CARAVEL
Studio Kitchen,
172 Shepherdess Walk,
London N1;
020 3148 2839,
thestudiokitchen.co.uk
D
uring lockdown I
wrote about the many
roles that restaurants
play in our lives as
social beings: forging
friendships, creating
memories, cementing
bonds — let alone
simply feeding us.
But, cynical harridan
that I am, it has been
a long, long time since I’ve
considered a restaurant as an
arena for romance. I’m afraid
today’s restaurant makes this
unavoidable. It’s lit by so much
whimsical charm I worry that
I’m in imminent danger of being
ambushed by Wes Anderson.
Everything about Caravel is
unexpected. Despite diving in
and out of London for decades,
I’ve never been along this little
stretch of Regent’s Canal before.
At twilight, while it’s not quite
Cannaregio, it’s undoubtedly
atmospheric: tugs and barges
lining the waterway, some
private residences, some — like
the trio of brightly coloured
barges blessed with girls’ names
— given over to hospitality.
Our destination is Poppy,
the setting for this new little
restaurant. The magic kicks in
as you leave solid ground and
the pontoon underfoot lurches
gently and disconcertingly.
Fairy lights twinkle over Skittles-
coloured wooden tables and
benches; these are for Studio
Kitchen, the non-posh part of
the operation, knocking out fine
fried chicken and burgers and
home to the odd street-foodie
residency. Altogether it’s
a proper arty little enclave,
loosely attached to an icon
of photography — Holborn
Studios, used by everyone from
Annie Leibovitz to Helmut
Newton; Grace Jones to TammyWynette; Iron Maiden to the
Specials. Be still my beating
heart. It has just won a battle
against Hackney Council,
which wanted to raze it so more
faceless flats could be built, and
the arrival of Caravel seems like
a celebration of their spirit.
The restaurant-boat sits
beyond a roaring scarlet
chiminea outdoor fireplace. It’s
so pretty that, despite being with
the pal I’ve been married to for
some time, even I’m feeling
seduced. Just ten tables seating
four are neatly ranked inside,
dressed with pristine linen,
glittering glassware and chic
little lamps. There are cascading
plants and picket fencing and
portholes. It’s enchanting. And
I’m duly enchanted.Nor does the enchantment
wear off when food starts
arriving. Nor cocktails, from Fin
Spiteri, one of the brothers who
run the place; mine is a rosé
negroni, potent and pointed as
a good heckle. The other brother,
Lorcan, is cooking. He appears to
have a surreal sense of humour:
a duck croquette comes in the
shape of a rubber duckie, as
though Magritte had had a hand
in designing the menu. But that
doesn’t stop it being excellent:
greaseless, crisp and rammed
with succulent confit bird, on
the side a bullish wild garlic aïoli
and a handful of fat cornichons.
Prawn toast is just that, Mother’s
Pride-style slices cut into
triangles and heavy on the
whole, sweet prawns, thicklyTA B L E TA L K●Marina O'Loughlin
Dinner with this dreamboat
leaves me cheerfully seduced
crusted with black and white
sesame seeds, with a plummy
chilli and lime dip for dunking.
It’s all a little like they’ve taken
children’s favourite dishes and
elevated them into something
adults aren’t ashamed to eat,
until a vast quenelle of the
suavest chicken liver parfait
arrives, reeling with port and
brandy, rich and booze-fuelled
as a Bullingdon Clubber.
Loaded thickly onto its toasted
brioche, it’s gorgeous — and
definitely not for the kids.
By the time we’re onto main
courses we’re bobbing along
nicely (no, the boat doesn’t
move; blame the negroni and
the short, affordable wine list).
There’s crab tagliatelle, the
pasta al dente and homemade,Chicken liver parfait reels with
port and brandy, rich and booze-
fuelled as a Bullingdon Clubber
58 • The Sunday Times Magazine