2024: The Year In Review

For the last few years, at this time of year, I’ve been a proper harbinger of doom. Year after year since the pandemic I’ve written my annual round-up saying that although restaurants have dodged the Grim Reaper for 12 months, next year will be when it really starts to bite. It’s got to be a little annual tradition: write the cards, open the doors on the advent calendar, tell anybody who will listen that next year is going to be rather shit. I became, in my way, the Cassandra of Reading’s restaurant scene.

And most recently, pretty much this time last year, I screwed the pooch by saying this:

Fewer restaurants have closed this year than I expected, and I’m impressed that so many are hanging in there. I hope they all have a very busy festive season to keep them going through the drought that is January. And this time next year, having no doubt been proved wrong again, I’ll try to say something different.

Whoops. Because the chickens finally came home to roost in 2024, and it was bleak. Imagine the feelbad factor Reading suffered late last year, when the Grumpy Goat played chicken with its landlord and lost, only stretched out over an entire 365 days, and you get a vague idea of what this year has been like. It’s been brutal – a rate of closures like nothing I’ve seen in 11 years of doing this. It has affected restaurants of every kind – good and bad, indie and chain, at pretty much every price point. Nowhere has felt safe, because nowhere has been safe.

And also, just to front load all the gloom into this piece so that in a little while we can focus on happier things, next year doesn’t promise to be any better. I would be the first person to slag off the previous government and one of the last people to criticise the new government, but a budget that raises the minimum wage, raises employers’ contributions on National Insurance and cuts business rates relief has done nothing to prevent next year being worse for hospitality than this year has been.

Wait until January, when restaurants have passed their peak trading period and face a month of people skint, budgeting or detoxing, and we may see another flurry of announcements. So the first part of this round-up is going to read a bit like the obituaries column. Let’s run through the damage Reading’s suffered this year. Ho ho ho!

2024 was three days old when the Corn Stores announced that it was closing with immediate effect, and that site has been vacant ever since. I’m not sure how big a surprise this was – it never quite impressed with its steaks, its private membership club upstairs seemed to have limited appeal and its attempt during the pandemic to switch to a star-chasing fine dining restaurant was brave but ill-fated. Still, we’ll always have the whole parfait and brioche thing.

January featured some other significant closures too – Revolutions packed up on Station Road that month, finally mothballing one of my most incongruous positive reviews. Excellent Erleigh Road chippy Finn’s also pulled down the shutters that month, although in one of Reading’s more heartening developments it reopened in September under new management, with the same owners as Calcot’s Coriander Club and Avenue Deli.

The first month of the year saw two other closures. One was Woodley’s La’De Kitchen, although it did that weird thing where it closed and then reopened under a different name, Yaprak, still as a Turkish restaurant and apparently under the same ownership. This seems to have been a thing this year, because in June Veeno did something similar, reopening as Vino Vita; originally the menu also seemed indistinguishable from Veeno’s, although it now seems to have changed. Your guess, in both cases, is good as mine.

Finally in January, Smash ‘N’ Grab sold their business and gave up serving impeccable smashed burgers from their little hut on Cemetery Junction. That sale lurched into acrimony almost immediately, with Smash ‘N’ Grab’s owners – never the shy and retiring kind – taking to social media to claim that the new business had ripped off its menu. Things escalated, and people left the new owners one star Google reviews seemingly before a single burger had been served. All that was bad enough, but what really troubled me was the new joint’s name, Cozzy Bites. Did they expect you to turn up in a bikini?

Spring came, and the closures kept coming. I was really sad to see Barista & Beyond throw in the towel in February: I hope their intern Charlie goes on to bigger and better things. March saw us lose CiCi Noodle Bar on Queen Victoria Street and, just round the corner, Coco Di Mama. Two purveyors of carbs, gone in the space of a couple of weeks. Other people were probably sadder about Coco Di Mama than I was: I still remember Berkshire Live getting all excited last year about “Gran Formaggio cheese”, whatever that was, but the reports I heard were iffy at best.

At the end of March we had one of the weirder closures of the year. The Narrowboat, which only itself took over from Bel and the Dragon the previous summer, was no more as Fuller’s decided to use the building for training and development instead. One of Reading’s more distinctive spaces, with a spot by the river, it could have been fantastic but somehow never lived up to its potential. I imagine that also meant the end of its boat slash floating function room, the Majestic Bel, although it will live on in my memory as I use that epithet about certain people all the time.

One of the biggest blows to Reading’s food and drink scene came on April Fool’s Day as Workhouse Coffee left its site on King Street. This one was a huge shock, as Workhouse changed the landscape of Reading’s coffee scene – some would say created it – many years ago. For my part, that’s the last time I give anyone a lifetime achievement award, as it’s clearly a jinx. I was there on its final day, and felt a real sense of grief.

It’s not entirely clear what happened on King Street. The landlord undoubtedly played a part (don’t they always) as there were reports that the site was in quite a state with the landlord unwilling to do work on it. A rather public falling out between owner Greg Costello and his right hand man probably didn’t help matters.

It wasn’t just independent businesses, though, that faced the chop this year. As the proposed development of the Oracle continued to progress, Reading’s chains took advantage of break points in their leases to stop trading. Last year that was Franco Manca and the Real Greek, this year Brown’s followed suit in April and TGI Friday in June. Some people might miss Brown’s, but it’s hard to imagine many tears being shed about TGI Fridays: I still wonder what the black mark was on that pint glass.

TGI’s UK operator went into administration later in the year, but the branch on the Caversham Road roundabout has been saved from the axe, so if you have a hankering for that Legendary Glaze you don’t have to give up hope just yet. That said, even the Chronicle struggled to like the food there.

The saddest closure of 2024, for me, was of course the Lyndhurst. I’ve written about this at length, but Sheldon, Dishon and the team catered my wedding in May as their last booking before closing the pub. I think I probably think about at least one of the pub’s dishes every single week, and look fondly back at the days when I could drop by after work for Korean chicken wings, or karaage, or monkfish tacos, or pork cheeks with plum sauce. It was a wonderful time, a bit of a golden age Reading may never see again.

And because I’m often asked what they’re up to – Dishon went back to Northampton to be with his family and the brilliant staff ended up all over the place: you may see Kushal if you ever eat at Bill’s. As for Sheldon, he is still in Reading and considering his next steps: I need to persuade someone with a kitchen to let him do a pop-up for a readers’ lunch next year. He’s dabbling in cidermaking and has done a charcuterie course, and when I went for a few drinks with him at Park House I learned a couple of things: first, that Sheldon’s fennel salami is easily as good as anything you could buy commercially, and secondly, don’t go drinking with Sheldon on a school night.

Normally I try and do this in chronological order – closures first, then openings – but the Lyndhurst slightly distorted the space-time continuum this year by closing, opening, closing and opening again. I’ve talked about this a little in my review of the Bell earlier in the year, but the pub was under new ownership a week after Sheldon and Dishon left.

In the inimitable words of my wife, the new landlords went from caretakers to undertakers as they put up a menu, took down a menu, got a new chef, lost their new chef within a week, closed multiple times at short notice for undisclosed reasons, went to the local papers multiple times to complain that everybody had it in for them and had a Google review published with video footage of the locals abusing passers-by. It was quite the five months, all told.

They got their marching orders in October (while they were on holiday abroad, if the rumours are to be believed) and a new landlord is now in place, offering food again. The rumours are that although he too is a holding landlord he might quite like to go temp to perm, so to speak. Let’s hope he does, and if he wants someone brilliant to run his refurbished kitchen I know just the person.

The other significant closure over the summer, another especially sad one, was Pepe Sale. It was the first restaurant I ever reviewed, and although it was never entirely the same after Toni and Samantha sold the business – more Italian, less Sardinian – it was still a real wrench to see the lights off and unread mail piling up the other side of the door. It might well also have been influenced by likely redevelopment of the Broad Street Mall but it meant the demise of one of central Reading’s longest-running restaurants. I will always remember my Saturday nights there, in its heyday, delighted because I’d managed to snag a portion of their famous suckling pig.

If the pace slowed in the second half of the year, there were still some significant farewells over the last six months. Doner & Gyros, though, was not one of them. It closed in July without ever, as far as I could tell, explaining what the difference between doner and gyros really was; given that the menu included such joys as a “Mexican doner” and a “Chicago gyro” I have a feeling they were just making it up as they went along.

A new, equally purgatorial looking restaurant, Mr T, is there now: place your bets on whether I wind up telling you, this time next year, that it has closed.

August also saw the demise of Valpy Street, although – as I discovered when I visited its replacement The Cellar last month – this was more a change of name than a wholesale change of identity. Something to do with shonky accountants apparently, but The Cellar seemed to be doing very nicely in the same spot with the same owner, the same chef and most of the same staff. A bit like that time street food traders Sharian’s Jamaican Cuisine rebranded as the Bissy Tree and nobody was any the wiser.

