So I opened a restaurant!

God, I'm so behind the times with this it's embarrassing! I actually opened a restaurant in December, in collaboration with my friends Sean & Joe of Cannon & Cannon fame. I guess if you've been following me or the restaurant on twitter, then you're pretty up to date with it all anyway.

If not, well come and check it out! Find us upstairs at 18 Market Row, Brixton, SW9 8LD.

Call 020 7501 9152 or email info@salonbrixton.co.uk to book

On the Kebalfe trail

I just got back from Berlin. It was pretty awesome. When I told people I was going to Germany to research döners, kebabs and Middle Eastern street food, lots of them wondered why not go to Istanbul? Well Istanbul is next on the list, and with a lot of the Middle East out of bounds at the minute, Berlin, with the highest concentration of Turkish people outside of Turkey, seemed like a sensible choice. Plus I also needed to let off some steam after a busy summer, and Berghain / Panorama Bar on a Sunday morning is probably the best place in the world to do just that.

It's claimed that the döner was invented in Berlin, at a place called Hasir in Kreuzberg - the centre of Berlin's Turkish community. From there came the genius of wrapping the meat, sauce and salad in a flatbread, and rolling it around itself to create the portable meal that is now enjoyed by drunk people from Wellington, New Zealand to Welling Garden City, Hertfordshire. Hasir, we owe you. Big time.

So nowadays kebabs - or kebaps, as they say there - are all over Berlin and there's a Middle Eastern takeaway on every corner, plus a few more on every block for good measure.

The main thing that struck me was how different each product was. No two döners, falafels or shawarmas were the same. The regional variations in spicing, sauces and garnish were extremely apparent. A bit of cardamom here. Peanut sauce instead of hummus there. Pickled vegetables sometimes in place of salad. Foccacia bread or flatbread. The variations were endless, and damn tasty.

So here's my top three Middle Eastern takeaways in Berlin.

Mo's Kleiner Imbiss. Gräefstraße 9, Kreuzberg

This place calls itself "The king of falafel", and they do rightly lay a claim. The falafel balls are huge, and the sandwiches are served with loads of salad and a splodge of nicely hot and sour chilli sauce. The thing that make's Mo's standout, though, is the walnut paste they smear all over the bread. That and the cute little old lady that's running the show. The queen of falafel, clearly. 

Dada Falafel. Linienstraße 132, Mitte

In at number two is Dada's. It's a bit more up market than some of the places we visited. It's a slick operation, fitting of it's high end surroundings in Mitte. The prices are a little higher, and the portions are a little smaller, but it's made up for by the quality of the food (and cleanliness of the shop). Veal shawarma was dripping with meaty juices, grilled aubergine had a sour hint of sumac and the falafel had the added depth of cardamom. Spicing and seasoning in general was spot on. Check this one out.

Mustafa's Gemüsekebap. Mehringdamm, West Kreuzberg 

Ok, this is the one. Mustafa's is simply the bomb. They have a kiosk on the street just up from Curry 36, outside a hostel, and next to an off license. That could be your weekend right there. Mustafa's do chicken shawarma with fried vegetables, or fried vegetables for the veggies. You get the choice of durüm (flatbread) or pocket (pictured), or plate. The durüm wraps were huge, and packed with juicy meat, crisp salad and fresh herbs. We got there about 7pm, and there was already a long queue forming. It's well worth the wait though. Grab a beer from the liquor store, and settle in for a serious dose of street food. Exceptional. 

Also on the Kebalfe trail were a few non-Middle Eastern joints that are worth a look. This was my fifth trip to Berlin, and it's taken me til now to get around to visiting Curry 36 (just down the road from Mustafa's). It's a sloppy and saucy and bit fake-tasting (in a good way..?), but an institution none the less. Sausage fans, go take a look. And while we're on the quick and dirty theme, Burgermeister, housed in an old public toilet, is also pretty damn tasty. Burgers hit the spot, but are let down slightly by the bun. The fries on the other hand... Whoa. Try chilli, bacon & jalepeno. 

Curry 36. Mehringdamm, West Kreuzberg

Burgermeister. Oberbaumstraße 9, Kreuzberg

This lot may seem a bit South East-centric, but if you're elsewhere in Berlin, fear not. The Kebalfe has got that covered. In fact, I even made a Googlemap... Just click on the image below. Have a look and go get exploring! 

