5% profit, in an industry in which 80% of new openings fail within the first two years, into a building whose sole purpose was to house the most evil, hegemonic, absurdly profitable businesses in the world. Sick bastards.

To be fair, from a design perspective old banks do tick a lot of boxes for a restaurant. They are always on a busy, high-profile corner, they mostly have lofty, pressed metal ceilings, impressive large windows for natural light, and Grecian marble columns that naturally delineate the space; and a vault, which is well………… superfluous. Obviously.

If I hadn’t guessed from the pencil illustration on the menu cover, Morchella is Latin for Morel, as in the mushroom. Why the name? I have no clue; maybe it references the former tenant, and that old joke, "how do you treat loyal bank customers and mushrooms”? Feed them shit and keep them in the dark.

I can happily report that at Morchella there is an abundance of natural light; and most of what you eat is not shit at all.

You should definitely start with a glass of wine in the attractive wine bar at the rear of the restaurant. The space identifies more as a wine vault, the walls are lined with handsome wooden wine racks, and modern temperature-controlled wine fridges laden with the stuff; windowsills proudly display empty bottles of Gevrey Chambertin and Grand Cru Chablis; remnants of some self congratulatory soirée of hedge fund managers and whiney financial whores, no doubt. We sit at the high tables and nibble on thin slices of saucisson and golden wedges of outstanding focaccia. The springy, crusty bread pops with a wonderfully briny intensity from flecks of seaweed and the accompanying dulse infused olive oil. Spanakopita, the beloved Greek pie is ‘
'canape-ised’ into thin crisp cigars of filo pastry of feta and spinach, unapologetically rich in garlic and lemon zest.

We take a seat on one of the annoyingly retractable fixed stools at the counter overlooking the energetic open kitchen. The cathedral like room is packed to it’s soaring rafters, the vast amount of blonde wood, brass fixtures and golden light fittings create a Scandi-religious-chic aesthetic. The recessed wooden Jenga-like drawer slides open to reveal cutlery and the meandering Mediterranean menu. The service here has the unbridled, doe eyed, enthusiasm of an orphaned puppy at an animal shelter. Our sincere, slightly awkward, but abundantly enthusiastic server is engaging; but I lose focus after she utters that mass shooting inducing phrase, “the dishes are designed for sharing.”" Oh No .. please, please, please don’t, don’t even hint at it, I am begging you! My frontal lobe begins to bleed, spittle pools in the corner of my mouth; consciousness becomes elusive.

I vaguely recall a theatrical dish of crab served in its own carapace. The crustacean’s cavity arrives upside down on a bed of rock salt and dried seaweed: the brown crab meat floats in a pool of insipid mayonnaise, compressed, depressed cucumber slices and salted cucumber ribbons are on life support, the white crab meat, chilli and parsley are doing all the heavy lifting.; the dish should be on a float in the Mardi Gras not on a menu.

A piece of hake is expertly roasted, blanketed in golden breadcrumbs on a large spoonful of calamari bolognaise. The fish is translucent, sweet and flakes at the sight of my fork; the bolognaise is a triumph of umami and inventiveness; the hefty ragout of minced calamari is slowly cooked with soy, fish stock, chilli, garlic, and white wine. The dish is deviously clever, simple, and utterly addictive.

Spaghetti is tossed with diced lobster, tomato passata, basil and leaves of lemon verbena, it’s an acceptable version of a dish that you can find in any of the Italian chain restaurants on the high street. The pasta could be firmer, the excessive amount sauce to pasta ratio is head scratchingly senseless.

Fast forward an hour and we are still watching the young chefs shred lettuce, and their thumbs whilst stuffing wet innards back into crab’s heads; our main course still has not arrived. The restaurant has tripped into an omnishambles, littered with wait staff lemmings running around in ever decreasing circles trying to find some purpose; us? themselves? A cliff? Mercifully, the plate of rabbit eventually finds its home. My mouth.

And I am so glad it did. The rabbit is jointed, dissected into pieces, and braised slowly in white wine, garlic, chilli, onions, tomatoes, lemon thyme and bay leaf. Wearing a wreath of shredded fried potatoes, this rustic bunny stew renders cutlery as an optional extra; the dish demands hands on work, and an extra plate for the bones, bay leaves, rib cage and thyme stalks and miscellaneous vegetable detritus. The primal pleasure of devouring the dish is in the chewing of the cartilage, and the hannibalesque sucking on every slippery, silvery sinew; eventually the finer bones morph into handy toothpicks, and the dish sings with the acidic chorus of lemony globe artichokes and green olives, both of which balance any of the ‘'wabbit wichness’.

There is the ubiquitous panna cotta, the Nicole Kidman of desserts, (white and universally unavoidable), this one is accessorised with apricot purée, apricot macerated and dehydrated apricot skins. It is smooth and vanillin, the fruit is not saccharinely sweet, the texture is thankfully, not overly firm or taut from an excess of gelatine or Botox.

The C cup sized large choux bun is filled with a strawberry cream and and wears a moat of double cream and a well of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and diced strawberries. The smashing of my spoon topples the confected tower with the desired impact: a torrent of lipstick pink cream ejaculates into a viscous pool of oil and vinegar, drowned strawberries and marooned shards of pastry are cast adrift.
It is messy, sticky, ugly, and gloriously edible.

Morchella is one of many new dynamic, ambitious restaurants to open in London this year, but it is consistently inconsistent. My experience at Morchella had the cohesion and effortless grace of a cycling tour with Oscar Pistorius.
More attention to detail, a disciplined execution of some dishes, a clear focus on service and a few systems on the floor, will ensure that Morchella will be a restaurant that retains my interest and become a far more bankable restaurant.

Morchella Restaurant
https://www.morchelladining.co.uk/