The last time I saw Henry Harris, I was working in his kitchen at the now defunct Racine. He had been to lecture us keen wannabee chefs at Leith's School of Food and Wine, and we were all desperate to do work experience in the kitchen of his Knightsbridge bistro.
I spent a night there. I didn't cut the mustard - instead, nearly cutting off my fingers - but the experience was otherwise fabulous. Harris is a foodie Francophile, and his menus have always had a pleasingly French flavour.
Racine is no more, and he has now founded - with business partner James McCulloch, a small, but growing chain of gastropubs, of which this the third. A fourth is due to open in Chiswick imminently.
It is on Shirland Road on the site of the former Truscott Arms and sits over several floors. The ground floor dining room is light, bright and dominated by the Victorian bar. Upstairs sits a bright dining room and on the second floor are a clutch of smaller rooms for private functions. Building work is still being completed on five guest rooms on the top floor.
I was invited to visit and Mr F and I decided to take advantage of a child-free day in late December to pop in. Harris's French influences are all over the menu. Lots of classics, like the endive salad with pecans, Roquefort, honey and mustard that I started with. Coated in pleasingly mouth-puckering mustard dressing tempered with sweet pecans, it was a plate of 1980's nostalgia. The style of salad I'd serve up to my uni mates back in the day - albeit a gazillion times nicer.
Mr F also went back to the 80's with a slab of goat's cheese melting on toast with a thick schmear of sticky, onion marmalade and some bitter leaves. Another excellent throw back.
Around us a cosmopolitan room of yuppies with babies (to continue with the 80's terminology); foreign students and couples were enjoying a very Maida Vale repast.
My sea trout with Jerusalem artichokes and Umbrian black truffle was a fluffy blanket of a dish. Creamy, comforting and warming. With that and my glass of Sangiovese, I as relaxed as Shabbat afternoon. Mr F's gnocchi and squash ragu was the polar opposite of my Farrow and Ball-toned plate. Almost meriting sunglasses, it was sunny orange and as punchy as Mike Tyson. The perfect antidote to stodgy festive food.
Nothing on their dessert list grabbed me. Maybe I was too full of sweet treats from the festive season. I picked another French classic - Mont Blanc. Meringue, cream and a wormy pile of chestnut puree. It was disappointing, but no less than the sum of its parts. Too-hard meringue tasted manufactured and the cream, too solid. Mr F's ice cream was a safer choice.
The charming manager, Paul Smith, showed us around the building — a sunny first floor dining room with its own bar, a restaurant overflow or private dining area; three smaller function rooms on the second floor - perfect for small dinners; and on the top floor, he explained, are five bedrooms for those nights you want to fall into bed after your feed.
If I still lived in the manor - I sadly left Maida Vale for the heady heights of Herts eight years ago - then I'd be in all the time. It's definitely worth the trip from time to time, and if you're local, then get over there. It's a perfect winter meeting place.
More details on the Hero of Maida website