View Kebalfe trail Berlin in a larger map

Signs of spring

An affogato, sipped and spooned one barmy Sunday, on the banks of the Regent's Canal. Made all the more delicious thanks to Laura's home made ice cream.

So far, so good

I feel I should begin this post by apologising to regular readers (I know there are at least three or four of you) for the distinct lack of activity here over the passed few months. Having said that, it's been a great start to the year, with my involvement in Brunswick House Cafe, already paying off, despite taking up a fair portion of my life!

At work, we've been having fun with all manner of creations, and getting some great feedback in the process. We've also received props from the rags over here, and across the pond, with more to follow soon, if our Twitter feed is to be believed.

Outside of the kitchen, there has been much to report, but scarce time to report it... From Dinner at Dinner, to duck's tongues at Gourmet San, strong cocktails and NY/italo-inspired snacks at Spuntino, to supper clubs in Dalston with two of my favourite young chefs... My, the inspiration!

Hopefully I'll manage to keep the updates a little more regular from here on in, but for now, long may the fun continue.

Lads wot lunch

Sixteen plates of Venetian snacks (including the chocolate salami and ricotta crumble to finish) and a few glasses of Prosecco... Good way to while away a few hours on a Monday afternoon.

Family meal

Left over corn, yellow courgettes, new potatoes and chocolate pudding for the family meal today at Rochelle Canteen. Accompanied by left over 1981 Domaine de Goubert Gigondas, and 1991 Domaine Tempier Bandol Cuvée Spéciale.

Dough days

Keeps me off the streets...

Popping up in the park

Working here tonight... By the look of this video, it's going to be quite an experience!

Elliots in the park from LUCY BEECH on Vimeo.

The last supper

My final meal in Galicia, at Restaurante Solla. In a land where food is often best described as gutsy, in all senses of the word, Jose Gonzalez 'Pepe' Solla has created a taste and style all of his own. Thirteen courses of his delicate and subtle take on Galego cuisine followed. Here's some highlights.

Pulpo as I've never seen it before.

Sea urchin for the second time in two days...

The famous "luxury" ribs, as immortalised in my dining companion's book, Everything but the Squeal.

Los chocolates, a coffee, a signed menu, and 45 minute chat with the man Pepe himself.

It's all in the detail

Cocinar de Galego, or Galican cooking, is a funny old thing. From what I've seen so far, it revolves around a fairly small number of dishes, using a fairly narrow range of ingredients: Soupy caldos, cocidos and other stews; fish and seafood, grilled, steamed, or in the case of pulpo, just boiled in salt water; and inevitably pork in some form, usually salted and cured. Dishes are prepared the way that Mama used to make them, and be it on your head if you try to deviate. Rarely will a meal pass without one or more of the following: A salsa laced with paprika; floury potatoes – peeling and boiling is as elaborate as the preparation gets; and grelos – native Galego turnip tops – cooked until any tenderness has given way to limp submission, and the last remaining cells of chlorophyll are holding on for dear life.

People say that Galician's are renowned for their conservative palates... A suggestion that is backed up by the regularly formulaic, often almost carbon-copied restaurant menu boards that line the streets of almost every town I've passed through.

So what happens when a chef who learnt his trade under the tutorship of one of Spain's foremost gastronomic experimentalists sets up a fine dining restaurant in his Galician home town? The chef is Marcelo Tejedor, the tutor was one Juan Mari Arzak, and the restaurant is Michelin-starred Casa Marcelo in Santiago de Compostella. I spent a week-long stage finding out.

Marcelo's eponymous restaurant has received high praise for his creative, contemporary cuisine, and the man himself regular hosts sessions at industry get togethers, such as El Forum Gastronomico de Santiago. Each day at the restaurant, Marcelo prepares a new ten-course menu degustacion. New dishes are added as he sees fit, held together with a backbone of his signature dishes, based on local, seasonal ingredients.

Casa Marcelo is about marrying subtle flavours using inventive techniques that are just the right side of experimental. This was my first time working in a Michelin-starred kitchen. The learning curve was steep and often challenging, but seeing how a top-tier chef at the height of his game operates was an invaluable experience.