In September we also lost Bolan Thai on the top floor of Sykes’ Paradise and Adda Hut out in Woodley. I was sad about Adda Hut, because it was rare that Woodley gets a restaurant worth hopping on the bus for, and to lose two – Adda Hut and La’De Kitchen – in the same year felt like exceptionally bad luck. It’s a shame I didn’t get to try their mutton chops one last time.

And last of all, at the end of August, another era came to an end as l’Ortolan ceased trading. For a long time it was described as Reading’s only Michelin starred restaurant, although I was never convinced it really classed as being in Reading. And then it lost its star a couple of years ago, although people kept talking about it as if it still had one. But rightly or wrongly it was still considered to be the closest special occasion restaurant we had.

I was never completely amazed by it, and it always felt to me like people’s idea of fine dining twenty years ago rather than now. Even so, that site was once home to Nico Ladenis, and John Burton-Race, and all that is now firmly consigned to history; appropriately, l’Ortolan is that rare restaurant with a Wikipedia page, albeit not one that’s been kept up to date.

That was a pretty cheerless roll call, wasn’t it? But amidst all of that we did still see some new places opening, although nowhere near as many. Apart from the ones I’ve already mentioned, the three biggest and most significant, all in the town centre, had money thrown at them. First in April, we got the first branch of London pizza chain Zia Lucia outside the capital. It came with glowing references, taking over the old ASK site on St Mary’s Butts.

Then the following month Siren Craft opened its town centre taproom on Friar Street, in a storm of influencer hype. And completing the trilogy, Reading welcomed Heartwood Inns’ revamped Rising Sun on Castle Street in June. Again, considerable amounts of cash had been splashed on a very attractive refurb, creating a town centre beer garden to rival the likes of the Allied Arms.

The only problem with all three was how underwhelming they were. Zia Lucia was inoffensive, but maybe not good enough to compete with the likes of independent Sarv’s Slice on the other side of the Broad Street Mall. The Rising Sun was the kind of bland, safe fare you can rely on if you want to take family somewhere that looks fancy, but I couldn’t shake the suspicion that you’d be better off at either London Street Brasserie or, for as long as it’s still there, Côte.

And Siren RG1 was such a disappointment – a perfect opportunity to offer a great urban taproom with beer snacks to match, but instead it took the safe option of offering pretty insipid burgers. It’s such a shame they didn’t snap Sheldon up when he left the Lyndhurst. In fairness, Siren’s owner responded to my review on the blog and I suspect they will turn it around, but I still found it entertaining when Siren RG1’s head chef responded to one of my Facebook posts about the Chronicle saying that their stuff was, and I quote, “better than somebody who has absolutely no understanding of hospitality or food doing reviews”. At least I too now know what it feels like to be savaged by the critics.

Even if Reading’s big name signings struggled to impress this year, it doesn’t mean it was all bad. Because there was all sorts of interesting stuff going on – as it often does – in the fringes. In March, Dough Bros started serving pizza on an unfashionable spot on Northumberland Avenue to absolutely no fanfare at all.

They end 2024 as one of the year’s biggest success stories, selling out every night, packed on weekday evenings and acclaimed by pretty much the whole of Reading, from the local paper to local businesses, from gurning influencers to yours truly. Here’s hoping they go from strength to strength next year (and finally sell that calzone I’ve been imploring them to put on the menu).

The same month, West Reading got its own spot of unshowy brilliance as Time 4 Coffee, a Portuguese café that wasn’t run by Portuguese owners, closed and was replaced with DeNata Coffee & Co, a Portuguese cafe that was. It was one of my favourite finds of the year, and a trip to Lisbon earlier in the month revealed that if DeNata’s egg custard tarts couldn’t match the very best that city had to offer, they were a lot closer to that standard than you might think. I plan to eat more of them next year.

Cafés seemed to be the order of the day as Whitley also gained Zotta Deli, just around the corner from 2023’s highlight Minas Café. My visit suggested there was plenty of potential there (and my mole Elizabeth tells me she has since spoken to Paolo who is actively working on the lasagne, which hopefully doesn’t mean that he’ll spit in mine next time round).

We also finally, in September, got the much vaunted sister business of Kungfu Kitchen, which had moved from its old spot on Christchurch Road to a bigger site a few doors down that used to be the home of Sizzling Spice. To say it was gradual would be to put it lightly, but I suspect everything took longer than Jo and Steven wanted it to.

The move happened in June, and then in September the new venue (which is at their old site, keep up) opened as Kungfu Café, offering dim sum, roasted meats, hotpot and – because why not? – full English breakfast, eggs Benedict and pancakes. Then to complete the transition, at some point between late October and early December, it changed its name to Happy Panda Café. Jo’s plans for world domination, however, continue unabated, and when she finally converts the first floor of Kungfu Kitchen to a karaoke space we should all be very afraid.

Would you have bet on one of Reading’s most interesting new businesses this year opening in the Oracle, of all places? Me neither, but that’s what happened in October. The Oracle isn’t usually a hotbed for independent restaurants, unless you count the fever dream that was Lemoni, but Crêperie Les Dous Sourire, which has taken over from the Starbucks next to Vue, is an idiosyncratic enough beast to merit investigation early next year.

It prompted the usual dreary observations from the people who make the Chronicle‘s comments section such a Petri dish, moaning about the price of pancakes. But a proper crêperie in the Breton style, something to aspire to Paris’ magnificent Breizh Café, would be a wonderful thing, and it’s worth noting that Les Dous Sourire also does charcuterie and wine in the evenings. It might be just the thing to keep winter at bay.

There’s just time to mention a few other new businesses that opened in 2024, and a remarkable resurrection. Caversham got a brace of new places, with new bakery – and vowel-free zone – BKRY opening in September and its newest addition, Spill Bar, beginning to trade this month. There’s never been a better time to live in Caversham, and that’s before the news that Alto Lounge is doubling in size and has been given permission to serve booze until midnight. Why don’t Caversham residents talk more about how great it is? It’s a puzzler.

But also, after closing for renovations for – this is no exaggeration – over a year, Oxford Road’s Japanese restaurant Oishi came back from the dead in October. The excitement in that little part of the world was palpable, but the ripples spread across town because of the wider message, that all is not always lost, even when it seems like it is. Not every “temporarily closed” on Google becomes a “permanently closed”, and that’s a nice positive note in what has been such a challenging year.

Finally, and this one seems to have gone to press since I started writing this, Indian restaurant Tanatan has taken over Clay’s old home on London Street. I know this for a fact because Google tells me it’s open and there’s already a solitary five star Google review with a picture of balloons out front. They seem to have kept the orange colour scheme, so good luck to anybody taking photos of the food in there.

And that brings us to next year. We already have businesses queuing up to open in town, and knowing my luck more of them will announce their opening between now and this piece going to print. Lincoln Coffee is taking over Workhouse Coffee’s old spot on King Street, to which I can only say that I hope they’ve done their due diligence.

2025 should be the year we finally get a restaurant, Rosa’s Thai, on the ground floor of Jackson’s Corner, a building which is now owned by noted local philanthropist John Sykes. There has been talk of restaurants in that spot for many, many years and as the saga has dragged on the candidates to fill that space have got less and less impressive, and now it’s ho-hum Rosa’s Thai.

Oh well, leave it another year and maybe we’d have got something worse like a Cosy Club. Actually, scratch that: we’re getting one of those anyway, where Lakeland used to be on the edge of the Oracle.

We should also see the replacement for the Grumpy Goat, a brand new restaurant called Zi Tore promising Italian street food; let’s hope that goes better than the last place to try that. On the one hand, one of the three owners has cooked at Nino’s, Spitiko, Zizzi and Market House. On the other hand, another of them has run a few mobile phone businesses on Smelly Alley, so it’s safe to say that this one could go either way.

Finally, as Station Hill opens up – offering much easier pedestrian access to Siren RG1 into the bargain – we should get a couple of new food and drink businesses there too. I’m reliably informed that we can expect another restaurant from the team behind Coconut and Osaka, which is itself good news and shows a creditable commitment to picking indies.

But perhaps more significantly I’m also told we are getting a branch of Notes, the Covent Garden coffee outpost which offers wine and small plates in the evening. If this happens – and all those businesses that never came to Jackson’s Corner have taught me not to count my chickens – it would be a very interesting development and a challenge to lots of cafes and bars in town. I’ve always enjoyed the Notes on St Martin’s Lane, so I’ll be watching with interest. Besides, a cafe opening on the ground floor of a brand new development: what can possibly go wrong?

The irony about it being such a tricky year for local businesses is that, on a personal level, it’s been a fantastic year for the blog. It was the year I clocked up what felt like more Reading reviews and plenty more from elsewhere, especially London, and the year that four of the most successful pieces I published were features, whether that’s on how to avoid the big chains, the very best things about Reading, or guides to the great beer cities of Belgium or the sunniest city in Europe. I know some of you read all of the posts and some of you are only really interested of reviews of places in Reading, but whichever camp you fall into I appreciate you reading this year.

