24 January 2013

Soif is the third restaurant to have been created by Ed Wilson and Oli Barker, in succession to Terroirs, which appeared in Charing Cross in 2008 to rave reviews, and Brawn in Columbia Road, which was even more enthusiastically received when it opened at the end of last year.

In this newspaper, Fay Maschler gave Brawn five stars and concluded her review thus: "If I could, I would eat and drink there every day." You can't say fairer than that.

Soif ("thirst") is in the middle of Clapham's main drag of upmarket cafés and bars, as the nice young policeman in Lavender Hill station, sizing me up when I asked for directions, explained: "You'll see when you get there." It's glass-fronted with a small outside terrace, for when it gets warm and for nicotine addicts, and inside the rooms are open all the way back to the brightly strip-lit and furiously busy kitchen.

There's a smallish bar as you go in (eight stools only), which helps create an informal atmosphere, emphasising drinking as well as eating, but which also constitutes a bit of an obstruction or worse. On the Friday night when we were there this area was dominated all evening by a group of stripe-shirted, thick-necked gents, beyond excited to find such a desirable venue for sluicing had just opened in their patch, joyously braying so loudly that normal conversation was pretty much impossible.

The restaurant as a whole was so noisy that it wasn't easy even to order intelligibly. But there you are, you either like being in the midst or you don't. (Sir Walter Raleigh, 1861-1922, not the Tudor, didn't much: "I wish I loved the Human Race/ I wish I loved its silly face/ I wish I liked the way it walks/ I wish I liked the way it talks/ And when I'm introduced to one/ I wish I thought 'What jolly fun!'". Me too, bud.)

The furniture is pleasantly haphazard, with lots of those sewing-machine tables, disparate chairs, dangling coolie-hat lamps and a menu chalked up on a blackboard, as well as printed. But the tableware is serious stuff: fine wine-glasses and ultra-sharp French steak knives - the 9.47 by Perceval of Thiers, which cost 50-odd each, even with synthetic handles - laid as a matter of course, always a real enhancement of any meal.

The menu is short, often changed, butch as hell, seasonal and right on trend: bone marrow, heirloom beetroots, pig cheeks, partridge, quince, all that. Soif's chef (tonguetwister of the week), Colin Westal, was previously head chef at the Café Anglais and his style is clearly influenced by Rowley Leigh's gutsiness.

We began with faultless slices of Felino salami (£5) from near Parma, cured with only a little salt and pepper, to give the purest possible taste of the pig. Pancetta arrotolata (£6) was even more remarkable, the rolled up, cured but unsmoked pork belly sliced wafer-thin and served raw. It's very fatty, so, given that you are thus mostly eating lard, heavenly lard, it needs to be soaked up with the good Poilâne bread. Then, lifted by the peppery, aniseedy seasoning, it's the perfection of that beastly treat.

Savvy buying, sharp serving, thus far. The rest of the meal was less exceptional. Black pudding and squid (£11) was very good - a big fat round of juicy black pudding crowned with plenty of judiciously grilled squid, tentacles emerging from a little hat of body pieces, a surf-n-turf arrangement it was a pleasure to dissect with that razor-sharp knife. Clams, lemon and coriander (£8) was a decent serving of pretty little shellfish, all by themselves for once instead of stretched with pasta, but they would have been more enjoyable served classically with white wine, parsley and garlic. The lemon completely overpowered the dish, while coriander just didn't seem the right herb.

The mains take the heartiness and generosity thing a bit far. Duck confit and beans was listed as coming also with Montbéliard sausage, partridge not just with choucroute but trotters too. Pig cheeks, Eric Bordelet sidre, autumn vegetables (£15) was a big plateful, the cheeks tender enough but not yet in the melting stage, the liquid sauce having a surprisingly raw taste of the cider (if it was purely cider, for it seemed strangely winey), while the winter vegetables included some dull Brussels sprouts.

Skate wing, artichoke barigoule (£16), was swimming in oil. The fish was accurately cooked, fiercely crisped on the outside but still slightly bloody on the bone, but it was little helped by the messy artichoke stew on the side, which included some sizeable chunks of carrot. Neither of us felt like finishing these courses.

From the short list of enticing puddings, baked apple, frangipane and custard (£6) was a hit - one big apple, still a bit hard but very delicious with the buttery, almondy paste and a light vanilla custard. The choice of four cheeses from Androuet (£3.50 each) was robustly summarised to us as hard, soft, goat and blue; they were sound, rather than special.

Terroirs and its offshoots (they're planning a fourth restaurant in St Martin's Lane early next year, focusing on wines from the Loire) are backed by the adventurous wine company Caves de Pyrène and the lengthy list here is extraordinary, offering all kinds of out-of-the-way, little known bottles in the £20-£30 range, many of them difficult to track down even where they are made (I've never found Elian da Ros's Le Vin est Une Fête from Marmande or Nicolas Carmarans's Mauvais Temps from the Aveyron on sale in south-west France).

Some of these wines may be justly obscure perhaps - a Bellotti Bianco, Cascina degli Ulivi, from Piedmont (£6.50 a glass) was weird, fruity in an OTT way, reminiscent of crushed elder leaves as well as ginger and gooesberry. But great drinking and endless exploration is on offer. We loved 2010 Bourgueil Venus, Domaine de la Chevalerie (£17 for a 500ml pot), a fabulous cabernet franc made on a Loire estate that's been in the Caslot family since 1640 but still comes with a superbly saucy label. A 2010 Côteaux du Layon St-Lambert, Domaine Ogereau sweet white (£5 for 100ml) was just as thrilling.

So one way and another, for locals Soif is obviously a great addition to the neighbourhood, bound to be packed, at these fair prices. That we failed to enjoy our evening as much as we had expected perhaps should be put down partly to the location and atmosphere, as well as the heavy cooking. North Londoners can feel less at home surrounded by Clapham bourgeoisie in full cry than they do in the Auvergne. Or even the Okavango.

Soif
27 Battersea Rise, SW11

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