The days ran in cycles of frantic mis en place, followed by dizzyingly fast bouts of service. Almost everything for the forthcoming sitting was prepared in the few hours before customers began to arrive. That meant working literally flat out for each and every fifteen hour day.


During the day, Marcelo and his Sous Chef would somehow find spare moments to play around with a new dish, or alter something that was already on the menu, to see how a different flavour or texture combination might work. A little Lecithin (a stabilising agent that's holds the bubbles in foam) might be added to a soup to create an espuma. A spoonful of Agar (a very strong gelling agent) might be dissolved into a sauce to create a hot, firm jelly. A piece of fish would be filleted and turned into sashimi in a matter of seconds, to be taste-tested alongside a fresh delivery of herbs spices or seasonings. The two chefs would stand over the dish, an eye brow raised inquisitively, a hand cupped under the chin, quietly debating the merits of their new creation, before handing the remains to the rest of the brigade for tasting. Typically a new dish might go through four or five incarnations over a two-day period before finally making it's way onto the menu.


The thing that really stood out was not only the speed, but the precision with which everything takes place. Everything, from the slicing of stock veg, to the end of shift cleaning is done with utmost efficiency, and nano-scientific exactitude. At first, my shallots weren't fine enough, my croutons were too irregular, and I wasn't delicate enough with my mushrooms. During mis en place one morning, I was tasked with the job of preparing potatoes, which I had to slice in such a way so they were no longer a standard, nobly potato shape, but uniform, equally proportioned, tapered cylinders. “¡Mas rapido! ¡Mas rapido!” barked one of the other chefs... I was already going as quickly as I could. Trying somehow to make my hands move faster, whilst keeping the same gradient of the cylinder, I momentarily lost control. My knife slipped, and before I could correct it, the blade ran straight across my thumb. It wasn't a deep cut, but it immediately drew blood. With service fast approaching, there was barely time to acknowledge the wound, let alone stop and get a plaster. I literally didn't have time to bleed!

Thank goodness that break times were treated with as much respect as the work itself. Each morning, no matter how much prep there was to be done, the Sous Chef would yell “¡Benga, ahora!”, ordering us all to stop what we were doing and gather round for coffee and freshly baked cake. In the moments before staff lunch and dinner were served, the whole brigade stepped up a gear to warp speed, finishing their duties and cleaning down their stations, in order to gain the maximum amount of relaxation time. For those vital fifteen minutes, absolutely everything stopped, as we all gathered around a huge table in the staff quarters for our well-earned 'family' meals, consisting of anything from tortillas and tapas to steaks and home-made pizzas.

(Xarda en Escabeche - Image courtesy of David de Jorge... I didn´t have anywhere near enough time to take a photo)

It took me a while to make my way beyond a lowly runner during service; fetching plates and containers, making sure everyone had the right utensils when they needed them, and clearing up after the rushes of busyness. By my third night I had graduated to preparing garnishes to order, and plating up the occasional Xarda en Escabeche – mackerel cooked sous vide in a smoky pimenton sauce - one of Marcelo's signature dishes. Having taken me to one side just before the evening rush got under way, the Sous Chef gave me simple, step by step directions of how to plate up the dish, which despite still having only a limited Spanish vocabulary, I fully understood. When the time came to get the first two away, he stood peering over me, shouting orders into my ear. “¡Vamos, vamos! Sale!” - Let's go, let's go! Away! Any hope I had of remaining relaxed disappeared as Marcelo stepped up on my other side, creating a kind of human pressure cooker around me. With my heart in mouth, and adrenaline pumping through my veins, I laid the fillet on the plate, hoping to god that I could keep control long enough not to smudge any dressing on the brilliant white of the china. I don't think I've ever been more nervous in my life.


From my experience, it seems that the kitchen runs on high-octane intensity. Each and every item that goes out requires utmost care and attention, with zero margin for error. What's more is that you cannot afford to spend any longer on each item than is absolutely necessary. In truth, it's not the food that you're paying for, but the effort and man-power that goes into preparing and presenting it.

I barely learnt a single recipe during my week at Casa Marcelo. But what I did learn was far more valuable; the rhythms of the kitchen that, in time, and with much practice allow your subconscious to operate one step ahead of you. Whilst at times I did feel out of my comfort zone, I take some consolation in the fact that the chefs I was working with had been doing what they were doing for years. I'd been doing it for a matter of days...

