James Cochran is a great chef. Really: quite, quite remarkable. I’m experiencing actual joy at his hands, at the ministrations of his pork shoulder, braised until it yields to the touch of a fork, but with skin expertly blasted into almost-cracknel so the whole thing comes together like a heavenly, pig-based creme brulee. On the side, there are the sweetest inner leaves of brussels sprouts with pink grapefruit and pine nuts, a delicately truffled cream marrying the lot. Or his salmon, cured in treacle for just a touch of shady sweetness cut with mustard, plus all sorts of textural fun coming from shaved radish, weeny dice of apple, a limpid jelly of more apple and whisky, and whipped cod’s roe topped with rye crumbs. Each mouthful is different, each delivers little shivers of pleasure.
Then there’s his fried chicken, the kind of thing to have the Colonel grave-whirling like a jealous, frock-coated dervish. Its jerk-spiced crispness, its buttermilk-brined tenderness, the sting of scotch bonnet peppers tamed into some kind of fiery-mellow preserve, the popcorny crunch of toasted maize. I’m writing this from the confines of a Bavarian fasting spa and the recollection of that chicken is bringing me close to tears.
I’ll calm down long enough to say that Cochran, regrettably, is not yet a great restaurateur. His small restaurant has the air of a cheaply scored stopgap in a curious City location that’s seen off several other contenders: it’s ungainly in form, something no amount of peculiar artworks can disguise. I’ve no doubt he will go on to somewhere more suited to his creativity and ambition, and me, I’ll eat in basement garages if the food is fabulous. But the service: yikes. With the exception of one bearded chap who seems to be pretty much running the show solo, it’s all over the place. And that chap is far too busy schmoozing other – I’m assuming – more important customers. For that, read men.
The servers have clearly clocked us two gals and figured there’s no point in giving us the treatment: we’ll only go and have the chicken and maybe one pudding, a single glass of wine each and won’t tip, so we’re made to perch at a not-very-congenial bar rather than the restaurant proper, and left very much to our own devices. As Julia Roberts said in Pretty Woman: mistake, big mistake. (Not because it’s me, tsk, but because I’m betting our bill was larger than anyone else’s.)
Thanks to a couple of deservedly laudatory reviews, the place is full of City chaps poking bemusedly at portions of pigeon breast the size of a notion, probably dreaming of large steaks. The dish is exquisite, the scarlet meat soothed by bay cream and artfully splattered with a reduced jus fragranced with something tongue-warming and delicately anise – oh, liquorice – and crowned by fat blackberries and toasted hazelnuts. But it ain’t no porterhouse.
The menu has no subdivisions, and we’re offered no clues. We guess, given positioning and pricing, that the goat’s curd, marjoram and porridge cracker with burnt apple at £4 will come before the pork shoulder at £10.50. Nuh-huh: these are, of course, small-plates-that-will-come-out-at-the-discretion-of-the-kitchen. So the pork turns up first and a teeny toasted sandwich, the “London toastie”, arrives last. (What is a London toastie? “Fish.” What kind of fish? “Minced fish.” It turns out to be smoked eel and nutty, Sussex cow’s milk Mayfield cheese, between slices of fine sourdough, and is a ravishing thing.) Plates are still to be cleared as desserts arrive (lemon curd-filled doughnuts of sheerest bliss) and are still there as we ask for the bill. Which arrives with the incorrect total in their favour three times in a row.
There are other little disappointments – a soggy “crispy cauliflower” with bullying black garlic; an oversweet dollop of a “Snickerbockerglory” (clue’s in the name) – and besides, it takes more than culinary excellence to run an excellent restaurant. Cochran has a way to go before he’s the “former two-star Michelin chef” of his Google listing (he worked at the two Michelin-starred The Ledbury, which is not quite the same thing). He might like to invest in some proper staff training with some urgency. The greatest chefs take the time and effort to get out of the kitchen.
• James Cochran EC3 19 Bevis Marks, London EC3, 020 3302 0310. Open lunch, Mon-Fri, noon-3pm, dinner Mon-Sat, 6–10pm. Lunch, about £25 a head, three-course set lunch £18; five-course tasting menu £35, eight-course £50. All plus drinks and service.
Food 8/10
Atmosphere 4/10
Value for money 7/10
