Review at a glance: ★★★☆☆
The original Singburi, the parent to this one, was the sort of place people lied about having been to. Those who went once bragged about being a regular. The myth of it made it: the phone-only reservations, the tellings-off, and the moo krob, which was a kind of Rosetta Stone for London’s mid-2010s Thai revolution. Talk of its cash-only low cost, helped by a BYOB policy, inspired Four Yorkshiremen-like arguments between acolytes: “Thirty quid fer four?! When we went it were a tenner fer 12, and they ’ad to call t’doctor to fit gastric bands to squeeze us out t’door!”
This little Thai canteen that could became not just an institution but more a kind of Leytonstone national treasure, if that weren’t a confutation. And then after 25 years, first as a chippie and then not, it retired in the autumn of last year, owners Tony and Thelma Kularbwong deserving a rest. Teary Substacks were written, everyone begged for its revival. And so Tony and Thelma’s son, Sirichai — the longstanding chef — announced he was planning just that. Only this time in Shoreditch, no cash, and with a drinks list. And a link to OpenTable.
You see the hitch, don’t you? Those who loved it as a way-out-east place, who drank tinnies sitting under family photos, could never enjoy a mainstream second act. Sellout Singburi? They knew it before it was cool.
Not me though, I have no skin in the game. Never went. I can’t compare, even if I wanted to — though it’s hard not to realise that this is an entirely different offering, save for the old yellow frontage pinned to the wall. To open it, Sirichai has partnered with Alexander Gkikas (Catalyst Café), the general manager, and Nick Molyviatis (Oma, Kiln), cook and operations man.
However they’ve got here, you can’t eat the past. Rather than an intimacy with the original, whether you like Singburi 2.0 will likely depend on why you dine out. For food alone, it is a triumph. As a restaurant? A shitshow.
How much of one? There are the temporary, could-be-improved things, like the lost orders and repeated requests for water and wine, or no one asking dietaries. The wildly different portion sizes; the spilled plates. The rice turning up 20 minutes before there was anything to join it. The wrong bill. Things were so bad that evening that Gkikas, despite repeated protests, comped the meal. “I’d do it for anyone,” he said, with his kind, persuasive face. I paid the service — ironic, given food wasn’t the problem — and immediately booked for lunch two days later.
Those who loved it as a way-out-east place could never enjoy a mainstream second act. Sellout Singburi? They knew it before it was cool
Less calamitous, perhaps on account of it being only two-thirds full, but there are more permanent problems as well. The torturous stools are one. So is the situation, this restaurant stuck at the bottom of a nondescript block with no discernible entrance, hard to find off the main road and with the concrete view of an overground line. Surely this was born to be a gym? Save for a beautiful terrazzo floor, the room itself is nondescript, its brickish decor giving way to breeze blocks, as though the money ran out. Oh, and it’s too loud. I liked the orange table tops, though: they would have reminded me of the original’s ceiling, if I’d ever been. As it was, I wondered if this was a rollout-ready design, easy to deploy wherever a second site might pop up.
The food, then. At both supper and lunch — paid in full — there is nothing to say of it other than it was mostly stunningly good. Curiously, some of the same dishes changed between visits, including the halibut, which on the first visit was mean and on the second about the size of a prop forward. The ka prao was identical though, and hot enough to commit arson. Tiger prawns and cucumbers offered it a soft, warming and oil-soaked counterpart. Smoked pork belly came with a waft of sage that drifted across the meat like incense. Lamb shortrib was a festival of fat, enough to let out a little cheer over.
As good a Thai as anywhere. Well, almost. Around me both times were a crowd of Londoners young and cool and pensive. Was this really the place they’d heard so much about? Shoulda changed the name. But then no one would come. The Singburi Catch 22: damned if they do, damned if they don’t.
Lunch for two about £120; singburi.london
