& other places: Grillshack, Dean Street Townhouse, La Maison Touareg

The weeks recently have been a mismatch of crazy hours at work, that aforementioned tube strike and some spontaneous meals in new (and some not so new) places.

Grillshack
A couple of weeks ago, I went to Grillshack. I'd been heading for Flat Iron but knew the risk of a queue to be far too likely and it was too cold to be jigging around outside. We wanted a meat fix (L's trying the Atkins diet out) so my immediate thoughts of Spuntino or a naughty burger went straight out the window. Described as a modern take on the traditional American diner, Grillshack's sprung up in the heart of Soho and seems to be fairly busy. All white subway tiles with a snazzily little decal explaining how it works, this place looks quite good on paper. But in reality, I was left cold. The waiting staff were a little distracted, the 'serving yourself' process wasn't as slick as it should be and the food was disappointing. With a very small menu (and calling itself Grillshack) you'd expect the steak to be bang on - as it's flattened to within an inch of it's life you can only have it served medium. Ouch. And flavour? What flavour? The radish slaw was watery and the fries weren't great. The only redeeming factors were the green olives and the price - unbelievably cheap - but these definitely aren't enough to deserve a return visit.

Dean Street Townhouse
Now Dean Street Townhouse is a funny one. It's a beautiful building inside and out, always busy and the staff are all good at what they do, but I feel that there's always a slight mismatch with the food. The menu is classically British, but don't go expecting any contemporary cuisine, as you're more likely to find 'mince and potatoes' and 'chicken and mushroom pie' over any foams and flambes. We went for a work lunch with a client and dove straight into the warm homemade bread and salted butter, before I went for the roasted cod with monk's beard and chanterelles. It was divine, with the fish perfectly flaking to melt in the mouth. The salty sauce, monk's beard and chanterelles added some different textures and I even resisted my boss's fat chips to go for the sprouting broccoli. It was an understated but great dish, I just can't help but wish there was more life to the menu as this place is right up my street.

La Maison Touareg
This was a rather spontaneous choice from my boss's boyfriend fancying Moroccan/Lebanese food. There's not a huge number of places who serve up these Arabic favourites so we ended up at La Maison Touareg on a quiet Wednesday night. Inside, the decor is an opulent deep red and dark wood, rugs cover the floors and there's mandala patterns all over the place. We started with mezze to share - houmous, tabbouleh, calamari, falafel, baba ghannouj (to die for), illakenek (grilled spicy sausages), kofte nleshwi (grilled minced lamb with herbs) and lashings of warm pitta. Small but moreish, these were the perfect entrees. The boys went for the lamb tagines and cous cous for mains - all aromatic and served in authentic terracotta ware - and the meat slid right off the bone. I'm not the biggest fan so stuck with more mezze and feasted away; it seems that London's love of small plates suits me right down to the ground. The waiting staff were a bit fumbly and confused (bringing us the wrong wine and dishes at the wrong time) and there wasn't much atmosphere to speak of on a blustery Wednesday night. Apparently belly dancers spice things up at weekends but I don't think I'll be going back.

& other places: Christmas party

We're a fluid bunch, we like to try new places and old favourites. For the work Christmas day (it's never just a meal, a lunch, a dinner - it's an entire day), we kicked off with lunch at Ceviche and then hit the mean streets of Soho to follow.

Soho Hotel

A firm favourite, a stellar stalwart, the Refuel bar at the Soho Hotel's an easy choice. It gets super busy but the drinks are consistently good and service is always really friendly. We managed to grab seats that meant we weren't falling all over each other and settled in for a good few hours of many espresso martinis. We also flirted with raspberry martinis, dirty martinis, and a long drink called Mr Greene but returned to the old coffee classic as they're just too damn delicious.

Circa

From there, we grabbed the sofas at Circa. A sparkly gay bar with the music pumping, we stayed for a couple to fill time before our next bar on the list. I can't seem to get enough of mulled wine at the moment so bizarrely decided to move onto a couple to combat the cocktail overload.

Milk & Honey

Members only apart from with a reservation, Milk & Honey's another prohibition-style speakeasy tucked away in Poland Street. It's almost pitch black inside so there's not too much to say about the decor, other than the glimpses that the flickering candlelight affords. We holed up in a booth and perused the drinks menu before settling on a celebratory bottle of Bollinger. Just because. When it comes to the cocktails, though, apparently they're painstakingly prepared with the juices being hand squeezed that day, the spirits chilled at -40 degrees and each stir or shake counted to precision. We didn't get to experience any of this first hand but the White Seal sounded particularly nice. All very much a throwback to a more decadent era, you won't find any woo woos or sex on the beaches here...

So, nowhere that really knocked it out of the field but who cares, when you're having fun? A very generous boss, a busy year and the greatest team going - here's to Christmas. And no hangovers.

Social Eating House

I just had to mention the Social Eating House as I think it's going to become a favourite. The sister restaurant to the all-star Pollen Street Social, this little place is tucked away in the heart of Soho with just a touch of mystery.

In stark contrast to Pollen Street, this Eating House is dark and decadent, and perfect for late night forays. Stepping through the heavy curtain into the buzzing ground floor, it's all prohibition chic with dark wood fittings, rich leather seats and tarnished metals (and look at the frontage above!). Greeted by very friendly barmen in buttoned-up rolled-sleeves shirts and braces, it's hard to resist the pull back in time. We were there for drinks having devoured MeatLiquor burgers earlier in the evening so pulled up stools in the restaurant and people-watched (the upstairs bar was too busy and we were too impatient to wait!).

