William Sitwell reviews The Blue Stoops, London: ‘This, in all its mash-and-cabbage glory, is the menu of Reform'

Telegraph

2 days ago

They were literally smashing down my past when I walked along Kensington Church Street in London, heading for The Blue Stoops. In the 1990s I lived with my brother, George, around the corner, at the summit of Notting Hill, on a street called Farm Place. Knowing there was a rehab in Surrey of the same name we spent our time putting in the work so the inevitable move from one to the other would be seamless. And much of that effort was concentrated at Kensington Place.
Rowley Leigh was the chef of that tall-ceilinged, vast goldfish bowl of a restaurant; the theatrical Tim Brice maître d'. The scene was a constant, civilised party, fuelled by the likes of Leigh's foie gras on a bed of sweetcorn and his chicken and goat's cheese mousse.
But, no sooner had I turned the corner of Notting Hill in happy reverie about glorious KP than the air was shattered by thunderous noise. I walked past the old site as demolition dust blew up and into my face. Having eaten most of the menu decades ago, I was now swallowing what was left of the building.
Fortunately The Blue Stoops offered respite from my melancholy. Indeed it did far more than that. This corner pub – recently opened by the Allsopp's brewing family and named after the 18th-century tavern (now long since gone) where their first drop of ale was brewed – offers comfort in spades. Nay, shovels.
There's a drinking area that's all nooks and crannies, with dark wood panelling, a chequered tile floor and a handsome blue-tiled bar. The ceiling is fag-smoke brown and there's a comfortable dining room filled with caramel-brown banquettes and a couple of booths.
And into this Victoriana, where warmth radiates from the staff, comes a wholesome menu to match. You might call it all-day Edwardian. For the starters comprise a trencherman's breakfast – oysters, anchovy toast and devilled eggs – and for lunch or supper you can mix it up with rabbit croquettes, ham hock pie, braised shoulder of lamb, a plate of cheese, and walnut tart.
It is distinctly, chest-pumpingly, vow-to-thee-my-country English food. If vegan is hallowed turf to the Lib Dems, then this, in all its rabbity, mash-and-cabbage glory, is the menu of Reform.
Three devilled eggs came first, the filling within the hard white cleverly topped with orange fish roe to mimic the yolk – a gentle starter which laid the groundwork for a very tempting 'anchovy toast'. But where was the anchovy? I cut my way through the undergrowth of white onion, parsley and capers and still, on reaching the toast, found none.
'Where's the anchovy?' we wept to the waiter. He told us the chef whips it into the butter. Yet, just like KP, alas, there was no trace of it. There was full-on flavour, however, in three rabbit croquettes, crisp to bite into, warming and gamey within.
Joe was enjoying a very fine ham hock pie, but I had the lunch of champions: braised lamb – soft and earthy, the skin crisp and blackened a touch, covered in a green sauce (I detected chives and spinach and parsley). With spring-like green beans dotted around the plate, it was a dish well-balanced but also deeply sumptuous and comforting, like a magic potion for happiness.
After a slab of nicely stinky Pevensey Blue cheese, we shared a simple, but very fine, pud of meringue, vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce.