Do you ever get one of those hangovers where a bog standard bacon sandwich in your local greasy spoon simply won’t do?
I woke up bleary-eyed on Sunday morning with a hankering for something that would restore some level of respectability to my shamed self. And, despite my wallet taking a beating the previous night, that something had to have a Michelin star hovering over it like a savior’s halo (if you think this is eccentric, you have no idea the kind of expensive decisions I make when nursing a hangover. Booking holidays cure headaches, and I can tell you that from experience).
A quick scrub later, my best pal and I met in possibly the worst place in the WORLD on a Sunday morning. Topshop on Oxford Street. Having said that, it’s possibly the worst place in the WORLD every day of the week; but my personal distaste for all things Phillip Green has no place on a food post…
Anywho, off to Wild Honey we went. It didn’t start off well; the menu in that little lectern-like box thing outside was sellotaped on. Come on guys, that’s not cool. And the service was, for lack of a better word, shite. But we ordered ourselves a couple of cocktails, which went down a treat, and got going on our starters.
First up, I thought I’d play it safe by ordering a soup. When you’ve spent a morning warding off the chunders, that sounds like it’d be a safe idea. Comfortingly bland, even. Not in Wild Honey, though. My soup (and yeah, I probably should have asked about it) came with a pomegranate, poached egg and a fucking flower in it. And yet, it was deelish! Not something I’d recommend whipping up at home, but deelish when left to the pros. Lulu went for the foie gras and brioche though, which beat my soup hands down. Note to self: never turn down foie gras. She won that battle…
Having sobered up a little, we went on to our main courses. My dinner date chose the salmon, which was out of this world. I went for the Sunday afternoon classic, the lamb. I’m a massive fan of lamb. Like, huge. Huge from eating all of that fatty, fatty lamb. The best I’ve ever had was in a little shack in a back street in Amman, Jordan. It was sooo good. And the best part? The Jordanians have an endless appetite, so it just kept coming all afternoon! Ah, that was a good day…
Right, lamb tangent. Sorry.
Back to Wild Honey.
Anywho, my lamb was cooked in a Moroccan style with cous cous, some roasted vegetables and the type of gravy that makes me want to pack it all in and spend what’s left of my life’s earnings (about £20, considering my penchant for doing things like ordering £71 steaks – that review of the Hawksmoor is right here, my flabberghasted friends) researching how in the world they made that gravy so damn good. I wish I’d noted down the wine I had as well; few things in life are better than a glass of red with a tender chop but that really stood out. Their wine pairing was far better than the heavy choice I had from the sommelier at Bibendum a few weeks back.
To round it all off, I had a classic English custard tart which was admittedly nice; but I think they put a little less effort into the concluding course. That’s true of many restaurants though. The wild honey ice cream is definitely the one to go for and, given its name, I would imagine it’s a permanent fixture on the pudding menu.
So Wild Honey. Did it fight the hangover? Yeah, pretty well actually. Would I go back? For the service… meh. For the food, yes. I’ll just wait ‘til they open a gourmet takeaway.