I don’t generally talk about traffic because it’s a little vulgar, the blog equivalent of talking about salary. But this year has broken all records, as did the year before and the year before that. This year, the scale of that has taken me aback, with almost twice as many people reading as in 2023. So as is traditional, I do have to say a massive thank you to everybody who reads, comments, shares or even sends a link to a friend with a message saying “why is he such a wanker?”. They all count, and everything that puts my writing in front of more people is hugely appreciated by me.

This is also the year when I widened my list of reviewing companions, and I’m very grateful to everybody who answered that call, whether it was my old friend Jerry, my very good friend Graeme (who suffered terribly for my art), or my younger, cooler Canadian cousin. Or newer friends like elite level campanologist Liz, poet Katie and Paul, the lovely teacher who endured my company at Vegivores with only a small amount of obvious bafflement. Having people to come out and review restaurants with me enables me to keep the blog going – it would be a bit boring if it was just me dining on my tod all the time – so it makes a huge difference.

And speaking of not dining alone, I’m also grateful to everybody who came to an ER readers’ lunch this year, and apologetic to anybody I wasn’t able to fit in. Every time I have one I’m reminded that I’m incredibly lucky to have such brilliant readers, and I always enjoy seeing them realise how much they have in common, making friends and discovering connections. The next one is already in the diary for next year and, like a concert promoter, I’ve had to add an extra date due to exceptional demand.

Finally of course, I have to thank my wife Zoë, who for over six years has been my number one dining companion and without whom this blog wouldn’t still be going. She has to endure every review before you get to read it, she’s still usually the one eating the food, and she’s also the person who tells me on a regular basis that I can’t write X, that putting Y in is unnecessary or that saying Z is going too far (which she’s also done with this piece, believe it or not).

However iffy a year is, if at some point during that year you get hitched to your emotional forever home, it’s really hard to have many complaints. I certainly don’t.

Next year I will need to make some decisions about the blog, as I’ve said a few times recently on social media. Money is tight for everybody, and that includes me, and reviewing a new place every week at my own cost has been a brilliant experience but maybe isn’t a sustainable one in 2025. I don’t want to go down the route of taking ads or sponsorship, or accepting freebies from restaurants, so I will be taking some of the festive season to think about moving to Substack and giving people the option of subscribing and, if they want to, contributing via subscription fees.

I don’t know yet what that means in terms of whether parts of the blog will only be available to paid subscribers, whether I offer other things to paid subscribers – like readers’ events, be they lunches or socials – or whether I simply continue to offer the blog for free but reduce my output to fortnightly. Plenty for me to think about, and maybe stuff for you to think about too.

I’ve agonised about this for some time, because it feels like getting out a begging bowl. But then I read something – on Reddit, believe it or not – that said that begging was the wrong analogy. The more accurate comparison, somebody said, would be with busking, and when I read that I got it. I’ve been busking for eleven years, and in all that time I’ve given away all of my writing for nothing and have never taken a freebie in return for coverage.

Hopefully I’ve given you some entertainment, I’ve saved you some money on bad food and, if I’ve done my job properly, I’ve steered you towards spending it at places which deserve it, and which have given you great meals and memories as a result. Put that way, I feel like maybe it is the time to ask for something in return. Tell me how wrong and tin-eared I am in the comments: I can take it.

All of that’s for the future, though. For now, you get one more post before the end of the year, when I announce the winners of the 2024 ER Awards. It’s one last opportunity to celebrate the high points of a year which has been quite unlike any other, exactly the year I thought we’d have in 2021, 2022 and 2023 but not in 2024.

But, for now at least, thank you for sitting through all this, and I hope you have a wonderful Christmas however you choose to spend it – with family, with friends, alone, at home or at work. And if you don’t celebrate it at all, I hope you enjoy some peace and quiet and good food and drink. One last tip: if you want good food, don’t want to cook and want a day that is somehow un-Christmassy, I’m reliably informed by my family that Madras Flavours is open on the 25th and serving up dosas, just like any other day. Food for thought, if you want an escape from turkey and the King’s speech.

Since January 2025, Edible Reading is partly supported by subscribers – click here if you want to read more about that, or click below to subscribe. By doing so you enable me to carry on doing what I do, and you also get access to subscriber only content. Whether you’re a subscriber or not, thanks for reading.

City guide: Lisbon

I first visited Lisbon in something like 2007, and loved it immediately. It was a scruffy, hilly, lively maelstrom of a city, zigzagged by bright yellow old-school trams, where the coffee was industrial, the pasteis de nata were ambrosial and street art was everywhere, as were beautifully grand, tiled houses. Octopus and salt cod were also everywhere, with either or both featuring on the menu of seemingly every restaurant I visited. I returned with a couple of bottles of vintage port – one of which is still in the garage and almost worth too much to drink now – and a fierce desire to go back. My then wife, put off by the scuzziness, was less keen to return.

I visited a couple more times, each time liking the place even more, and then, for over a decade, it never quite made the top of my list of places to visit. In that time, I saw more and more people discovering it for the first time and felt increasingly jealous and left out. I liked it before it was cool! I would silently protest at the screen of my phone, every time wondering why it had been so long since I travelled there.

People would ask me for recommendations for places to go in Lisbon, and eventually I reached the point where I only had one recommendation left that I had any confidence in, because the place had been going since 1950: more on that later. So I knew I was long overdue a return trip, and that finally happened last week.

Returning I was reminded of what a special place it is. Almost absurdly beautiful, with stunning views, gorgeous streets, a city on the river and right by the Atlantic. It was still sunny and warm in early December, although the Portuguese didn’t seem to think so: they were dressed for an autumn day and must have been mystified by the sight of me in shirtsleeves, shorts and sandals. I was too happy topping up my vitamin D to care.

Lisbon, I must say, wasn’t quite as I remembered it. It’s far more affluent and gentrified nowadays. When I first went it was a very poor city, and your money went a long way. Blame its increasing popularity, blame the much-discussed golden visa scheme, blame the Time Out Market if you like, but for whatever reason its character has definitely changed. That’s not a bad thing, it just makes it a slightly different experience to the one I recall. But some of that is also just the passing of time, so Lisbon having a craft beer scene and third wave coffee now is just about it being the year 2024 in Europe, not some red pill Lisbon has uniquely swallowed.

The other thing I didn’t quite remember was how hilly Lisbon is. Fuck me, but it’s so hilly. Google Maps ought to have an option where you say you want to walk from point A to point B and, even though Google Maps also tells you it will only take you 15 minutes, it then looks up your BMI and tells you to think again. Every day I felt like I’d walked 20000 steps when in reality I’d done a fraction of that, it’s just that so very many of them were up rather than along. Every now and again, on a walk, I would turn a corner, look up and think Seriously?

But not only that: the topography of Lisbon, somehow, is hill upon hill upon hill. The whole place undulates in a manner which makes you wonder how it was ever built at all. There were occasions where I honestly felt like I could travel from A to B to C and back to A without ever not going uphill: it was like living in an M.C. Escher drawing.

So there is beauty, and a castle, and countless miradouros, but that beauty comes at a price. When I last went to Lisbon I was eleven years younger and more supple, less weighed down by life and all the lovely meals I’ve had in the course of writing this blog. It might be a young person’s city, and I hate even being the kind of person who says that.

The best piece of advice I received from my friend Mike, who runs European tours in Lisbon often, was to make use of Bolt, which is like Uber but much cheaper. I rarely did a trip across the city that cost more than five Euros, and I tried not to think too hard about the underlying economy of a place where sitting in your car in traffic for half an hour, going relatively short distances around town earned you less than five Euros. Maybe the gentrification hasn’t trickled down to everybody: in my experience it rarely does.

It’s there none the less: Lisbon has the Time Out Market, which I didn’t eat at on this trip even though everyone says you absolutely should, and the LX Factory, which I did visit and is a bit like Bicester Village for hipsters. It’s very Instagrammable, but I imagine Lisbon is a very Instagrammable city all round. I didn’t get to the Alfama, the old slum district below the castle which I so loved eleven years ago, on this visit. Instead I wandered round Principe Real which is full of concept stores and wonderful boutiques and cafés and, crucially, is on the flat throughout: next time, I’m definitely staying there.

The way that Lisbon was exactly as I remembered was that the food and drink scene could match any city I’ve been to. I’ve often said, to anybody who will listen, that Portuguese food and wine is easily the equal of Spain’s but never gets the credit for it. Also, more even than Spain, Portugal’s food has never really taken off in the U.K.: with the exception of the restaurants of Nuno Mendes in the capital, it’s hard to think of other notable proponents. Here in Reading, multiple Portuguese restaurants – O Beirão and O Portugués – have tried and failed to gain a foothold.

Well, that’s a shame, because even on a relatively brief visit to Lisbon I ate so well (and had so many places on my shortlist that I couldn’t get to) that I could completely see how it remains one of Europe’s great gastronomic cities. And that also reflects in the fact that – and this is a huge compliment – I was asked by several people to write a city guide to Lisbon before I’d even got home. I was already planning to do one, because I packed an awful lot of good places into four days in the city, but I was also aware of all the places I hadn’t got to and really wished I could visit.

