Cloth

Clawf, surely. Or at the very least, Cloff! This is Smithfield, after all. And it seems to demand a bit of Artful Dodger cheek. But Cloth it is, referencing Ye Olde Londone alley on which it sits, the site of the ancient Bartholomew Fair and once the gathering place for the country’s rag trade. There’s less of the Oom-pah-pah about this particular location than one might expect, in fact, No. 43 Cloth Fair being a Georgian romance of a building, previously home to Sir John Betjeman. 

The Poet Laureate lived on the first and second floors from the 1950s; there’s a blue plaque on the wall outside. You can rent the rooms from the Landmark Trust if the poetic mood takes you, very convenient for a bit of Cloth-ing downstairs, in a delightful bistro with thankfully no sign of Betjeman‘s dreaded ‘tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans’ (‘Slough’ Betjeman 1937).

How a restaurant deals with the absurdly late or inconveniently early speaks volumes. We’d arrived, by some fluke of the capital’s transport system with an hour to spare. Pressing our noses against at the cosily befogged windows we thought we’d chance our arm. We flagged down a smiling hostess who scuttled off to find a solution with not a flicker of the obvious inconvenience to which we had put her. Sadly the (very nice) bar out back was full of not quite so stupidly early birds, so we were politely asked to return later (at a time vaguely near our allotted hour, I added in my own mind). Well done them. Nicely handled. Post an aperitif round the corner, we returned with appetites heightened and a feeling of righteous ownership over the table that had now been beautiful set for us.

The dining rooms have an ambience somewhere between Ben Johnson porter house and fin de siècle Paris, with linen bistro curtains hiding an immodesty of diners slurping, forking and masticating joyously. Candlelight flickered across happily sauce-smeared faces (mine at least), illuminating the eclectic marché de pouse artwork on the walls. The soundtrack was a gentle clink of good glass wear and the muted laughter of happy-tummied souls. A pert menu confined itself to the best of France with an English feel for field and farm. 

A couple of juicy rock oysters started proceedings, served with pickled Basque chillies. Then a starter of fresh Dorset crab meat sitting amongst crunchy winter leaves: a remoulade perhaps, even a ‘slaw. But it was the Sweetcorn Soup with Lardo Toast that won our hearts – a refined chowder-esque concoction, deeply sweetcorny, perfectly seasoned and crowned by fantastic fatty-piggy toast. 

A main course of good beef rump, celeriac purée and retro-tastic stuffed cabbage came anointed with a gravy spiked with cubes of melting bone marrow; a little bowl of crusty chips seasoned with Piment d'Espelette proved perfect for scooping up the juices. Cloth being the brainchild of both cheffy gastronomes and wine importer, Bordeaux bothering types, the wine list was pretty inspiring: on the whole, excellent value, wide ranging and focused. We opted for an exemplary J-P Brun Moulin-à-Vent (La Rochelle) and there was a little left in our glasses to toast the arrival of the puds: a masterclass of a Crème Brûlée, understated nostalgia of the first order, and a light choc mousse topped with buttery crumbs and a boule of milk ice-cream.

Convivial, cosy, with a delightful menu and wine list in perfect step.