Restaurants frequented by tourists are hardly ever beacons of gastronomic pilgrimage. There are exceptions, of course – London’s Rules springs to mind – but mostly a view or oodles of history give the operators carte blanche to continue on their merry way of being just a bit shit. Not shit enough to create the kind of online intel that might deter the leisurewear-clad tour parties, but enough to repel the picky likes of me.
Tourist restaurants don’t need to pander to locals or regulars. After the “oohs” have been issued and the cameras clicked, it’s pretty much job done if they can send folk out without actively poisoning them. So it’s rare to stumble across a place such as Bankside’s Swan, with its history-plus-view double whammy, a side-order of charitable intent (a portion of its takings go towards supporting Shakespeare’s Globe next door) and a credible chef running the show. After a refurb, it’s lured critically acclaimed Allan Pickett, late of Fitzrovia’s Piquet, to head up the kitchens. Score.
There’s a bustling pub gently scented with salt’n’vinegar on the ground floor, but we’re in the more formal restaurant upstairs. This long, low-slung room is far more chic than I expect, all mullioned-windowed history on the one hand, 20th-century classic-style furniture, marble-topped tables and grey velvet sofas on the other. We’re on one of these at lunchtime, side by side, so we can drink in the ravishing view of St Paul’s. Beside us an American family is already tucking into that lunchtime classic of full, jammy scone’d afternoon tea. (Everyday sexism or not, I’m inexorably drawn to the “gentleman’s afternoon tea”, featuring not cakes but shorthorn beef sliders, fish finger sarnies, scotch eggs and croque-monsieur. As a gentleman wouldn’t say: hubba.)
In his new role, Pickett has shifted from a traditional French culinary background to, we’re told, “classic British dishes”. Really? I’m not sure what’s classic Brit about pea and shallot tortellini, unless it’s their yeoman-like stoutness. I rather like stout pasta, but this is no light, spring-like dish, despite its broad bean puree and “pearls” of lightly grilled onion. It’s a hefty, satisfying bruiser. Or “pork crackling”, which delivers crunchy puffs of pork skin, far more chicharrones than scratchings.
There’s no holding back that French technique, either: a butch terrine of pork striated with chicken and, randomly, a green flash of broccoli, its rhubarb compote speaking fluent Franglais. Or roast hake, perfectly pearlescent and squeaky-fresh on a bed of tiny, creamy coco de Paimpol beans laced with cockles and the salty bite of samphire, with a buttery, boozy nage that is purest Larousse Gastronomique.
Elsewhere, there’s an undeniable British-means-British quality to the likes of Somerset spelt with Cornish yarg or salt-marsh lamb with spring greens. Produce comes from the chef’s mother’s foraging, apparently, or “the owner’s farm in Kent”. There’s a flawless simplicity to grilled asparagus licked with rapeseed oil, scattered with toasted hazelnuts and topped with a fried duck egg. Some dishes have arrived virtually intact from Piquet: raw scallops and granny smiths with squid-ink mayonnaise, say. It’s rare for me that pudding is the highlight of a meal, but a rhubarb crumble tart is light years more sophisticated than its humble billing: the fruit sweet-sharp, the pastry impossibly light, the crumble like a blitz-up of celestial Hobnobs. We’re enchanted.
Overall, is it as good as Pickett’s previous gig? Possibly down to the scale of catering involved – it has to handle everything from breakfasts and those afternoon teas to weddings – I’m not so sure. But I’m also not sure whether Pickett, billed as “executive chef”, is always in the kitchen. I’m with a well-known pal, and the urbane maître d’ tells us, “Chef would like to come out and say hello.” (Shudder. This supremely awkward interaction is one of the reasons I treasure anonymity.) But then, “He’s… er, just popped out.” Convenient. There’s a muted quality to the cooking, a fuzziness round the edges, a diminishing of clarity (those clodhopping tortellini) that suggests acolytes rather than master. That said, the food still holds its own against the flashy charms of that view. With Pickett in charge (if not there all the time), Swan is a graceful phoenix, way too good for just tourists.
• Swan at Shakespeare’s Globe 21 New Globe Walk, London SE1, 020-7928 9444. Open all week, lunch noon-3pm, dinner 5-11pm. About £35 a head, plus drinks and service.
Food 7/10
Atmosphere 7/10
Value for money 7/10