But I was surprised by just how many of my readers were off to Lisbon in the not too distant future: several of you told me you are going next year, and one reader told me that she is heading to Lisbon literally the day after this piece is published (I offered her a sneak preview of the list, in case she wanted to book anywhere in advance). Best of all, two of my readers actually touched down in Lisbon halfway through my holiday and, taking their lead from my posts on social media, ate at one of my favourite places. They were not disappointed, because it was the place that’s been going for nearly seventy-five years, that I first tried on my first visit seventeen years ago and have gone back to every time since.

The rest of the places in this guide showcase much more variety – traditional and modern, some authentically Portuguese and others more reflective of the melting pot the city is now. I had an absolute blast eating and drinking at each and every spot on this list, and if my guide helps some of you with your own trips, whether that’s next week, next summer or next winter, then I will be delighted. And if it persuades any of you to add this gorgeous, vital, hilly – very hilly, I can’t stress this enough – city to your list of places to visit, all the better.

1. Bonjardim

This is the place I recommend to everybody, the place I’ve been eating at on every trip to Lisbon since I first went, back in 2007. Once, on a holiday with my old friend Dave I ate there twice – on my first and last day in the city – and on this visit it was my lunch stop less than an hour after we checked in and dropped off our bags.

Bonjardim is tucked away on a little alley just off Praça dos Restauradores, not far from the train station and close to the top of the Baixa, the grid of streets that runs down to the river and constitutes Lisbon’s flattest district. It celebrates its seventy-fifth birthday next year and although the menu has a good range of fish, seafood and grilled meats, the only thing to have here, really, is the spit roasted chicken. Over the last seventy-four years they’ve got it down to a fine art.

That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have a plate of smoked ham and a couple of glorious salt cod pasteis while you wait for the chicken to arrive, or that you shouldn’t drink a caneca of ice cold Sagres into the bargain. That all forms part of the anticipation, that and watching chicken turn up at neighbouring tables, knowing that it will soon be your turn. But when it does finally reach you? Well, it is glorious.

It never disappoints. Rubbed with salt and lemon, the skin is a papery, crispy, savoury miracle. But the meat underneath, which comes off the bone ridiculously easily, is sublime. And you’ll pick and pick and pick until the whole carcass is white and clean, because none of this can be wasted. They even do good french fries too, equally salty and utterly delicious.

But the chicken is the thing. It ruins all other chicken, that’s the only problem. It will be some time before you can enjoy a Nando’s again, and my attempts to chase this particular dragon, at the likes of Casa do Frango and Bébé Bob, has been an exercise in futility. I think deep down I always knew they would be, but I did it because even if there was a one per cent chance those places could match Bonjardim, it would be worth the gamble.

A whole roast chicken at Bonjardim costs a ludicrous seventeen Euros, and it pained me that I only got to eat there the once. Both subsequent days, when I took my chances at no reservation places, in the back of my mind I was thinking to myself it’s okay, because if they’re full I can just go to Bonjardim again. So of course none of them turned out to be full.

The mystical power of Bonjardim has not waned in the nearly twenty years that I’ve been going, and one of my favourite moments of the trip, even more so than eating there, was seeing Zoë eat that chicken for the very first time. We messaged our friend James, who himself made his Bonjardim debut earlier in the year on my recommendation. “It’s a biblical experience” came the reply almost instantly. “God tier chicken at excellent prices.”

My two readers who were in Lisbon at the same time as me went there for lunch on the Saturday, and put a picture up on my Facebook page. “God damn, that chicken is something else” said one of them; there is something about that chicken, it seems, that makes you take the Lord’s name in vain. But honestly if there is a creator, and I’m still unconvinced on that score, they should be honoured to be mentioned in the same breath as Bonjardim’s finest.

Bonjardim
Travessa de Santo Antão 11, Lisbon

2. Lupita

The pizza restaurant Lupita is one of the no-reservations spots I mentioned just now, and I am absolutely convinced that if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s literally just round the corner from the Time Out Market it would be impossible to get a lunchtime table there. As it was we still got lucky, turning up just before half one and managing to snag the only vacant table at the exact moment that it came free. When we left, about an hour later, there was quite a queue forming.

Normally I wouldn’t do any of that – turning up on spec, queuing and what have you – but I made an exception for Lupita because everything I had read suggested it was very special (and, of course, I had Bonjardim as my Plan B). And special it was, belying its no frills appearance, plain metal folding tables and stools.

The pizza was exquisite. I’m loath to use hyperbole, because I love pizza and have enjoyed great pizza all over the shop, from Bristol to Newbury, from Bologna to Paris, from Bruges to Northumberland Avenue. But if I’ve had a pizza better than Lupita’s I can’t remember it right now. The base was a marvel, light, puffy and chewy, with the look of a Neapolitan pie but with the droop-free structure of its transatlantic cousins. The toppings – guanciale, jalapeños, a feisty chimichurri sauce and a dusting of Parmesan – were out of this world. And that feeling, of being in the middle of something so outstanding, gladdened my heart.

If I stopped there Lupita would be worth a visit. But on the day I went they had a special starter which happened to bear my Italian porn star name, Puttanesca Pockets. Just imagine: something like a mini calzone cut into two bite-sized halves, each stuffed with olives, capers, tomato and anchovy, the best Breville you never had. I would try to recreate it at home, but I know it would never approach that level of genius. “That dish will be on my mind all day” said somebody on Facebook when I put a picture up: that makes two of us.

Oh, and they only do one dessert, a Basque cheesecake. Guess what? It, too, is superlative.

Lupita
Rua de Sao Paulo 79, Lisbon
https://www.instagram.com/lupita.pizzaria/

3. Jesus é Goês

My final lunch of the trip was at Jesus é Goês, just off the very swanky Avenida de Liberdade. Normally eating Indian food on a European city break is the last thing I would ever do, but Jesus é Goês is all about the food of Goa, a Portuguese colony for over four hundred years, so it piqued my interest. I spotted it on an episode of Somebody Feed Phil on Netflix; for the uninitiated, somebody always does, rather a lot, and yet Phil never shuts up. It’s strangely endearing and annoying at the same time,

The restaurant is the brainchild of the eponymous Jesus, who opened the place ten years ago, and I didn’t discover until halfway through my meal there, doing a little research between courses, that he sadly died last year. The place is now run by his partner, a lovely, kind and smiling hostess who took excellent care of us during lunch. You can book this place, I later discovered, but only via WhatsApp: we were the only customers in the whole place on a Saturday lunchtime, which slightly saddened and concerned me.

Having eaten the restaurant’s food, I can add mystified to that list of adjectives, because it really is wonderful stuff and, with the exception of Clay’s, probably the best Indian food I’ve had outside India itself. I started with the restaurant’s iconic “holy burger”, an intensely spiced, deeply complex morsel served on a spoon topped with a poached egg yolk and more spices. I was under strict instructions to eat the whole thing as a single mouthful so of course I did, and it’s as good a single mouthful of food as I’ve tasted all year.

Zoë was eating an equally terrific samosa packed to the rafters with spiced meat, and I insisted that we ordered another burger and samosa so she could know the same joy as me. It would have felt wrong not to be able to talk about the experience of tasting that holy burger with her again, later in the holiday, later in the year or just later in our lives.

The mains kept up that standard – I did recognise a couple of dishes like pork sorpotel from Clay’s regional menus in the past, but I had to try Jesus é Goês’ goat curry, almost as much a signature dish as the holy burger. The meat benefited from a long, slow cook but what really made this was the dark, glossy, phenomenally spiced sauce, poured onto rice or loaded onto a chapati. Zoë’s chicken cafreal, served on the bone – although it didn’t stay on it for long – was completely different and equally enchanting, the sauce with more fragrance and citrus, less smoke.

This felt like food for the soul, and not necessarily something I’d ever have expected to eat in Lisbon, let alone to love so much. It felt strangely moving to eat in Jesus’ restaurant, knowing that he was gone but that his food would be enjoyed by hundreds of people who never got to meet him. I’m glad I was one of them. A sign on the wall said “ASK JESUS FOR A RECOMMENDATION”: this might be the only time I’ve ever put my faith in Him.

Jesus é Goês
Rua São José 23, Lisbon
https://www.instagram.com/jesusegoesoficial/

4. Prado

Prado was my Fancy Meal of the trip. I invariably do one on most holidays, where there’s an à la carte menu but I allow myself to be persuaded by the tasting menu. From there it’s only a momentary lapse before you’re signed up for the wine pairings, too, the whole nine yards. It’s a slippery slope, and at the bottom of it is an evening where you’re cosseted and indulged and don’t have to make a single decision again. And to do that in this tasteful space with its inventive menu, beautifully chosen Portuguese wines and well-judged service – well, it was no hardship at all.

The tasting menu, I will say, was made an easier choice by the fact that Prado’s à la carte wasn’t really an à la carte in the true sense, instead being a list of small plates with a recommendation that you order something like four per person for sharing. So you’re going to end up with something like a tasting menu whether you like it or not, and although I found that a tad irksome I did manage to get over it. The tasting menu is 75 Euros here, to give you an idea, but I suspect that curating your own small plates playlist would probably cost there or thereabouts.

