I’m not normally one for naval gazing and when your stomach is as large as mine, that’s probably for the best really but even I’m beginning to think our trip to the Hawksmoor Steak restaurant off of Covent Garden is fated not to happen. If having one of their steaks was enough to make Giles Coren weep, not having one is pretty much having the same effect on me.
|the steak prevention service|
Our first attempted visit a few months back was thwarted by the London riots and rescheduled for last night. I was more than a little confounded by the scene I was met with outside the place though. A total of 3 fire appliances (is that the right word?) were parked outside, with one over enthusiastic chap going up and down in the extendible basket. As I optimistically hoped (no offence) that it was either Patagonia or Pineapple on fire, the firemen men bravely entered the very eatery I was hoping to eat in.
I can tell you that the old blitz spirit is alive and well and living in me when it comes to food, as I was willing to risk the potential towering inferno in the name of top scoff. Sadly it was not to be, and my dreams drained away like the water from the fire hoses were draining into the gutter.
Springing into action, the crack team of PR totty that organised the trip (this was a Shell V-Power Network of Champions meet up by the way) made a couple of phone calls. Bearing in mind booking a group into the Hawksmoor requires some forethought as there is a very long lead time on bookings (probably because that Giles Coren is gently sobbing in ecstasy in the corner taking up tonnes of space or something), it seemed as though the ladies were omniscient and actually had staff back in the office at 7pm with a restaurant contingency plan in place. Just in case the one they’d booked happened to catch fire.
Within ten minutes we were sitting in Asia De Cuba, the swanky but slightly confused restaurant in 60 St Martins Field, a very posh hotel. It was posh enough to make we wonder how they’d got us a table at that sort of notice. Asian Cuban fusion isn’t something I’d normally consider but the nosh was top, even if we did have a rather unsightly disagreement with one of the waiters over whether his mojitos were indeed the best in London or whether the Mexican on Brick Lane did them better. Rather than chuckling at the comparison, he demanded to know the name of the Mexican and made comments that he would soon travel there to sample the quality of their mojitos. Whether petulance or dedication to duty, this didn’t put me off the steak, duck, black cod, tuna, tempura prawns or anything else.
Still, I will get a sodding steak at Hawksmoor at some point in the future. Maybe.