The Boy Who Loved To Eat

5-7 Blandford St, Marylebone, London W1U 3DB. Tasting menu for two, including drinks and service: £250

Be still my beating heart. 

Either my eyes were deceiving me, or I had just learned that I would soon be ‘guest of honour’ at Simon Rogan’s namesake Roganic, the former pop-up now permanent fixture returning to town for a second glorious bite of the cherry. Mercifully, on this occasion, my eyesight had not given me the bum steer I had anticipated, for carefully tucked away at the centre of my Christmas present (the piano score for the Michael Bublé Christmas Album, by the way) was a beautiful, hand-crafted invitation from my partner, summoning me to attend an evening with him at the latest haunt of the culinary juggernaut and, more importantly, my favourite chef.

Talk about some serious brownie points.

Over the next several hours, I began to imagine what it might be like to meet the man himself. They say you should never meet your heroes, presumably, because if and when you do you will inevitably find out they are all tossers like the rest of us. No matter how distinct from the plebs they may appear to be. But in the case of Simon Rogan, I had resigned myself to the fact that as long as I was able to at least savour his creations, this would more than suffice. Seeing him in the flesh with my own neither-here-nor-there eyesight would be a pipe-dream cherry on an already pretty phenomenal cake.

I had always yearned to venture up towards the splendiferous Cumbrian countryside, not least because that is the site of Rogan’s two-Michelin-starred L’Enclume, famed for its ability to showcase the freshest local produce and finest seasonal ingredients from the region. Wild fruits, herbs and flowers are staples of the menu here, almost all of which are grown on the 12-acre farm run by Rogan and his wife, Penny. Alas, my ever-dwindling financial situation and a pitiful lack of free time had kept me glued down south for the past few years, so you can imagine my excitement on discovering that, at last, Simon would be making his way back down to the capital to cater for us half-starved Londoners.

And so, finally, the evening arrived. Being the klutz that I am, however, I had foolishly managed to double-book myself with a choir rehearsal all the way up in Highgate, ending shortly before our reservation was due to begin. You know those scenes you see in movies where, by all accounts, it looks as if the groom is going to be late for his own wedding? As a speeding taxi veers in and out of traffic, careering down the freeway to get him to the church on time, in the back seat, he struggles to slide on his trouser leg. Meanwhile, his bow tie flaps around like a caged pigeon; and his cufflinks? Well, let’s just say they’re nowhere near where they should be.

That was me, that night. For all twenty-one minutes and fifty-seven seconds of the Uber journey, that was me.

But, at least I made it on time. Thank goodness. I made it on time.

Stood there, shivering on a cold mid-winter’s night, my partner was surprisingly chipper when the taxi eventually pulled up outside the restaurant. As I opened my mouth to unleash what would have been a flurry of the sincerest apologies within human hearing range, a lone icy finger pinned itself across my lips as I was subsequently and briskly ushered into the warmth by one ravenous Italian man.

And then it hit me. Overcome by a feeling of déjà vu like no other, I had the distinct impression that I had been here before. As I sit here writing this article, I begin to wonder whether L’Autre Pied still has its doors open to the public, since my last visit to the restaurant some years ago (and about which I wrote an article on my blog – see home page). It wouldn’t surprise me if it had closed its doors, I tell myself. Then again, it always was a case of style over substance. Long story short, after some minor assistance from my P.A (aka. Google), I find out that the shoe in question is, indeed, firmly on the other foot as Roganic has now taken over the establishment and will be striving to achieve with it what L’Autre Pied never could. Here’s hoping.

Gone is the abhorrent oriental flower lightbox which used to stand centre-stage. Leather banquettes remain, although the cherry hue has been replaced with a milder and warmer shade of brown. Tables are elegantly draped over with white linen and, such as one would expect nowadays from any top-end restaurant, the rest of the interior design is pared-down so as not to detract from the food. Pared-down save, that is, the lampshades which look like they’ve just been nabbed off the set of Doctor Who. Mini galaxies or Modern Art? I can’t quite tell. Covers-wise, Roganic could probably manage about thirty, tops, I’d say. The intimate feel of the place is perfect for an occasion such as this and, so far, things are looking optimistic for the remainder of the evening.

Coats on hangers and bums on seats, we have a sniff of the bark-cum-twig combo reclining over an exquisite porcelain dish at the side of our table. What is it? Well, it’s bark. And a twig. Two things for which an acute nose is neither a necessity nor even an advantage. And we thought we were being so sophisticated. Hot on the heels of our failed attempt, a wax-sealed envelope with the Roganic name is delivered to our corner of the room with the accompanying commentary from front-of-house that choices will not be a requirement for the evening. Instead, we should prepare to bulldoze our way through sixteen – yes, sixteen – different course-lets, paling in comparison to the twenty they serve at L’Enclume.