It’s a minor quibble anyway, because the food was brilliant. Prado is Portuguese for meadow, it turns out, and Prado prides itself on taking a farm to table approach, although that didn’t quite square with a menu which leant very heavily on fish. But no matter, because so much of what I ate was imaginative, original and just plain fun. Beef tartare came sandwiched between leaves of grilled cabbage, octopus was served on a skewer, zhuzhed with the addition of a chorizo emulsion. Even the bread was lifted by a pot of spreadable pork fat, shot through with garlic.

Every dish was fascinating, a real beauty pageant of cracking creations. Hard to single out anything, but marinated mackerel served in a chilled, fresh soup of green apple and green olive was a combination I could never have conceived of in a million years yet loved eating. I adored Prado’s John Dory, spiked with pil pil and served under a dehydrated kale leaf. Oyster mushrooms, served in a goat’s butter sauce, lardo draped on top were a proper delight, as tasty as they were beautiful: it was just a shame that the garlic-laced pork fat earlier on meant we hadn’t saved any bread for mopping.

I thought the Alentejano acorn fed pork, served ruddy pink with potato purée was probably the weakest course of the meal, but Prado saved the day with an outrageously good dessert – a brioche with a sweet, burnished, caramelised crust, served with exemplary coffee ice cream and a sauce which went perfectly with the glass of Madeira we were given to polish off proceedings. Two hours and a couple of hundred Euros very well spent, even if the rest of the meals of the trip were, by comparison, far less rarefied.

Prado
Travessa das Pedras Negras 2, Lisbon
https://pradorestaurante.com/index2.php

5. Trinca

Trinca is nothing to look at from the outside – I almost walked past it without realising it was my Friday night dinner reservation – and inside it’s a plain and unprepossessing room. But it was an absolute riot – a small, intimate place that felt more like a neighbourhood restaurant than anywhere else I ate in Lisbon.

The menu is on a chalkboard and changes all the time, and to say it jumps around is to put it lightly. The cheese was traditionally Portuguese, the textbook focaccia we had with it less so. And then there were grilled leeks, almost more like Spanish calçots, served with a ginger hollandaise and Jerusalem artichoke crisps, a dish that was truly a citizen of the world. Not international enough for you? How about fregola topped with shiitake mushrooms cooked in ponzu and glazed with gochujang?

That’s before I get onto our main courses. Octopus – so far, so Portuguese – but in tacos. Or tacos with confit Iberian pork topped with a zingy salsa verde and (a masterstroke, this) pork crackling. But just to throw one last cuisine in, we also tried Nepalese pork belly, simply spiced and grilled, accompanied by a cucumber salad singing with sesame. A menu like this shouldn’t work, and paradoxically that’s exactly why it did.

No dish cost more than fifteen euros, many of them cost a lot less. The most expensive red on the wine list, which was biodynamic and very pleasant indeed, cost a shade over thirty euros. A more different experience to Prado is hard to imagine, but it was an equally valid one. I left this neighbourhood restaurant full, happy and deeply envious for all the locals there, who clearly lived in its neighbourhood.

Trinca
Rua dos Anjos 59C, Lisbon
https://www.instagram.com/restaurantetrinca/

6. Tapisco

Arguably Lisbon’s two most famous chefs are José Avillez and Henrique Sá Pessoa. The former has two Michelin starred Belcanto and a raft of other restaurants across the city – Cantinho do Avillez, Bairro do Avillez and so on. In case that wasn’t ornate enough, Bairro do Avillez contains three different restaurants, or eating areas. What’s the Portuguese equivalent of a Russian doll? Anyway, he has something like sixteen restaurants in total, and I found the whole experience of trying to pick one exhausting, so I gave up.

Sá Pessoa, on the other hand, has a much narrower portfolio. There’s Alma, which is double starred, and Tapisco, which is his more affordable, casual restaurant on the edge of Principe Real. I went to Tapisco on my last evening in the city and had a really enjoyable meal full of well executed versions of Portuguese classics. My cuttlefish, simply battered and fried with a coriander mayonnaise was simple, unshowy and a proper pleasure, and Zoë’s tuna tartare with avocado and little wasabi pearls was equally gorgeous.

For our main, we both gravitated to the same thing, arroz de pato, a deeply savoury daydream of a dish, rice studded with shredded duck, topped with dried duck and smoky sausage, dotted with aioli. This was not a dish to share, it was a dish where you jealously guarded your own personal skillet, spooning and enjoying and worrying about the point in the future when you could spoon no more.

I had arroz de pato once at O Portugués once, back when I was reviewing takeaways. Now I know what this dish can be, I would be reluctant to order it again – although, that said, De Nata have it on their menu. Surely it’s worth a try?

Tapisco also, by the way, does a chocolate mousse with olive oil and salt which even managed to supplant Thames Lido’s in my affections. Who needs two Michelin stars anyway?

Tapisco
Rua Dom Pedro V 81, Lisbon
https://www.tapisco.pt/lisboa_en.html

7. Senhor Uva

I did my homework wrong on Senhor Uva: I thought it was a natural wine bar where you could snack if you wanted to, the perfect spot for a pre-dinner drink on our final night. It’s out in Estrela, at the end of the iconic 28 tram route, so if you timed it right you could potentially combine them.

But actually, Senhor Uva is part wine bar, part restaurant. And the restaurant part is a selection of almost entirely plant-based small plates. Having booked a table, we then hastily sent an email saying that actually we just wanted wine and a few pre-dinner snacks. Would that be okay? we asked. And if it wasn’t, we said we’d completely understand them cancelling our reservation.

Well, we didn’t get a reply but on arrival they knew exactly who we were and what we were after, and they looked after us superbly. Nothing was too much trouble, and they selected and recommended glass after glass of striking, elegant wine while letting us pick whatever small plates we wanted.

And all the small plates were excellent – one was a couple of local cheeses with handmade crackers and a sweet fruit chutney, another was potato, leek and broccoli skewers with a deep delicious sauce. A third, maybe the best, was grilled courgettes with poppadom shards and a moat of stunning ponzu sauce. When every dish was set down in front of us we were told its ingredients, and told it was made with love.

By the end of the third glass I wanted to live in a parallel universe where we’d never booked a restaurant that night, where we just stayed there in that stylish space, seemingly hewn out of the hillside, drinking more wines, eating everything on the menu, enjoying the chatter from the neighbouring tables (much of which, I have to say, was in English).

Senhor Uva has clearly done well enough to expand into a larger space on the other side of the road, and that’s where the kitchen was. As the light dimmed and we saw the room opposite glow, the regular to and fro of staff from there to here carrying food, I thought that this was what the best of life was about – travelling, finding spaces like this, being transported and getting lost in a reverie that this was somehow your place.

How I wish home had anywhere even remotely like Senhor Uva. How I wish I’d had longer there. You will never, I suspect, hear me say this again about somewhere with an exclusively vegetarian menu, so make the most of it.

Senhor Uva
Rua de Santo Amaro 66A, Lisbon
https://senhoruva.com

8. Manteigaria

Everyone will tell you that the place to go for pasteis de nata is Pasteis de Belem, a tram ride away. People queue to get in, and you eventually grab a table in one of its tiled dining rooms, and you scoff egg custard tarts fresh out of the oven, slipped onto your plate and dusted with cinnamon. After that you do the Tower of Belem, look round the Jéronimos monastery, take your pictures of the Monument to the Discoveries and take a tram back in to the centre. You’ve eaten well, you’ve seen sights, it’s a day of tourism well done.

And all that’s true. I’ve been to Pasteis de Belem, several times, and their pasteis are a revelation if you’ve never had them before. But for my money Manteigaria’s, from their gorgeous site on the edge of Bairro Alto, more than matches them. So go there instead if you’re tight for time, or want to stay central, or just trust my judgment, and you won’t be disappointed. They are warm and perfect, the pastry with just the right amount of flake and the custard with absolutely the right amount of wobble.

I have a feeling pasteis de nata anywhere in Lisbon are good – I even had a decent one at the airport before my flight home – but you may as well start at the top so you set the standard. Also, once you’ve done that I have good news for you: De Nata’s pasteis are really not that far off, and a much shorter trip away.

Manteigaria
Rua do Loreto 2, Lisbon (and in the Time Out Market)
https://manteigaria.com/en/

9. Nannarella

I always seek out ice cream on my holidays, because I associate ice cream with holidays. And normally I would recommend you Santini, a Portuguese chain, because I had their ice cream in Porto many years ago, and liked it a lot.

But Nannarella, another discovery from Somebody Feed Phil, is a level above that and up there with anything I’ve had in Bologna, Granada or Malaga. It’s a little bit in the middle of nowhere – sort of between Estrela and Principe Real – but it’s worth seeking out if you even remotely love ice cream like I do; as it happens, I took a Bolt there specifically to try it out.

