Fay Maschler reviews Darby's: An Irish-American thriller to soften Nine Elms's concrete jungle

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Fay Maschler5 July 2019

Nine Elms Lane, named in about 1645, was inspired — it will come as no surprise — by a row of trees bordering a path by the river. The area now known for Battersea Power Station, New Covent Garden Market and the relocated American Embassy could be re-christened Nine (at least) Tall Luxury Apartment Blocks Seemingly Mostly Uninhabited.

Sold to overseas buyers, frequently off-plan, in the boom years of 2014 and 2015, these residences complete with 24-hour concierges, gyms, pools etc were like high-interest bank accounts, their value, even while empty, allegedly ticking ever upwards. They have blighted the banks and skyline of the Thames and done nothing to alleviate the need for affordable housing. With Brexit looming, such investments are proving less rosy. “High-rise, high-spec, high-risk”, proclaims an article in the Financial Times.

Ornamental planting and the water features around the American Embassy have softened the footprint of “residential and business development”. Embassy Gardens, where Darby’s restaurant, run by Robin and Sarah Gill of The Dairy, Counter Culture and Sorella in Clapham, occupies the lofty ground floor.

On the 10th floor of two of the blocks a swimming pool with a glass base is destined to be suspended but the developers don’t seem to have got the hang of it yet.

The name Darby’s is a tribute to Robin’s late father, Earl “Darby” Gill, the renowned Irish trumpeter and bandleader, who by all accounts was a top man: gifted, spirited and funny. Influences in terms of design as well as gastronomy are Irish-American. A huge oyster bar sits at the centre of the action.

We push open a front door that gives on to the in-house bakery — bread is almost a religion. For Sunday lunch, when there is live music from early afternoon, we sit in the restaurant with a sideways view into the magnificent kitchen. This is my second meal at Darby’s and I am keen to try something from the grill, having seen the prime beef and fish displayed behind glass in a cold store at mezzanine level. In the event we choose to share a whole barbecue chicken with herb salad for a main course, which at £30 I am able to figure out is £15 each. Prices are relatively restrained, comparable with, say, Brat in Shoreditch to which the menu bears some resemblance. Their whole turbot is £84, Brat’s £75-85.

The world is your oyster: The central bar and dining room at Darby's
Matt Writtle

Snacks tried include Dean’s pork and fennel salumi — that’s Dean Parker, head honcho in the kitchen — sourdough with cultured butter sitting in a puddle of buttermilk, a plate of pickles and “Gildas”, the Basque pintxos that thread an olive, green chillies and, here, cubes of smoked eel onto a toothpick. Translated as “little perverts”, witty and spicy, they also commemorate Rita Hayworth’s shimmering performance of Put The Blame on Mame in the movie Gilda.

Smoked mackerel, grilled red peppers and Datterini tomatoes is a perky salad, but the fish a surprisingly fugitive presence. Native lobster brioche roll with roe mayo — say that after a few Martinis — is true to its American origins by virtue (not) of pronounced sweetness in the dressing.

The chicken arrives spatchcocked, laminated with a barbecue sauce and accompanied by a dear little pottery pot of gravy. The feeble texture and flavour of the flesh seems as if pre-cooked before application of the glaze. Skin is the best bit. A side dish of early summer vegetables ordered to up the vitamin content turns out to be an overcooked, over-buttered little stew with the abrasive flavour of chard dominating. We turn to the salad with renewed enthusiasm.

At a previous meal the soft billows and folds of Jersey milk ricotta agnolotti with Grezzina courgette & Nocerella olives in its delectability seems to have come from a different kitchen, one with closer ties to the estimable Sorella. Asparagus came when they were still in season. The tranche of head-on grilled fish is pleasingly gleamingly plain offset by the order of crispy beef fat potatoes, layered and ridiculously lush. Burnt honey cake and reduced-milk ice cream, its warm custard filling in a standoff with cold ice, is an ace dessert.

Service led by sweet, neat, petite Emma Underwood is delightful. A Caribbean steel band plays during Sunday lunch, which isn’t what I am expecting. Or thrilling to. When I go back to Darby’s — and I will — it will start early one evening when a live band plays from 5-7pm, Monday to Saturday, and during these happy hours, oysters, Champagne, Guinness and vintage rock ’n’ roll are the order of the day. Note: six oysters and a pint of Guinness for a tenner.

Where to eat Irish food in London

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