Traditions die hard around here, especially when it comes to food. But by twisting those traditions with flair and originality, Marcelo Tejedor is amongst a select few who are breathing new life into Galego cuisine. His trick is in not ignoring the details that are so important to the food of the region, but enhancing and updating them.

Judging by the number of punters who came though the doors during my time there, he's managed to successfully add a touch of his own personality to the food of the region, and still keep those conservative palates happy.

Asador Etxebarri part two - El Sentido

I'm in the back of a cab – which I had to trek across half the city in the rain to catch - heading North by North East of Vitoria, deep into the Basque province of Durangeldea. It's miserable. It's wet. It's literally the middle of nowhere. And I'm running late. I feel like there's only so many times I can say 'tengo prisa' before the otherwise tranquil driver stops the car and threatens to make me walk.

I'm headed to the tiny hamlet of Axpe Marzana. There's not really much there... A dozen or so houses, a couple of ramshackle old barns, a charming enough little square, and today, it would seem, bucket loads of rain. But despite it's remote location, and sleepy disposition, gastro-pilgrims such as myself have been flocking to Axpe in their droves for the last few years. Why? A humble, middle aged chef, who has absolutely no formal training, a home-made grill, and some seriously high-end ingredients. I can't believe I'm going to be late for my reservation at Asador Etxebarri – the greatest grill restaurant in the entire world!

Thirteen courses, one beer, three glasses of wine and two coffees later, and I'm feeling just a little more relaxed. Almost everything I've eaten today has induced a near orgasmic state of ecstacy, with some of the purest, most unadulterated, intense flavours I've ever laid upon my taste buds. I'm in a kind of zen-like plato of fullness, where both body and mind have surpassed all foreseen expectations of stimulation. I'll let you draw your own comparisons...

But as well as coming to eat, I've also come to speak to sous chef Lennox Hastie, about his and head chef Bittor Arguinzoniz's approach to cooking at Asador Etxebarri; namely their complete and un-compromised commitment to la brasa – the grill. Never have I come across a restaurant that pays such attention not only to the ingredients they use, but the means by which they heat them.

To say the menu at Asador Etxebarri is simplistic would be an under statement of epic proportions, like saying El Bulli is a touch extravagant, or Bittor does a decent barbeque. In fact up until recently, there wasn't even a menu at all; just a list of ingredients, or 'products', as Lennox terms them. You could either have them grilled, or not have them at all. As a concept, it's paired down to it's absolute bare bones, but that doesn't mean it's in any way austere. Quite the opposite, in fact. On my menu today was jamon iberico, oysters (which I had to pass up because I'm allergic – I got cockles instead), black truffle, beluga caviar, and some of the finest beef I've ever tasted. I reckon that's about as decadent a selection as you can get.

Bittor is a native Basque countryman who grew up in this very village. An ex-electrician who turned to cooking 20 years ago because he never found his passion in the series of odd jobs he was doing before then. Lennox is an Anglo-Australian who learned his trade in the top-tier French places like Le Manoir and Le Gavrouche, before coming to Spain about four years ago in search of new inspiration. Sitting in a San Sebastian bar one quiet afternoon, he heard about “some guy out in the hills with a home made grill” and has since never looked back.

On paper, the two of them couldn't be more different. But get them together and there seems to be an almost telepathic mutual understanding between them; the kind that could only be the result of a genuine respect for one another, and having spent the last 1300 days or so alone together in a very cramped kitchen. And as well as a respect for one another, they also share a deeply-rooted respect for their ingredients. In Lennox's own words, they spend their working lives “enhancing the food by doing a little as possible”.

We discuss the food of the region and the globally acclaimed, so called new-Basque movement that has put San Sebastian so firmly on the culinary map. Un-surprisingly, both of the chefs in front of me would choose comider casera - simple, home made food prepared with love, over the experimental, avante garde, multi-sensory experiences created by some of their contemporaries. “You don't need to do anything spectacular in the cooking if your ingredients are spectacular already”, says Lennox. My meal today has proved him right.

