Catherine Faulkner mulls over pulled pork, January sobriety and strangely enough, death row, at one of the first meals served at the brand new Pitt Cue Co. restaurant.
Photos: Paul Winch-Furness www.paulwf.co.uk
Most people on Death Row choose, as their last meal, vast plates of meat. Juicy, artery clotting burgers. Steaks the size of a new born child. It makes sense in a very primal way; when you‘re about to get your neck snapped in half or be injected with lethal toxins, you’re not really going to think: “I might just go for a nice rocket salad and some smoked mackerel. You know, just to be healthy.” I don’t really know why I’m offering this cheerful nugget of information, but I suppose it’s because it’s January. A dismal month of diets and detox and drudgery. So what did we do? Drink green tea and survive mainly on air? Like hell we did. We went to Pitt Cue Co. and ate almost an entire pig.
It was Pitt Cue Co.’s testing day. Meanwhile, I was testing my willpower in a month of sobriety and let Chef try the drinks for me. I don’t really like whiskey so it wasn’t too much of a hardship for me. My Fentiman’s ginger beer was zingy enough sans alcohol and made my lips tingle (and my eyes, when I accidentally splashed it in there. So much for sobriety; I am still a liability). Chef had a cider sour and then an American beer which he said was “ok, but American beer can’t beat a good bitter”. And then he went into a foggy, nostalgic daydream about his time in the good old US of A, so it can’t have been that bad.
Pitt Cue: From Van to Restaurant
The place is TINY and smelled of new paint and good cocktails. It was all rather sweet, like a housewarming party in your first flat. After chatting to the charming co-owner Jamie, who gave us a fascinating insight into the birth of the place (really, you will just have to go there and ask him yourself), we were offered the aforementioned drinks upstairs and then legged it to the basement to grab one of the 18 available seats. Poor Chef got the bum seat. Literally. Right by the toilet door and in the waiter’s line of fire, he was brushed up against more times than most other chaps in Soho that night. He was not best pleased, but this is not the place to come for low light candles and leisurely, lengthy service.
(Incidentally, I loved the wallpaper in the toilets. Or singular toilet. If you removed it entirely you would be able to almost double the covers downstairs).
Chef had waxed lyrical about the Pitt Cue van that had resided under Hungerford Bridge over the summer. He said that what drew him to the place was the theatre and the crowds and the lush and simple pulled pork and pickles. We weren’t sure if the same magic would translate into this well-hidden nook in the middle of winter. Barbecue food conjures up bustles of crowds in the summer; heat and the irresistible combination of smoke and sugar. Ergo, it works well in Georgia, but in Soho?
Pitt Cue Co.’s Meaty Menu
It was refreshing to see that there were no vegetarian main courses available. As Chef said, why would you go to a barbecue joint if you are vegetarian? It’s like a nun going to one of Michael Barrymore’s pool parties.
Talking of meat, along came our main courses. We had to try all three, of course, much to the horror of the girl to our left. She didn’t dwell on it too much though as she was too busy talking about her trips to India and how hard it is to find yourself in London. That’s the problem with small places – they are very very loud and you can’t help but become hideously acquainted with your fellow customers. Still, after we were all sated with flesh there was a soporific lull in the room and it’s not hard to see why.
Photos: Paul Winch-Furness www.paulwf.co.uk
The food came in the sort of small tin you might roast a poussin in (or, perhaps, eat your grits and beans in if you a rough, tough cowboy from Texas, and not as obviously English and middle class as me). That was the idea anyway, rustic service ware all there to pay homage to the food. The pulled pork was the best I have ever tasted. I am not a great connoisseur of this stateside barbecue favourite, but even Chef was nodding away in contented agreement. It was meltingly delicious, with a subtle, beautiful smoke to it from the hickory. The slaw with beets was fresh and crunchy and I loved the addition of the coriander. Purists will probably throw their hands to the Good Lord in despair but I agree with Tom Adams, the chef, who says that this is his take on American classics; taste is more important than authenticity in this case. The chaps know and love their meat and have good suppliers for the Gloucester Old Spot that was now languishing in our tins. They do Essex birds too, and no, that is not a euphemism.
The brisket was succulent and soft and devoid of the all too frequent fatty fringes. It was well complimented by the husky beans and pickles. God I love a pickle. The mash with burnt ends was rather lovely too. The bread, well, I couldn’t eat it, but that was because I was full to the brim with all sorts of other wonders. The baps that wafted by looked enticing too – shiny brioche buns like wooden mushroom tops, spilling out more gorgeous pork.
When he had finished demolishing the (manly, tasty) beef spare ribs in the manner of a blood-crazed cave man, I asked Chef for his comments. He thought for a while and then said that “everything was really nice”. Which is why he is not writing this review.
There’s Always Space for Dessert
The meal was over. We felt guilty, greedy, piggy. We couldn’t possibly eat another single thing. “Would you like a dessert?” asked the waitress nonchalantly.
Photos: Paul Winch-Furness www.paulwf.co.uk
The dessert. Ah the dessert. She had me at the words ‘peanut butter brownie’. It was a Snickers Mess, an American riff on our old Etonian favourite. It was the sort of dessert that would make Greg Wallace…well, let’s not dwell on that. Sweet, sticky meringue, salty peanuts, dense brownie, caramel. If I was on Death Row I would eat this sort of thing every day and laugh manically in the face of the jailers. The woman on the other side of me, however, didn’t like hers one bit. She turned her nose up in a way that only certain well-to-do people can do. But I felt sorry for her. She didn’t strike me as the sort of person who had had enough pulled pork in her life time. The staff were generous and gave her a sticky toffee pudding to assuage her evident distaste.
To justify having only 18 covers you need to turn your tables fast. With bourbon laced-cocktails and lulling country music on a cold January night I am not sure how easy that will be. I want this place to do well. The food is good and reasonably priced and take away will also be available upstairs. The staff are keen and pleasant, even if they did all seem very young to me, but then I am getting old. Death Row beckons.
