We nearly don’t get to eat at Rambla at all. After a fat-fingered mistake with the online booking process, I call 95 increasingly desperate times to try to snag our table back. And when my friend resorts to travelling to the restaurant in person, they’re amused by her tale of woe: “Yes, the phone’s been ringing all afternoon!” the friendly front-of-house lady laughs as she pencils us back in.
Our panic is sparked by the fact that, since my original reservation, this latest opening from Barcelona-born chef Victor Garvey has received a glowing review in the London Evening Standard, but though agreeably buzzy on a Friday night, the atmosphere remains as laid-back as the staff. We don’t even have to fight our way through a hungry crowd at the door, unlike at Barrafina just up the road.
All this bother – really, nobody has it harder than me – means we arrive more than ready for a vast Spanish gin tonic, only to be offered the boring British sort instead. (Talk about hitting a woman when she’s down.) Wine, says our charmingly apologetic waiter, is more their thing: thankfully, this doesn’t translate to a long list of obscure and vowel-less varieties, but an uncluttered sheet of A4 with a few cavas and sherries and a handful of Spanish whites and reds, many available by the glass. Our cortisol levels, however, demand a bottle, plus a plate of whatever the table next door is tucking into, please, because it smells amazing.
This proves a stroke of luck. I doubt I would have ordered the braised oxtail canelones otherwise (though this only proves my ignorance: apparently the independently minded Catalans are well-known for their love of pasta), but I’d guess it’s the most pleasure you’ll get in Soho for a fiver these days. Stuffed with soothingly velvety meat and topped with a bubbling mass of outrageously cheesy sauce, we diligently scrape the baking dish of every last crusty morsel. Italy stand down: Catalonia wins at cannelloni.
The same big, rich flavours are evident in a generous bowl of clams and mussels (£7!) festooned with strips of serrano ham and sitting in a white wine and spider crab butter sauce so delicious that, after a small difference of opinion concerning the acceptability of drinking from serving bowls in public, we end up using the empty shells as spoons to scoop up the remainder. Indeed, it’s hard to believe the same kitchen could turn out a dish as exquisitely delicate as the cod sashimi with sweet red pepper, tomatoes and black olives that arrives at the same time: pretty as a picture, but infinitely nicer to eat, this is definitely a polite knife, fork and tweezer for the microherbs job.
Rambla does the classics, too: jamón de Bellota, which seems ridiculously expensive compared with the rest of the menu. Twenty pounds is an awful lot for a plate of ham, however long it’s been aged, but Déu meu, this is good, and we eat it so slowly, with frequent breaks to rhapsodise on its complex, nutty sweetness, that, costed at price per minute, it almost feels like good value. Considerably cheaper, but nearly as enjoyable, are plump, cured anchovies that turn out to be deeply satisfying company for robust sourdough toast and chilled butter, a simple combination elevated to greatness by a single sliver of pickled shallot. The only slightly duff notes are pan con tomate, usually a good test of a kitchen’s mettle, which features fridge-cold and woolly fruit (serves me right for ordering it in November), and some creamy, nutmeg-spiked spinach croquetas that, though pleasant enough, taste underpowered in this company.
The sole dessert (they’d run out of torrija, though our waiter spends some time lovingly describing it anyway, so I can at least tell you it sounds good) is a bullseye, too: a warm, oozy apricot and almond pudding with some louchely liquid frozen yoghurt that pairs brilliantly with figgy Pedro Ximinez, the only sweet wine on offer. (At this point, having eaten our way through an absurd number of plates, frankly it’s a bit of a relief not to have to make any more decisions.)
As we roll out, still raving about that cannelloni, I spy a rather lovely Italian greyhound sitting politely on a cushion at one of the tables and feel momentarily guilty about leaving the dog at home – before realising this gives me the perfect excuse to return for second helpings. I just won’t bother ringing ahead next time.
• Rambla 64 Dean Street, London W1, 0207 734 8428. Open all week, noon-midnight (last food orders 11pm). About £25 a head, plus drinks and service.
Food 8/10
Atmosphere 7/10
Value for money 10/10
