Gustav Temple and Alexander Larman sample the carnivorous delights of an elegantly art deco eaterie in London.
What kind of a name is ‘Air’ for a street? one might ask, while meandering on the frontier between St James’s and Soho in search of a restaurant. Surely all streets contain air – although in this smog-filled part of London that is perhaps debatable. When I finally located said aperture between Piccadilly and Regent Street, I realised I had traversed it countless times without knowing what it was called.
Then, upon entering the grand upstairs premises of Hawksmoor, I did another double take, for this long, sweeping first floor room looked familiar. If you replaced the white apron-sporting waiting staff with young men in heavy metal T-shirts, and the elegant racing green upholstery and Art Deco stained glass windows with racks and racks of vinyl records, you would have travelled back to the 1980s, when this building was part of the Virgin Megastore situated on Piccadilly Circus.
It was later acquired by Tower Records who, in an extraordinary but once-successful act of hubris, somehow persuaded London Underground to provide their customers with their own direct entrance into the store from the tube station. It did have the inadvertent effect of making shoplifting all the easier, given that an enterprising miscreant could be out of the shop and on the Bakerloo line in a matter of minutes, which possibly contributed to the decline and eventual closure of the store.
Here in this very room, four decades earlier, I had flicked through racks upon racks of vinyl records with beating heart, desperate to find the latest release by the Monochrome Set. Today I scanned the sweepingly curved booths for my dining companion, who was not wearing a Metallica T-shirt but his trademark old-school hack’s attire of baggy linen jacket and corduroys.
Larman (for it is he) beckons at my blinking eyes, as they adjust to the new sight that was formerly a room for records and is now a fabulously elegant restaurant. As I slide into a generous booth, marvelling at the transformation to the building wrought by Macauley Sinclair, whose goal to install “art-deco inspired ceiling coffers following the grand curve of the footprint, casting a halo of light around the stained-glass windows, providing abstract glimpses of bustling Regent Street” has been entirely achieved. Once at the top of the grand marble staircase, one immediately feels cocooned in a swirling sea of dark wood, green velvet and endless mirrors, making the room seem to on forever, to which, when it comes to the slow meander towards the gentlemen’s facilities, it comes pretty close.
Impressive architecture aside, what’s on the cocktail list? Larman looks authoritative and suggests a Shaky Pete’s Ginger Brew, containing gin, ginger and London Pride bitter. The serving receptacle resembled ‘Butter Beer’ from the Harry Potter films and tasted as good as that drink probably did to the fictional adolescents. And so to the menu, which, Larman informed with a conspiratorial wink, was rather on the carnivorous side. “Don’t worry,” I replied, “I can always have some vegetables next week.”
For our starters, I take my orders from the man in the know, who instructs me to have scallops. These are fine, (ironically) meaty specimens, served up in garlic and white port on their shells and taste delectable; a reminder that Hawksmoor does fish just as well as it does meat. Larman loses himself in a vast helping of Cornish mussels, taking care to avoid those that have clamped themselves shut. A glass of Loire Valley Sauvignon Blanc seldom goes amiss in these circumstances, and so it proved here.
But then we’re onto the grand bouffe stage of affairs, and I feel rather as if I’ve jumped onto a rollercoaster that is reaching its highest point. When you come to Hawksmoor, you order steak. That is simply a fact, as immutable as choosing a wooden stake when tackling a vampire in a Hammer Horror film. The only questions are simply: what cut, what sauces and what side dishes? Larman, again, takes charge. “Order the Porterhouse, about 800g, because that way you get two kinds of steak for the price of one. The Bearnaise sauce here is flawless, and I’m a big fan of the Stilton hollandaise. One portion of chips between two is usually enough, and the creamed spinach is a must.”
The Porterhouse (medium rare, of course) comes, and we sit in contented silence for several moments, working our way through it with the aid of the aforementioned sides and a bottle of Castello Romitorio, Brio Toscano Sangiovese 2021, which, although towards the top end of the wine list, proves a weighty match for all the beef we are consuming. The Porterhouse is sublime; the highest quality meat, beautifully cooked and seasoned to perfection, with the sides and sauces perfect accompaniment. Larman has chosen well, and I nod approvingly.
There isn’t much room for anything else, but we stretch to a couple of desserts – the sticky toffee sundae is awfully good – and then it’s time for a brace of Old Fashioneds to send us on our merry way. As we depart, we take a final lingering look at those abstract glimpses of bustling Regent Street and head out to join the bustle. London may have changed since I was a habitué of the Virgin Megastore, and lost something of its sparkle and pizzazz, but now it has Hawksmoor. I’m sure that most would agree that’s a fair trade, by any standards.
