The Sunday Times Magazine - UK (2022-04-24)

dressed in white crabmeat

with the anise lick of fennel

and a warming shimmy of chilli.

(I’d have liked some brown

meat for that delicious grubby

oomph, but they’re going for

delicacy.) Slow-cooked lamb is

pressed into a block topped

with onions, its thumping

savouriness hammered home

by sprouting broccoli in an

anchovy and caper-laced eggy

balm — a butch anchoïade.

The mood has morphed: it’s

now not so much kids’ party as

laid-back dinner party hosted by

someone who’s studied under

some of the greats; Lorcan has

worked at Quo Vadis and

Rochelle Canteen (co-founded

by the pair’s mother, Melanie

Arnold). We’re talking serious

restaurant-biz pedigree here:

Dad is Jon Spiteri of everywhere

from St John to Sessions Arts

Club, which is why I’m pretty

sure I’ve been spotted. I went

to Sessions so often when it

But childhood jelly and custard

— which is effectively what this

is — was never so luminous.

This is not the most ambitious,

innovative or disruptive cooking,

nor does it intend to be. It’s just,

like its setting, designed to be

lovely; if there’s any kind of

theme, I think it’s “stuff we love

and hope you do too”. Anywhere

serving crisp, frilly little rösti

topped with soured cream and

caviar as a snack has an eye

firmly on cheerful hedonism.

This, we decide, would be the

ideal first-date restaurant; or

even the perfect place to warm

up ancient passions. The menu

is short and due to change

frequently, should romantic

notions run to more than one

object of your affections. Or if

you just want to bask in the love

and kind of lighting that makes

even the most raddled look like

hot possibilities. Dreamy n

Twitter: @marinaoloughlin

Insta: @marinagpoloughlin

HOW MUCH?

Starters £6.50-£10

Mains £12.50-£18

Total for two, including

wine and 12.5% service

charge £120

opened I think they thought

I worked there. And when it

comes to disclosure of semi-

anon restaurant critics, Spiteri

père’s loyalties would be with

his boys. Fair enough, of course.

But I get no sense of them

flapping or giving any kind of

preferential treatment. Everyone

gets bombarded with the same

understated charm alongside the

caramelised banana and almond

tart, the irresistible bastard child

of a cruffin and banoffee pie;

and the jewel-bright rhubarb

and crème diplomate dessert

scattered with honeycomb.

We’re back to the kids’ party.

PLATE OF

THE NATION

Marmite

Dynamite

I cede to nobody in my love

for Marmite: the dark, murky,

salty joy of it. Thinly spread

on thickly buttered toast:

cheap heaven. The only time

I didn’t crave the stuff was

while pregnant, when it

briefly became as repulsive

to me as it does to its many

haters. (What’s wrong with

you, haters? Who hurt you?)

Anyway, why blow a

winning formula, I think on

cracking open this limited

edition: Marmite Dynamite.

“Be careful with it,” warns

the overblown copy; also

“the outward exasperation

as you sit down to face yet

another bowl of greyish

goo”. Calm down, pet,

it’s only breakfast. The jar

comes with pyrotechnic

graphics — look, it’s the

bomb — but the reality is

altogether tamer. Rather

than a blast of fire, it’s a

tickle, a low-level thrum of

something warming that

builds gently to a suggestion

of heat. Not so much a kick

as a soft pawing.

Less dynamite, it’s more

of a damp squib. Do I rate it?

Of course: it’s Marmite. MO’L

Marmite Dynamite,
£4 per 250g jar;
marmite.co.uk
JASON BUCKNER

The Sunday Times Magazine • 59