Zoë thought that was a bit nuts, but once we were installed on a park bench and she was eating a ball of gianduja ice cream bigger than a baby’s fist she soon changed her tune and told me I was right all along. Since that almost never happens, it’s one for the memory banks.

I loved Nannarella’s chocolate ice cream which was on the darker side and a real work of art, but I especially loved the fior di latte, an ice cream I’ve never seen outside Italy. The confidence to do that – to make an ice cream that just tastes of itself, no vanilla, no nothing – speaks volumes about the place. And it’s completely justified.

Nannarella
Rua Nova da Piedade 64A, Lisbon
https://www.nannarella.pt/en

10. Fabrica

Fabrica was my go to coffee place in Lisbon, a choice made easier by the fact that they have branches all over the city – all of which look slightly different, all of which are very stylish and all of which serve excellent coffee.

So I enjoyed their spot just behind Praça do Comércio in the heart of the Baixa, and I also really enjoyed the massive pain au chocolat I ate there. I loved their branch on the bustling street of Rua das Portas de Santo Antão, and I adored their little coffee van in Principe Real, just around the corner from EmbaiXada, a beautiful mall of concept stores housed in a nineteenth century Arabesque palace (this is a food and drink guide but honestly: go shopping there, it’s amazing).

My favourite spot, though, was the one in Chiado, on Rua das Flores, on a steep hill a short stroll from Manteigaria. I know the done thing is to have your pastel de nata with a coffee, but Fabrica is a great advert for just eating the egg custard tarts up at the bar and then working off a fraction of the calories heading down the sloping street for exceptional coffee.

Fabrica
Rua das Flores 63, Lisbon (and other locations across the city)
https://fabricacoffeeroasters.com

11. Dramatico

Dramatico is such a beautiful spot that it’s almost tempting to recommend it for that alone. It’s a little space – again, almost hewn out of the side of a steep hill – picture perfect with white Mondrianesque windows, a lovely showcase for coffee and brewing on one side, and a handful of tables the other. The picture above doesn’t do it justice: it’s absurdly fetching.

It’s a little out of the way, just off from Principe Real and across from the botanical gardens, and our Bolt struggled to find it, leaving us gladly with a downhill stroll rather than an uphill one. But the one frustration about it is that because it’s good, it’s popular, and because it’s popular and small, it’s very difficult to grab a table.

Normally I wouldn’t mind that so much, but the room was full of Americans – it’s always Americans – with vocal fry so bad that they belonged in a burns unit: I’m afraid it brought out my inner Sam Loudermilk.

Add in the fact that the café only seems to open until 2pm, and sometimes not even that, and the owner is capricious at best and sometimes just shuts for a two week holiday because he can, and… well, I realise this might not be the best sales pitch in the world. But in warmer months I think they have a bench outside, so there’s that.

And it was the single best coffee I had on the trip, and one of the best lattes I’ve had in quite a while. So maybe the owner can do what he likes and, if the worst comes to the worst, you can sip Dramatico’s magnificent latte on a bench in the botanical gardens. If you did, I suspect you’d forgive the place almost anything.

Dramatico
Rua da Alegria 41E, Lisbon
https://www.instagram.com/dramatico.lisboa/

12. Cerveja Canil

I don’t know how mature the craft beer scene is in Lisbon, but on aesthetics alone I’d say Cerveja Canil is similar to other craft beer places I’ve been to in Europe – black walls, basic furniture, people having a terrific time. This branch is in the heart of the Baixa (they have a second off Avenida da Liberdade) and was humming when we turned up for a pre-dinner drink. A big loud group of Brits had discovered it too, but once they – and the U.K.’s seemingly unique brand of toxic masculinity – cleared out, it became an extremely agreeable place.

Canil is a brewpub, and offers about a dozen of its own beers in a real variety of styles, so not just different iterations of hazy pales but also porters, brown ales and ESBs. Their pale ale was far better than its middling Untappd ratings would have you believe, but I also really enjoyed their guest beers, by Letra and local microbrewery Mean Sardine.

In marked contrast to so many beer places in the U.K. (and definitely in Reading), Canil also has the beer snacks down pat. I particularly enjoyed a goats cheese croqueta with honey, resting on a completely unnecessary carpet of rocket. Beer and croquetas are such a perfect match: I wish Phantom or Double Barrelled would get on the phone to Caversham’s Miss Croquetas and make some kind of arrangement.

Cerveja Canil
Rua dos Douradores 133, Lisbon (also at Rua da Santa Marta 35)
https://www.cervejacanil.com

13. Sputnik Craft Beer

Sputnik was the other beer place I tried on this trip, out of the centre somewhat but just round the corner from Trinca. Another proponent of Tollix stools and walls somehow darker than black – a look that always reminds me of seeing Darwin Deez live at the Boilerroom in Guildford back in 2015 – it was nonetheless a really lovely craft beer spot with great service, an excellent range of beers and a well-stocked, interesting fridge.

Unlike Canil, Sputnik does not brew beer itself but its twelve taps had an excellent range including local breweries Dois Corvos, Fermentage and Mean Sardine (disappointingly it also had a single beer by Brewdog, for people who haven’t yet got the memo about Brewdog).

But the fridge also had some real wonders, including more cans from local breweries and a few other Iberian classics like Barcelona’s Garage. I squeezed more drinking in than was probably wise, and left with a couple of bottles of barrel aged imperial stout to take home and pop in the garage.

All that aside, the thing I really loved about Sputnik was how inclusive and unhipster it was – pretty much every table there was a different demographic, including shabby, middle-aged me, and I was reminded that the way to be cool is to not give a shit whether you’re cool or not. In that sense, I would say that Sputnik is pretty cool, not that I’m any judge of that.

Sputnik Craft Beer
Rua Andrade 41, Lisbon
https://www.instagram.com/sputnik.lisboa/

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Restaurant review: Thames Lido

Can you believe that Thames Lido celebrated its seventh birthday this year? It was such an event – three articles in quick succession from the Guardian was a big deal in 2017 – and for many people it’s been a real statement piece, a special occasion restaurant that has seen off the likes of Forbury’s, Cerise and, at the start of this year, the Corn Stores. It put Reading on the map when nowhere else had, just before the two kitchens, Clay’s and Kungfu, arrived in town and changed everything.

And yet, as regular readers might know, I’ve always had a very chequered experience of Thames Lido. When I visited it on duty, over six years ago, I found things to like but wasn’t won over by the place as a whole. And on the occasions when I’ve been back, for a meal with friends or tapas by the pool, it has never completely convinced me. Consistency has consistently – irony of ironies – been the problem. There have been moments in every meal that impressed but always, somehow, an equal and opposite Newtonian disappointment.

The meal that stayed with me was one I had in the spring of 2021 with my family, just as I was emerging from a self-imposed Covid lockdown and tentatively eating outside again. We had tapas by the pool, and I had that experience – again – that some of the dishes were quite good and some were very much something and nothing. I made the mistake of posting about it on Instagram, and shortly after that I had a direct message from the head chef. It’s safe to say that dealing with criticism was not a strong suit of his.

“Looking through your account, your reviews are generally critical so may I suggest you don’t go out so much and cook a bit more at home?” he said. “I’m sure we’d all love to see the photos.”

Well, I didn’t take his advice – and I doubt he took mine in return that he might want to consider developing a thicker skin – except in one important respect, which is that I didn’t bother going back to Thames Lido after that. He left not long after those messages and for a while Thames Lido churned through head chefs like the U.K. got through Prime Ministers. I think it also had some kind of executive chef/”restaurant director” at the time – rarely a good thing – and the menu felt like it was focused more on buying and dishing up rather than cooking. So, much as others still loved the Lido, it well and truly fell off my radar.

And then, late last year, something happened which put them back on it. Out of the blue, I heard from the person handling Thames Lido’s PR, who told me that the restaurant had recently acquired a new head chef.

Nothing out of the ordinary there – it seemed to happen every few months at the time – but this time they had picked someone interesting. Thames Lido had gone for Iain Ganson, previously at the Bell at Waltham St Lawrence where he’d cooked with his brother Scott for the best part of twenty years. That made it somewhere I needed to revisit. Ganson’s food, like his brother’s, had always been exceptional and it had the potential to revitalise Thames Lido, which felt like it had been cosplaying founder Freddy Bird – not brilliantly, I might add – ever since he’d left.

So I politely turned down the PR’s very kind offers to attend pop-up guest nights at Thames Lido (and endure the horrors of what they described as “a little media table”) but I made a mental note that I had to go back before 2024 was out to find out whether the menu was remade in Ganson’s image or, like a covers band in a hotel lobby, he was playing somebody else’s hits. And finally, at the start of December at the beginning of a week off with Zoë, I made it there on a Tuesday lunchtime to try and find out the answer.

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Restaurant review: El Cerdo, Maidenhead

Every year, without exception, you can reliably expect two things to happen in Reading’s hospitality scene. One is that there will be a raft of closures and new openings. Some years that ratio is pretty much one to one, others – like this year – it’s badly out of kilter, with far more places giving up the ghost than newcomers showing up to take their place. It’s tough out there, with no relief in sight. But the other thing that happens, every year without fail, is that none of those new openings will be a tapas bar.

