‘It’s not London where indies can let their imaginations fly’ – Grace Dent’s restaurants of the year | Grace Dent on restaurants

4 days ago 4

Another year gone, and I edge closer to the afterlife I deserve, namely in hospitality hell. The service will be slow, the butter will come in naff wrapped portions, and chipper staff will squat at my table between courses and ask: “Any favourites so far?”

Before then, however, I’ll digest 2024 and regurgitate my findings. My year began recovering from a mini-break in Murwillumbah with Nigel Farage and Fred Sirieix. Food terrible. Tripadvisor: 1 star. Do not recommend. On my return, my first stop was my beloved King Cookdaily, a vegan kiosk with seats in Shoreditch that serves heavenly Lao bowls, udon and jerk. By the end of 2024, however, restaurant-land’s enthusiasm for “the vegan craze” has sunk like a chickpea-juice meringue. The will of most restaurants simply to stay afloat this year, serving whatever valve or offcut they can, has drowned any urge to do something meaningful with costly aubergines. Instead, we had Bébé Bob, which serves only chicken, and Eggslut, with its £15 egg sandwiches.

oyster and snail rockefeller with monster munch crust, at Whyte’s, London E8

Elsewhere, and more positively, I was smitten with Sète in Margate, the Blue Pelican in Deal and the Shed in Swansea – all fine examples of how, these days, it’s often “not London” where indies can let their imaginations fly, not least because the rent is so much cheaper. Whyte’s in Hackney, with its Monster Munch-encrusted oysters, was also a revelation. And no matter what the landlords are charging for the prime real estate around Borough Market, there has been a real fervour to open in the area. Any sane foodie views the market itself as a bacon-scented stampede to avoid like the pox, especially from Friday to Sunday, yet over the past 12 months Camille, Oma and Café François have all appeared on nearby streets, and each one of them is exemplary in its own field. Camille and Café François are both French, delicious and convivial as heck. They do a vadouvan monkfish and a Paris-Brest at Café François that are worth dumping your friends for and eating alone.

In other news, Londoners have found themselves increasingly steered towards Canary Wharf for dinner, with capacious, aircraft hangar-sized new openings from the likes of Roe, Marceline, Caravan, Blacklock, Kricket and Dishoom, as well as the plant-based Holy Cow and Mallow. If you’re ever stuck for a group table within the M25, just go to Canary Wharf; there will be one free there.

That said, if you have no plans to visit the Big Smoke, which is entirely understandable, please book Brett in Glasgow, a small bistro with an enormous heart and a world-class modern European menu, and one of my meals of the year. Or do a Sunday lunch at Dipna Anand’s rather lovely joint in Milton Keynes. And please don’t miss out on the absolutely wonderful fancy fish-and-chip restaurant Noah’s in Bristol. Calling Noah’s a chippy doesn’t do this seafood extravaganza justice, which at the time I described as “Captain Birdseye opens a fancy 1980s wine bar with Simon Le Bon”. Meanwhile, the Brummies have been hiding the excellent fine-dining, post-punk industrial wine cave Albatross Death Cult from outsiders. That was Charles’s dinner of the year, so much so that he has threatened to return solo to enjoy the full 12 courses again, this time in glorious silence.

Although I often grumble, lovely times have been frequent in 2024. I adore the Dover near Piccadilly in London, because it’s the most glam, softly lit, eccentric, old-fashioned new restaurant in the capital. Sure, it serves fancy spaghetti and lobster rolls, but that’s not quite the point – it’s a scene. Morchella in Clerkenwell is quietly fabulous, and I also recommend Cloth in Farringdon and Leydi next to the Old Bailey to everybody who asks for a tipoff; the latter’s deluxe enormo-meze at £50 a head is fabulous value and the room is ever so elegant. And Mary’s, one of Jason Atherton’s many new London openings, served me a calvados and apple-stuffed doughnut that was well worth the flushed cheeks.

The Dover, near Piccadilly in London – ‘quite simply the most glam, softly lit, eccentric, old-fashioned, new restaurant in the capital.’

Go to all of them, if you can, but remember the 2024 don’ts. Don’t go anywhere influencers have pretended to eat world-changing stacks of pancakes. And just as you should never get involved in a land war in Asia, it’s probably wise not to get involved in a queue for biang biang noodles in Soho, either. Don’t eat the chestnuts at Oxford Circus. Don’t ask Jay Rayner if he knows any jazz tunes, especially if he’s within grasping range of a piano. Don’t forget to tip your servers – they’re the backbone of the country. And don’t listen to restaurant critics. We are cosseted, overfed babies, carting our cellulite and wine-fed rosacea around eateries to find fault in dirty cutlery and split sauces while half the world is hungry. I’ll no doubt be replaced by AI by next Christmas, but while it lasts, it’s a hell of a ride.