The only flavour that was added to any of the thirteen dishes I have eaten today have come from the burning wood on top of which they were cooked. Apart from salt, the only seasoning at Asador Etxebarri is smoke.

For two decades, Bittor has been honing and refining his methodology, trying different fuels and temperatures, and has now developed the art of grilling into a science all of his own. The range - which he conceived, designed and built with his own bare hands – along with a whole set of custom-made pots and pans, allow him to both manipulate the heat and regulate the cooking of each and every ingredient.

All the wood is first heated in the stoves to temperatures well beyond 400 degrees C, before being transferred to the grill using a shovel during service. Wood from local acorn-bearing oak trees is used as the base fuel, which burns consistently at a high heat, and gives off only a subtly perfumed smoke. Orange wood from the groves up the side of the hill are used to give citrus background to fish and seafood, whilst applewood is used for dishes like the caviar, where only the lightest of smokey notes is needed. Meat is cooked using aromatic olive and grape vines, to enhance their already strong flavours.

But this isn't about changing the flavours. You're not supposed to sit at the dinner table thinking “mmm, tastes like tempranillo branches”, jokes Lennox... It's about bringing out the flavours that are already there. The two chefs exchange a few words in Spanish, before Lennox turns to me to interpret. “He says it's about the taste of the animal, the earth, the sea.” Bittor curls his bottom lip and shrugs, as if to say what else could you possibly need?

Lennox and I lean at the bar, looking out onto the restaurant. “Bittor has grown up with this”, he says. “It's nothing new to him, just an evolution of the cooking he has known since he was a kid”. For twenty years, whilst the big names in the region have spent their culinary careers making dishes ever more complex, Bittor has been quietly experimenting with simplicity.

“This place isn't about nouvelle creations... It's about refinement of everything that's always been great about Basque cooking.” Pulling a clenched fist towards his chest, he breaks into Spanish: “La comida y el sentido!” The food and the feeling... At Asador Etxebarri, they have found the best of both.

[This is the second part of a previously published post about Asador Etxebarri – sorry for the delay]

The little hand

For the past three nights I've found myself heading up the same dark, secluded side street, on the hunt for something to satisfy my cravings. I tried it once, and immediately I was addicted. Now I can't get enough.  

I've poked my nose around Calle Agosto, and headed to the dimly lit bar on the corner for what I think might be the best pintxo I've had yet in San Sebastian. The place is called La Cuchara de San Telmo, and despite being in it's tenth year of business, locals still describe it as leading the next generation of pintxo bars in the region. It's slightly more contemporary than a lot of the bars in town, with the kind of almost-grungy style that they seem to do so well in Spain. It's a tiny little place, around the side of the church of Santa Maria in the Parte Viejo, barely big enough for the bar, let alone a kitchen and a room full of diners.

Since Wednesday, I've eaten an amazingly tender braised ox cheek, served in a rich red wine gravy; light and crispy tempura de bacalao; a 'cannelloni' filled with pig, lamb and beef offal stew; grilled rabbit's leg, served with a thin salsa verde, similar to the one I had in Vitoria; pulpo 'Roca' - the Basque way, cooked a la planxa, and served with pickled cabbage; and my personal favourite - for the name if nothing more - Manita de Ministro, or the 'little hand' of a pig. A fried trotter, to you and I.

There's none of your standard pintxo sitting out to dry on the bar top. Instead of drawing punters in with a huge spread consisting mainly of ham plus X on toast, they concentrate on giving the most traditional of Basque recipes a modern twist, and serving them fresh from the kitchen, but in miniature. An absolute must visit for anyone in San Sebastian...

Under the skin of St John Bread & Wine

Regular readers will already know I'm a huge fan of St John and it's sister restaurant Bread & Wine. Having recently met Bread & Wine head chef, James Lowe, I felt compelled to find out more... Their excellent bacon sandwiches had whet my appetite, but in reality they don't even scratch the surface of this modern British institution. 

Having just completed a week-long stage working at Bread & Wine, I've certainly had chance to experience their nose to tail philosophy first hand. Even speaking as a certified carnivore, however, some of the tasks I undertook were definitely not for the faint hearted.

Much of my time was spent downstairs in the prep kitchen, a clinical, windowless, fluoro-lit basement – all white tiles and stainless steel – where the only sound is the humming of the fridges, the the whirring of thermo-mixers, and the regular grating rasp of hack saw blade on animal bone.