Word to the wise. If you suspect (or indeed, know) that your opponent for the evening is going to be a six-foot-eleven tasting menu, I would strongly advise you to avoid any garment labelled “skinny” at all costs. Even mention of the word ‘sixteen’ from the maître d’ sends my stomach into a frenzy, scanning the perimeters of my pantaloons and labouring to put on a Harry Houdini to dislodge my top button. Now, what a great escape that could have been.

But there is no need. Before you can recite the words to ‘God save the Queen’, the first dish is here, staring up at us. A ‘preserved raspberry tart,’ tuile base and yoghurt, freckled with a deep red complexion. Lighter than a feather, one only has to inhale before the tart is gone, never to be seen again. In France, they call this an ‘amuse-bouche’. I can see why because, boy oh boy, my ‘bouche’ is highly amused. It is a gorgeous little thing and a wonderful way to kick off the soirée. Next up we have a seaweed custard, texture akin to a panna cotta – wobble and all – topped with caviar. My boyfriend probably thinks I am on a heavy dose of nitrous oxide as I struggle to contain my giddiness. Meanwhile, other dining parties stare at me, aghast, with a look of ‘I’ll have what he’s having’ shamefully plastered over their faces. The animals come in two by two shortly afterwards as little balls of pork and eel, fried in tempura and adorned with hay cream, adjacent to a complement of pickled kohlrabi parcels of raw bavette and watercress, are gently placed down before us. Oh, and by the way, did I mention that Simon served them to us himself?

“Thank you,” I say to him. He smiles back at me. And, just like that, I have had a conversation with Simon ‘fricking’ Rogan! It lasted one second and consisted of two sycophantic words, but it was a conversation nonetheless. Life ambition achieved.

That the pork and steak are superb, however, is besides the point. Here, at Roganic, one has the feeling that he or she is witness to a game of sorts. The menu is nothing short of a platform for Rogan to exercise his creativity in cooking, plating, and the sheer brilliance of his craft. And we too, more importantly, are part of the game he is playing, second-guessing the myriad of ways in which he is to plate up what ostensibly sound like rather simple dishes, at least, as penned on our earlier delivery.

Don’t expect me to go through all sixteen dishes by the way. There isn’t time and I would no sooner succumb to bitter nostalgia than the next man.

The dish of the evening, however – without question – is a butter poached halibut, again served by Simon, and decorated with brassicas and a tarragon and halibut sauce. A black garlic oil spot sits nearby. This condiment alone is enough to lift the fish to another dimension, adding real depth of flavour and packing a punch to floor even the most affected aioli enthusiast. But what I love most about this dish is that in spite of the wild herbs and produce – the garlic, the tarragon, the brassicas – the halibut is the most beautiful and well-cared for piece of fish that I have ever tasted. And I have eaten my own weight in halibut, especially, over the years. Multiple times over.

When it comes to desserts, I like to think of myself as something of a connoisseur. Maybe it is the fact that, come rain or shine, I will usually have pudding once a day. Like brushing one’s teeth or, dare I say, ironing one’s shirts, for me, gorbing on desserts is a daily ritual. But the desserts I bear witness to this evening are somewhat different from the sweets to which I have traditionally grown accustomed. They are ‘eye-openers’ in both senses of the term: pretty as a picture, and yet also strangely thought-provoking. Where else am I going to try yellow beetroot sorbet with buttermilk and oxalis? And, for that matter, what even is oxalis? I remember this pudding distinctly, not just because of its stunning and vibrant colours, but because of the way it defies all expectations. The golden sorbet scoop sits on a parsley (or is it basil?) reduction. Whatever it is, my boyfriend and I have oodles of fun guessing.

And then there is the caramelised apple Tarte Tatin with Douglas fir – Anyone? Anyone? – followed swiftly by smoked juniper fudge and an iced dandelion seed snap. Were this any other restaurant review, I would, at this point, embark on long discourse about the flavours, textures, sights and smells of the food, but here, I find myself utterly tongue-tied. Why bother analysing the meal in front of you when it gives you such sheer pleasure and soul-satisfying enjoyment? I am completely enraptured.

They say you should never meet your heroes. But when your hero personally serves you up a conveyor belt of mini morsels and tantalising taste-icles, you cannot help but wonder who these poor, forlorn victims are.

A word of advice, dear chums. Find yourself a new hero. Come to Roganic and prepare to be reinvigorated.

Credit to the feature image photographer: https://twitter.com/roganic