I have complained about this so many times that it’s boring for all of us, so I won’t go on at length. But everywhere you look there’s a tapas bar, it seems, apart from Reading. Swindon has Los Gatos, Oxford has Arbequina. Newbury has Goat On The Roof, and Wokingham has Salty Olive. And Reading? Reading has next to sod all – unless you count Thames Lido, which I don’t, or Alto Lounge, which surely nobody should (Oh wow! Excited for this said the Chronicle‘s Facebook page this week, about the news that Alto Lounge had received permission from the council to double in size: that’s the Chronicle for you, excited about pretty much anything).

No, it’s never a tapas bar. Biryani joints are ten a penny, we went through a phase where we got three sushi restaurants in quick succession and momo are having a moment, but nobody wants to open a tapas bar. It’s a long, long time since La Tasca (which also wasn’t great) and six years since I Love Paella – not a tapas bar, but the closest thing we had – was unceremoniously booted out of the Fisherman’s Cottage. Is it a Brexit thing? Surely somebody feels like getting on the blower to renowned Bristol importer Mevalco and sorting this out, you might think, but every year nobody does.

And that’s what sends me scuttling off to the likes of Swindon, or Oxford, or Wokingham, trying to find the next best thing. Sometimes it works – Los Gatos is a little miracle – and sometimes I find myself somewhere like Sanpa, but I keep on trying because it’s a wonderful way to eat and I am always on the hunt for somewhere that brings a little hint of Granada or Málaga to unsung Berkshire. And that’s why this week I ended up at El Cerdo in Maidenhead, a ten minute walk from the train station, in the company of Katie, last seen last month sampling the glitzy splendour of Calico with me: inexplicably, after a dinner with me, she felt like repeating the experience.

Katie, it turned out, was on a proper journey of discovery, having never been to Maidenhead before. On the stroll through town to the restaurant I gave her a whistle stop tour of everything I knew about Maidenhead, which didn’t take long: former constituency of Theresa May, the infidelity capital of the U.K. (allegedly) and the town that, possibly because it was originally meant to be the terminus of the Elizabeth Line, was getting all the interesting things Reading didn’t.

That last one really is true – Maidenhead has a great independent craft beer bar in A Hoppy Place, wonderful pizza at Knead, an absolutely top notch town centre restaurant in Seasonality. And if some of the misfires, like Sauce and Flour, weren’t amazing, they at least showed that someone was trying. We walked past Sauce and Flour on the way to El Cerdo, and it was rammed, which shows how little I know about anything.

El Cerdo is by the canal, in the new development (the Waterside Quarter, apparently). “This looks so much like the Oracle it’s disconcerting” was Katie’s take, not without justification. The restaurant looked welcoming from the outside, and it wasn’t unpleasant on the inside but it had a feeling of “new build” that it couldn’t quite shake, a functional box rather than a cosy, appealing cocoon.

That’s not entirely their fault – it’s the hand they’ve been dealt with the space, and I liked the giant pig logo on one wall, past the handsome bar. But overall I felt it lacked a little character, in a way I couldn’t put my finger on. After all, Knead has a very similar dining room, but somehow it still has a feeling of bustle and hubbub. I guess the open space with the pizza oven perhaps brought things together in a way that El Cerdo’s bar, attractive though it was, didn’t quite manage. A handful of tables were occupied when we got there, including one large group in the corner, but it was a quiet Tuesday night.

El Cerdo’s menu read well. It wasn’t so big as to be unwieldy, and was divided into logical sections – nibbles, cold tapas, meat, seafood and fish. They hadn’t given in to the temptation to do paella on the side, so there was just the one rice dish and a few types of tortilla. In the run up to my visit I’d looked at the menu at Los Gatos, just to benchmark prices, and El Cerdo was definitely more expensive: nearly everything was north of a tenner, with some dishes nudging twenty.

But the wine list was good, and exclusively Spanish, and although we were tempted by a txakoli – the slightly sparkling Basque white you rarely see on menus – we went for an albariňo. It was an excellent choice – crisp and clean but not bone dry, with a little fruit. Thirty-eight quid for a bottle that’s fifteen online, so not an oppressive mark-up, either.

Now, before we get started on the food – and because tapas is by definition small plates, we have a fair bit to run through – I want to get a couple of things out of the way. One is that I had an absolutely lovely evening, and that makes it far more tempting to see the food through the Albariño-tinted glasses of good company. The other is that your mileage at El Cerdo might very well vary from mine: Katie, I suspect, enjoyed most of the dishes more than I did.

And of course, your take on this kind of food will depend on how and where you’ve had it before. Despite loving tapas and small plates, it turned out that Katie had never been to Spain, although she’s rectifying that with a trip to Barcelona just before Christmas.

I on the other hand go to Andalusia most years – and yes, I know that makes me sound like the pretentious tosspot I am – and unfortunately that means that although I went hoping for the best, I was painfully aware of all the instances where the best simply didn’t materialise. El Cerdo’s website says, pretty plainly, “If a dish doesn’t taste like it does in Spain, then we won’t serve it”. Although it also says that El Cerdo has an “executive chef”, and in my experience very little good comes of having one of those in place of an actual chef.

The first sign that I was going to have to write this kind of review came with the accompaniment to those first sips of wine, a couple of gildas. A gilda is a very simple thing – a skewer of olives and pickled chillis, all brought together with a slim ribbon of salty anchovy. Named in homage to Rita Hayworth, it’s almost a perfect mouthful, and quite hard to get wrong. You could have really amazing olives, and truly best in class Cantabrian anchovies, but even an entry level one is going to be a delight.

Or it should be, providing you use salty anchovies. But it felt to me like these were made with boquerones, the softer, more vinegary Spanish anchovies without the saline tautness of the good stuff. Which in turn meant they were all out of kilter – all vinegar and no salt, and somehow fishier than they should have been as a result. I felt like a right killjoy thinking this, because Katie seemed to enjoy hers. But I knew it could, and should, have been better.

The jamon croquetas were a similar story. They weren’t terrible – easily better than the deep fried abominations I’d eaten at Sanpa – but nowhere near the quality of anything you would get in Spain. They were a little flabby, a little pale, a little lacking in the crisp shell you needed. And the bechamel inside was lacking silkiness and a proper hit of jamon. Perching a little slice of it on top of each croqueta just showed you, Jim Bowen-style, what you could have won.

Last time I went out with Katie at Calico, she took me out of my comfort zone by ordering more vegetarian dishes than I would personally have chosen, which probably meant that my review was useful to slightly more people than it would ordinarily have been. The same thing happened here, where Katie was stuck between two dishes, broccoli with almonds or hispi cabbage, that I would never have ordered in a million years.

I took against the former for containing coconut ajo blanco in order to be vegan – good luck convincing anybody that they’d serve that in Spain – and so hispi cabbage it was. And actually this turned out to be one of the better things we ordered, although possibly one of the less Spanish ones. The cabbage came topped with a caper and raisin purée, which was heavy on the raisin and light on the caper, and squiggled vigorously with what was apparently a cured egg yolk sauce.

Your guess is as good as mine: I certainly didn’t get cured egg yolk from it, partly because I don’t really know what a cured egg yolk would even taste like. The little pieces of fried kale on top were pleasant too, although it gave me flashbacks to the Lyndhurst, which always makes me sad. There was a real whack of lurking heat in this too, and all in all it was probably the cleverest thing we had. Not massive, and not cheap at just shy of a tenner, but with lots to recommend it.

One of the biggest crimes against Spanish food was what came next, something the menu described as our “lazy” or open tortillas. We picked the eponymous El Cerdo tortilla, with chorizo and black pudding, and it’s difficult to describe how underwhelmed I was by this. Lazy is about right, to the point where maybe the menu should have said “we can’t be arsed to make a tortilla”.

Now in fairness the server, who was excellent, asked us if we wanted it runny or medium, and maybe we should have gone for the former. But whether it was runny or medium, this wasn’t a tortilla. It was an omelette. An underseasoned one that had been cooked through, with four bits of chorizo plonked on top and some black pudding – the British kind, not gorgeous soft Spanish morcilla, lobbed in the middle. No softness, a little onion, no potato that I could discern. This dish frustrated me. I imagine it would have made a Spaniard angry.

We’d ordered dishes in waves, partly because El Cerdo, Wagamama-style, says that everything you order will come out when they feel like it and we didn’t want to be swamped with dishes in one hit only to find the evening over. El Cerdo said that you should aim for two to three dishes each, which we took to mean three each, and actually doing it this way helped because we got to spy on the table next to us – four lads who kept their coats on throughout for some reason – and swap one of our dishes for something they’d ordered.

That dish was another of the relative hits of the evening, pincho de pollo with crispy polenta and mojo rojo. It was a reasonably generous skewer – four substantial enough pieces of chicken with a weird treble clef of red sauce, resting on a rope bridge of crispy sticks of polenta. And again, it wasn’t terrible but I didn’t found myself wowed. The chicken was nicely enough done, but El Cerdo makes much of its charcoal oven and I didn’t feel this had the char I’d expect from such an impressive piece of kit. The polenta added contrast, but if it did indeed have Idiazabal cheese in it it was a whisper, not a shout.