Whilst dishes are finished upstairs in the open kitchen, in full view of the restaurant, it's downstairs where the bulk of the work takes place. I was lucky enough to get my hands dirty with plenty of meaty tasks; prepping chicken gizzards, pheasant hearts and mallard legs for confit; breaking down a whole side of mutton into roasting and braising joints; boning out pork shoulders; making 'blood cake', the St John take on black pudding, served with duck eggs or bacon; braising and slicing pigs ears, which are then deep fried and tossed with dandelion and rocket leaves; and playing my part in the making of a bona fide St John classic, ox heart (above) with watercress and pickled walnuts. The huge hearts first have to be trimmed of the fat, sinew, fibres and capillaries, before being sliced so finely, that on a few occasions I came extremely close to making sashimi out of my fingers. The slices are then marinated over night in garlic, thyme, olive oil and pickled walnut vinegar, before being grilled for a matter of seconds over white-hot coals. Finally, they're tossed with watercress leaves and finely chopped pickled walnut pieces and served up to the hoards of salivating offalite diners. The preparation is long and quite laborious, but the end result is utterly delightful.

This method of using cheap or irregular cuts and ingredients, which are subsequently transformed over long periods of relatively labour intensive preparation, seems to be almost universally replicated throughout the menu. Many dishes take 48 hours or more to prepare. First jointing, filleting, boning and trimming. Then salting overnight or brining for days. Then braising or confit-ing for anything up to eight hours. Finally dishes are assembled and finished over the grill, in a gravy, or by pan frying. Almost every single dish on the menu contains at least some components that are cooked in the low oven, permanently set to 110 degrees, for many hours at a time. “Slow and low, man,” as the other stage chef said to me on day one, in his West Coast American drawl, “it's the St John way”.

Faggots, made from rare-breed Middlewhite pork. The key to the flavour is in the ratio of offal to meat to back fat, balanced with a subtle blend of cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice.

Mallard: Crown for roasting, hearts & lungs for pan frying, legs for confit... One bird, three methods.

Oven ready squirrels, which will be braised, picked, and served in a broth with white beans. Guess what... They taste a bit like chicken.

It wasn't an entirely carnivorous week, however. I made piccalilli, swede cake, pickled cucumber, fennel soup, turnip puree, horseradish sauce and their incredible tomato ketchup, the recipe for which I may or may not divulge on these pages sometime soon. Aside from that, there was always veg to prepare, and I lost count of the number of bucket loads of onions I chopped over the week – a task that is obviously de rigour for the new boy in any kitchen.

But it wouldn't have been St John if I'd not come face to face with a decapitated pig or three. At Bread & Wine pigs heads are skinned, braised in pig stock (always pig stock, never ham or pork stock), then rolled, sliced into discs, bread crumbed (or painéed) then deep fried. Alternatively, the cheeks are removed after braising, along with the adjoining cushion of fat, before being pan fried and served with a salad of chicory, roast red onion and capers dressed in a lip-smacking, mustardy vinaigrette. Very rich, but again, delicious.

I'd be lying if said I didn't get a kick out of the preparation... There's just nothing quite like slicing a dead animal's face of before breakfast. As we set about our task on the morning of day three, the softly-spoken soux chef turned to me, pig's head in one hand, butchers knife in the other, and said “the ears I don't mind, the snout I don't mind, the tongue I don't mind... It's those blue eyes I can't handle. They get me every time.” I look across as he makes the first incision, a macabre grin spreading across his face.

If you're squeamish, you should probably look away now.

Before:

After:

So the nose to tail philosophy is no myth - almost nothing on any animal goes to waste. If the offal and off cuts aren't brined or confit-ed they're used in salads, stocks or soups. Butchery is a very important part of life in the kitchen at St John Bread & Wine. Not only is a whole carcass more cost efficient than buying in four legs or shoulders, it also means the chefs can keep a closer eye on the quality and provenance of the meat, and forces them to be more inventive in their menu creation, ensuring every last shred is put to good use.