I went for the Cereal Killer - Diplomatico Anejo rum, white chocolate, Galliano ristretto, Coco Pops milk and Xocolat bitters - which came served in a milk bottle with a candy stripe straw. A brilliantly naughty twist on everyone's favourite breakfast beverage. I followed this up with a Wi' Jam In - Appleton V/X rum, apricot jam, mint, fresh lemon juice and pimento - which came served over crushed ice in a silver beaker. With a great little kick, this was a sweet and sour concoction with an unusual payoff.

The non-alcoholic options are tasty too - M went for the Probiotic with smashed pineapple, pomegranate, grenadine, lime juice, yoghurt powder and ginger ale. Served tall, fizzy and unmistakably pink it was a nice surprise to have a soft option with a bit of flavour.

We didn't even glance at the food menu but the service was really attentive and the atmosphere was great and we would have lingered for even longer, I imagine, if it wasn't a school night.

In an area packed to the brim with places to eat and drink, it's sometimes tricky to find somewhere that hits the mark but yep, I think Jason Atherton's done it again and has created a perfect little place to call home.

Photo by Lavanstyle

A first for everything

Spontaneous Saturday nights are quite often the best. I was quite happily (and lamely) planning on having a relatively quiet night in with the voluminous amount of food that had arrived earlier that morning (god bless you, online shopping). And then a friend called and it was decided that I really should go out.

First stop was Gordon's Wine Bar. This is another place that I can't believe I hadn't actually been to before - a Central stalwart in a prime riverside location. Claiming to be London's oldest wine bar and established in 1890, this remarkable bar is tucked between Charing Cross and Embankment in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it walkway. Despite being 9pm, we sat on the busy outside terrace at the only empty table with a bottle of the Fat Bastard Pinot Noir (great name, huh?). Once it got cold, we moved inside to be greeted by exposed brickwork, intimate darkness with flickering candles, the lowest ceilings and leaky walls (which we became unwitting custodians of). It was packed and very atmospheric, and we indulged in another bottle of red, before everybody was fairly unceremoniously turfed out. (A recurring theme, according to reviews, its seems.)

From there, we headed into Soho, glancing in at Cellar Door - a basement club just off Aldwych/The Strand that was ridiculously rowdy and being bounced by an overzealous overseer - before ducking into Blacks on Dean Street for another bottle of red and a lounge on a daybed in one of their gloriously ornate rooms. As things quietened down, we repaired to the ground floor where everyone sits around old dining tables and a fire roars, despite being mid June.

And then onto another first - world famous Ronnie Scott's. By all admissions, I'm not a jazz fan and tend to steer well clear of the genre. We went to the Late Late Show, and caught one of the house bands. Upstairs, Ronnie's Bar is a crimson shade of decadence with rolling banquettes, glimmering fixtures and table service that weaves its way through the mixed crowd. I was surprised at how busy our showing was but reminded by the amount of fellow first-timers in the audience. It was a great experience but given my aversion to the music itself, I think I'll let the lovers take my place...

Behind closed doors

Thursday has been the new Friday for a long time. Sore heads and lighter wallets accompany feeling-sorry-for-yourself statuses and tweets, but the draw of a drink (or many) to welcome in the weekend is too hard to resist. Last night I went on a jaunt and discovered some brilliant places behind some impressively unassuming doors.

After a couple of post-work beers at local haunt The Yard, I headed to the Experimental Cocktail Club in Chinatown. Sandwiched between two restaurants and hidden behind a very nondescript blink-and-you'll-miss-it door, the ECC is a haven away from the busy streets of Soho. The immediate staircase takes you straight up to the first floor where exposed brickwork and deep red walls give the bar a prohibition-era vibe; mirrors on the ceiling and a great half-moon window keeps the place from feeling a little too dark. The inspired cocktails were a welcome change from the standard menu - I had an Old Cuban, rum-based with citrus and ginger, and a Sage Advice, a twist on a mojito, topped with fresh sage. Definitely a place to return to.

From there, we went to Blacks on Dean Street; a place I walk past every morning on the way to work, and a place that gives nothing away. Opposite The Groucho Club, 'Blacks looks nothing more from the outside than an unassuming Georgian townhouse, yet behind its unmarked black door a heritage-packed, eclectically-attired bolthole awaits those in the know. You enter at basement level by descending a rickety steel staircase from the street into somewhere resembling a Dickensian tavern, all long oak benches and exposed beams with a deep fireplace, Farrow & Ball tinted-walls and enigmatic oil paintings.' We ate in one of the laybrinthine dining rooms - a sharer board of breads and olives before a pollock fillet with Romanesco sauce, grilled spring onions and sauteed potatoes - before finishing our drinks upstairs, lounging on one of the charmingly mismatched sofas in front of a roaring open fire. It felt deliciously cosy, and with the brilliantly lovely staff, it was a real treat.

After that, we went to The Box. Only in its first year, it's infamous - many celebrities are pictured tumbling out of its massive oak doors, and the cabaret shows are legendary (so I hear). A friend of a friend was DJing so we skipped the queue and headed straight upstairs, momentarily stopping off in the old theatre before dancing the night away in the loft. Despite two attempts, we didn't manage to catch any of the downstairs entertainment but the music made up for it. Plush and dark, The Box oozes hedonism, so it's easy to see why it's fast becoming a firm favourite - a little bit naughty, a little bit nice and right in the heart of shabby, sexy Soho.