And again, thirteen pounds for this – even by 2024 standards – felt steep. I thought back to the skewer of chicken I had at Kolae, earlier in the year. Different cuisine, of course, but in terms of technique, flavour and value it was worlds away from this. This felt like the kind of dish that might pleasantly surprise you at Alto Lounge, but only because your expectations were on the floor.

If you wanted more evidence that El Cerdo wasn’t capable of delivering a flawless plate of food, their monkfish in tempura with chickpeas was exactly that. Just as at Calico, Katie had talked me into ordering something with chickpeas and they were lovely – nutty, earthy, positively moreish. But what in god’s name was going on with the monkfish? Two slightly forlorn nuggets of the stuff in a batter that was not, by any stretch of the imagination, tempura. It had no crunch, no texture, and when you tried to cut through it it all fell away, leaving a dense little knot of woolly monkfish, a sad savoury parody of a profiterole.

It turned out that Katie had never had monkfish before. “It’s not usually like this” I told her, feeling like I had to do something to rescue monkfish’s reputation. I hope for Katie’s sake that her first visit to Spain is better than her first taste of monkfish. If it’s on a par, that means she’s had her pocket picked on Las Ramblas.

By this point I’m guessing neither of us really wants me to go on, but go on I must because there were a couple more dishes. Again, Katie quite liked the patatas bravas, which I think we’d picked to make sure we felt full at the end. And again, it wasn’t atrocious but I have never, ever had patatas bravas like this in Spain or indeed anywhere decent in the U.K.

The bravas sauce didn’t taste like bravas sauce, it was fruitier and lacked any kind of heat. The alioli, giving the benefit of the doubt and assuming that’s what it was, was not unpleasant. But it needed more of both, and moreover the potatoes were wan specimens, technically cooked but lacking the golden hue and brittle texture that makes this dish a treat.

Writing this, I should let you know, is the weirdest experience. Because I had a really lovely evening but the more I think about the food the more surprised I am by that.

We decided to have a dessert and there was one on the specials menu – a tangerine cake with white chocolate ganache and yuzu sorbet – which our server told us was perfect for sharing. So we also decided to have a dessert wine each, and identified a very nice-looking Pedro Ximenez on the wine list. So we ordered it, and our server came over apologetically. There was only enough left in the bottle for one glass – well, one and a half glasses, really. So what would we like to do?

Of course, as something approximating to a gentleman, I let Katie have that and went instead for a white dessert wine from Rueda. But when they came over, both were in very small glasses, both were the same size, and both looked bigger than they were because each of them had an ice cube lobbed in it.

“They weren’t the coldest, so I put an ice cube in them” explained our server.

This begged so many questions, like why aren’t you keeping your dessert wine in the fridge? or maybe you should have asked first?, let alone is that really what a glass of Pedro Ximenez looks like? or why didn’t you give her the rest of the bottle, were you saving that final half glass for Santa?

It was just baffling, and especially so because otherwise service was lovely all night. She told us they’d been open about a year and that although this week was quiet, things ramped up for the Christmas season after that and business was booming.

Last but not least, the dessert. It looked fancy, it looked cheffy and I can see that it was kind of designed for sharing. And leaving out the question of whether yuzu is remotely Spanish, the yuzu sorbet in the middle was easily the best and most enjoyable thing in the whole dish, resting on a sort of granola crumb. But there was nothing you could really describe as a white chocolate ganache, because neither the quenelles of something or other or the isosceles triangles of white chocolate fitted that bill.

But that wasn’t the most heinous failing: that was the cake. Dense didn’t even begin to describe it. You could work out your upper body trying to drive a spoon through that cube of stodge, and I felt like I did. There’s a chap called David who comes to my readers’ lunches whose job is to build machines that are used to test whether materials can withstand immense pressure. David would take a professional interest in that cake.

Because I seem to have spent most of this review pointing out places that do things better than El Cerdo, this feels like the right time to mention the pistachio cake I had last year at Manteca.

By this point, with the exception of a couple of chaps at the bar, we were the last table there so we settled up and made our way back to the station in the cold. Our meal, including a 12.5% service charge, came to just over a hundred and fifty pounds. Now, I think life in Britain has reached the point where it’s difficult to say “that’s expensive” any more because you’d end up saying that about most meals out.

But instead, we can at least talk about value: that’s more than my recent meals cost at Calico, at The Cellar, or Storia. My meal at Goat On The Roof cost a smidge more, admittedly two years ago, but El Cerdo can’t hold a candle to Goat On The Roof.

Granted, none of those restaurants are an exact match in terms of how many courses, how much booze and all that jazz, but the central point remains: El Cerdo does not feel like value. Not compared to any of those places, not compared to the tapas places you could eat at along the train tracks in Oxford or Swindon. So the search continues, and maybe next year I’ll rock up at Salty Olive having one last stab at finding great Spanish food a very short distance from Reading. Because if there’s one thing we can be fairly sure of, it’s that a tapas bar will not open in Reading next year.

But let’s close by looking on the bright side. For two years now I’ve been taking the train to Maidenhead, trying all these places and bemoaning the fact that Reading doesn’t have them. But actually, now, I’m beginning to think that my head was turned by Seasonality and Knead. Because outside those two, the new places I’ve eaten at in Maidenhead – the likes of Sauce and Flour, Storia and El Cerdo – don’t leave me thinking that we’re missing out. If there’s a market for box-ticking, slightly inauthentic, sterile restaurants and those restaurants want to go to Maidenhead instead, I’m all for it. I’m happy to hold out for something better. Even if experience tells me I might be waiting a very long time.

El Cerdo – 6.3
The Colonnade, Waterside Quarter, Maidenhead, SL6 1QG
01628 617412

https://elcerdo.co.uk/maidenhead/

Café review: Zotta Deli

About five years ago, a very nice lady called Elizabeth came to the last ER readers’ lunch of the year, at Clay’s Hyderabadi Kitchen, back when it used to be on London Street. I assumed she must have had a terrible time for some reason, as she never came to another. But then this year she returned, attending one at Clay’s new home in Caversham, and the most recent lunch at Kungfu Kitchen’s new home. She’s brought both her husband and her son to lunches this year, so I guess perhaps she likes them after all.

Elizabeth is American, and her accent has that drawl of somewhere in the southern states, although I’ve never asked exactly where. And at my lunch in the summer I discovered that Elizabeth and I were as good as neighbours. Because, just like Kungfu Kitchen, I moved house this year and it turns out that Elizabeth lives just around the corner from me – in, I might add, a really handsome-looking house. She lives so nearby, in fact, that she told me that if she’d known when I was going on holiday she’d have taken my bins out for me: I was reminded of something the great Barry Crocker sang, nearly forty years ago.

Anyway a couple of weeks back I got an email from Elizabeth, telling me I should review Zotta Deli. It was on my radar already, an institution run by father and son Rocco and Paolo Zottarelli. It made the local news this year when it announced that it was closing its Winnersh premises in July after 10 years trading there, relocating to a new site on the Basingstoke Road, just opposite the holy trinity of Aldi, the Victoria Cross pub and that massive Morrisons. Now Reading residents, they opened their doors in their new spot at the end of September: all the best people seem to be moving house this year.

I knew people who raved about Zotta as a deli, and I have a feeling it used to supply arancini to the likes of Shed, but the move from Winnersh to Whitley was more than an alphabetical one: Zotta was also changing angle somewhat, going from being a pure deli to a spot where you could eat and drink, as well as picking up produce to take home. So a combination of Mama’s Way and Madoo, you could say, just around the corner from Minas Café and Whitley’s legendary New City Fish Bar.

The comparison with Minas Café was an apt one, and part of the reason why I was so keen to get to Zotta before the year was out. Because despite all the money owners have chucked at Siren RG1 and The Rising Sun in the town centre, the gems of the last couple of years in Reading have been far more likely to be found in the less fashionable parts of town, on the Oxford Road or Northumberland Avenue.

And in particular, they were more likely to be discovered in a new breed of cafés like Minas and DeNata Coffee & Co offering proudly regional food, with a crowd-pleasing full English on the side, just to keep the locals happy. After all, that was a model that had worked well in Reading ever since Kungfu Kitchen took over the old Metro Café on Christchurch Green in 2018, keeping the breakfast menu going while cooking up authentic Szechuan dishes into the bargain. And look what happened to them.

So Elizabeth already had my interest, but she also told me that she was a big fan of Zotta’s lasagne. “They’ve just moved, and a good review from you might help”, she added. “I’ll even drop you off there sometime if you want.” I could hear Barry Crocker clearing his throat again. Now, I may not be as motivated by altruism as I should be, but I’m definitely motivated by lasagne. So on a drab and overcast Saturday afternoon I hopped on a number 6 bus and made my way down the Basingstoke Road with carbs and comfort uppermost in my mind.

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