I'm standing at the butcher's bench with the second chef, a half-butchered shoulder of pork in front of us. “It's good for chefs to be dealing with meat like this,” he says, “we're lucky to be able to do so on such a regular basis”. I feel like there's a subtext to what he's saying; that the butchery means the chefs retain a closer connection with, and a greater responsibility for the animals they're cooking. With a final twist, he pops the pig's joint out of it's ball socket, stabs a meat hook through the flesh and hangs the shank on the rack in front of us. I can't quite put my finger on why, but I can certainly see the appeal... And I think I might just be hooked too.

James Lowe on the best bacon sandwich in London

It's a bright December morning, crisp and clear; the kind that smacks you on both cheeks the moment you step out of the front door. Winter sun swathes Spitalfields in the kind of low light that gives everything a sheen of pure, brilliant white, catching on your breath as it all but crystallises with each exhalation, and turning every car windscreen into a beacon so bright it could guide wise men to Bethlehem.

It's quiet outside, and it feels like Commercial Street has yet to come to life this morning. But as I arrive at my destination, I find a hive of activity. A morning's graft in the kitchen is already well underway. It's 8.30am, and there is business to attend to – business in the shape of a bacon sandwich – the best in London, at that.

I'm by no means the first to write about what makes a good bacon sandwich. Many before me have debated the merits of grilling versus frying, at home versus the local greasy spoon, red sauce or brown, white bread or (controversially) wholemeal... There's even a scientific formula which explains exactly how to make one, according to Leeds University.

But scientific formula or not, in my opinion the debate is already over, for there is one establishment which has succeeded in creating by far and away the best example of a bacon sandwich that I've ever tasted. And for that reason, this morning I'm at St John Bread & Wine, where I have arranged to meet Head Chef, James Lowe to discuss the matter over a cup of tea and one of their outstanding bacon sandwiches.

This will be my fourth Bread & Wine bacon sandwich. The first was an opportunistic visit at 11.01am. The kitchen had officially shut for family breakfast, and I almost didn't get anything. As I ordered without looking at the menu I must have momentarily bonded with the chef at the grill over a shared love of sizzling pork. Thank god, I just about squeezed it. The second was just before heading to Stansted to embark on a culinary tour of Bordeaux. We ate very well on that trip, but nothing came close to breakfast on day one. The third was with two friends, as fuel for a meeting about the logo for this very blog. What better stimulus for three men who love to eat? So, I know full well what to expect from my breakfast this morning, but even so, I feel a flutter of excitement which I put down to more than just my tummy rumbling.

I take a seat at the side of the stark, minimalist dining room, in anticipation of the head chef's arrival. A distinct, almost industrial hum emanates from the kitchen, audible above the clink of metal on metal, as pots and pans are shifted from stove top to surface, knives are sharpened, and trays full of plump, crusty loaves are turned out on to their cooling racks. The whole of the restaurant is filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, still hot from the oven.

Behind the pass, there are half a dozen white-coated chefs with heads down, busily prepping their stations for the day to come. They all look so studious that I'm almost surprised when one of the chefs emerges from the kitchen, strides purposefully towards my table, and takes a seat. “You're here to talk about the bacon sandwich”, he says, more as a statement than a question. Lowe has barely introduced himself before launching into a thorough and passionate description of not just the sandwich in question, but his thoughts on what breakfast is all about, his approach to cooking, and a concise history of his career, influences and inspirations. Everything he says is backed by the kind of enthusiasm that shows love for what he is doing, even when discussing such a modest dish. But he's direct and to the point – there's a sense that he will say this only once – as you would expect from the head of such a well regarded kitchen.

Our conversation is punctuated only by the flitting to and fro of the waiting staff, and the occasional comings and goings of delivery men with trolleys stacked so high it's as if there's a Christmas banquet booking for the five thousand.

All the peripheral activity is soon forgotten once breakfast arrives, however. A sandwich almost big enough to fill a dinner plate: Two huge slabs of perfectly toasted bread, crisp on one side, slathered in butter on the other. Thick folds of char-grilled bacon nestled in between. A generous bowlful of smooth, deep red ketchup. A pot of loose leaf tea, getting stronger with every second that passes. If only every day began this way.

The first bight has everything; the crispy outer layer of toasted bread, light, open-textured dough underneath; moist, juicy bacon, soft and plump in parts, charred and caramelised in others; fruity, tangy ketchup that explodes in the mouth. All at once it's salty, sweet, meaty, smooth, crispy, spongy, soft, slightly – unapologetically - greasy, and completely, utterly delightful. The perfect combination of textures and flavours. Who needs molecular gastronomy?

But perhaps this bacon sandwich bears closer relation to molecular gastronomy than you might at first think. James Lowe started his career at La Trompette in Chiswick, before going on to work at The Fat Duck. Despite the paired down style at Bread & Wine, The Fat Duck is still a big influence on Lowe's cooking today. The menu has been meticulously constructed with each dish having been obsessively tested, re-tested, and tested again – just to make absolutely sure. Every ingredient and method that is used in his kitchen, even in dishes as simple as the bacon sarnie, are subject to just as much scrutiny as anything he ever created at The Fat Duck. He tells me, for example, about occasions when ten or more rashers of bacon, each from different cuts, cures and breeds have been lined up against one another for side by side testing, to ensure the finished product reaches absolute perfection.

This exactitude is a direct influence of his time under Heston Blumenthal, an exactitude which according to James is side-stepped all too willingly in many a professional kitchen. Too many London chefs forego precision in their cooking, he says, giving the excuse that their cramped working environments, quick turnover of covers, and scarce resources leave little time for concentrating on the minutiae of detail, each and every time. This goes hand in hand, he says, with London kitchens generally being anti-technology.

High technology, particularly of the sort that one would associate with the Fat Duck, seems at odds with the old English-influenced dishes that are served at both St John and sister restaurant Bread & Wine. But in actual fact, it is the technology that allows for more measured and cared for cooking methods, such as the roast leg of mutton, which is cooked at exactly 100 degrees C – not a percentile more or less – for upwards of six hours, until the meat literally falls off the bone.

Clearly The Fat Duck is not the only influence here, however. Before he started at Bread & Wine, Lowe spent time at the River Cafe – a standard bearer in the resurgence of top restaurants focusing on market-influenced, seasonal produce. He's keen to tell me on a number of occasions that he doesn't like to “play around with things” too much. He'd rather let better ingredients come across more clearly on the plate. His cooking relies on simple, considered flavour exchanges, highlighting what occurs naturally, not masking existing flavours with unnecessary new ones. “It's a tastier way of eating”, as he puts it. And I couldn't agree more.

This approach can certainly been seen, and more importantly tasted, in the bacon sandwich. Much effort has gone into getting each element absolutely right: “I've tried more bacon for our sandwiches than I can possibly begin to remember” - well, it's a hard life, James - “and you quickly come to realise that the best bacon for the breakfast table is not necessarily the best bacon for the sandwich”. The bacon in question is from rare breed Old Spot pigs, from Butts Farm in Cirencester. It's tank cured and unsmoked - a relatively modern method which purists may curl their tails at – but Lowe insists that it is the brining, which gives their bacon it's irresistable moist-yet-charred characteristics. Tank curing means the pork retains more natural liquid in the curing process than a more traditional dry cure, and the delicate salt / sugar solution in the brine brings out far more flavour on the char grill.

The bread is a classic yeast-risen sandwich tin white, baked on site everyday. Almost all of the other breads they bake at Bread & Wine are sourdough leavans, but its vital for Lowe that the bread for the bacon sandwiches tastes just like white bread should: “A big part of this dish is nostalgia” he says, “it has to taste like all of the best bacon sandwiches you've ever had in your life... And I guess I have a lot to compare against, as I've virtually lived on them for three meals a day, seven days a week, at some points”.

And the ketchup? How nostalgic can this sandwich really be if the ketchup isn't Heinz? “I had originally said we would use Heinz, but we tried this recipe for the sauce and immediately that was it. In fact, it's the only thing about the sandwich which hasn't ever changed.” It certainly works - a simple concoction of tomato, onion, apple and spices – fruity, zingy, subtly aromatic, and when compared with standard shop-bought ketchups, much more natural, and infinitely more flavoursome. The perfect complement to a faultless bacon sandwich.

It's good to know that such a humble dish gets due care and attention in such a revered kitchen. “I just think breakfast is such an important meal... When I finish my breakfast I want to feel completely satisfied. I hope you do too...” And this morning, James, I most certainly do.