Restaurant review: Creperie Doux Sourire

On February 28, 2025February 28, 2025 By ediblereadingIn Reviews5 Comments

I’ve written before about the factors that make a restaurant perfect for solo dining: a good table that doesn’t face a wall or, worse still, the bogs; a great view to enable people watching; a menu that doesn’t make you feel like you’re missing out – no small plates or other “everything has to be shared” formats – and staff that respect rather than judge the choice made by solo diners.

Get all that right and, whether you’re up at the window at Mama’s Way or tucked away in a corner of London Street Brasserie, you’ll have a brilliant time. Take a book, if you want to pretend you’re not going to scroll your phone, order a glass of wine, sit back and enjoy. I really like solo dining these days: so much so, in fact, that I was even quoted to that effect in the Independent. Fancy, right?

The criteria for picking a restaurant to review on your own, though? That’s another kettle of fish.

The thing is, reviewing restaurants is about giving readers a representative picture of what a place is like to eat at. Some of that – the room, the service, the view, the background music – is largely the same whether you have a table for 1 or 11, this is true. But it falls down when you come to the food, because in many restaurants you want to see a decent range of what the kitchen can do. With two of you, that can be six dishes – more, if you’re greedy. On your tod it risks giving a lopsided perspective.

What that means is that when I review solo, I think some kinds of restaurants lend themselves especially well to that. Places where most of the dishes – be they pizza, tacos, momo or biryani – are variations on a single theme are ideal: I may like or love my pizza, for instance, but the one someone else might have eaten with me will share a lot of its DNA. It’s a safer bet that my view of that restaurant will be a typical one.

Casual places tend to be better too, because people are more likely to eat at those alone, possibly in a rush – although it’s a hill I will die on that an unhurried solo meal is one of life’s great joys. And some restaurants are particularly unsuited to reviewing solo, and here’s where the overlap with the opening paragraph comes in: anywhere with small plates or dishes designed for sharing, for instance, is a bust.

I always think of my poor friend Jerry, who went on a solo holiday to Valencia determined to try paella, only to find that the restaurants there would only serve it for two people; he came home with a paella pan but no first hand experience of the city’s most famous dish. Personally I’d have ordered for two, got them to box up the leftovers and eaten them in my hotel room the next day, but Jerry is far less gluttonous than I am (and awfully nice and polite, for that matter).

The reason I tell you all this is that this week’s review was meant to be of a fancy food pub out in the sticks, the kind of place that as a non-driver I don’t review anywhere near as often as you might like. But my dining companion, who has a lovely car and enjoys giving it a run-out, cancelled on me at fairly short notice, leaving me looking at my to do list and scratching my head, trying to work out the best option.

So this week you nearly got a review of Paesinos, the new pizza place that has opened opposite Jackson’s Corner, a perfect candidate because one pizza will tell you if the dough, the base and the tomato sauce are good. And I nearly dropped in next door instead to Just Momo: even the name suggests they only do one thing, although they offer chow mein too. I also considered Biryani Mama, although their name is misleading as biryani is a fraction of the dozens of dishes on their menu: they do more different kinds of chicken starter than biryanis, for crying out loud.

I swerved all those places because I had a better option in mind. Creperie Doux Sourire (it translates as “sweet smile”, and if you thought it meant “two mice” you and that Duolingo owl need to have a word) has been open since late last year in the glass-fronted site on the Oracle Riverside next to Vue Cinema. It’s their second branch: the first opened last May in the salubrious surroundings of Windsor station, although it looks like it was either a replacement or a rebrand for a wine bar called Gregory & Tapping that used to occupy that pitch.

I thought it merited a visit if only for being unique: after all, if you did want pizza, momo or biryani those places I mentioned are hardly trailblazers, but opening a creperie in a funny little spot that was previously home to a Starbucks for what felt like forever struck me as a brave move. And I was right: when it first opened there was a slightly withering response online, both in comments on the Reading Chronicle‘s Facebook page, where you’d expect such things, and the Reading subreddit, where you might not. The general feeling was that it was a lot of money to spend on a pancake, along with a suspicion that it was something of a gimmick.

But actually, I thought it had potential. I remember eating buckwheat galettes in the Marais, with an earthenware cup of Breton cider, and thinking it was faintly marvellous. On many stays in Bristol I’d walked past the gloriously Gallic Chez Marcel, in the heart of the old city, and bemoaned the fact that I already had lunch plans. Besides, Doux Sourire’s website made many encouraging noises, talking about local ingredients and, if the menu was to be believed, buying the best from both home and abroad, the likes of Ogleshield and Tunworth rubbing shoulders with Serrano ham.

So Creperie Doux Sourire was idiosyncratic, it was slap bang in the middle of Reading and, with the recent demise of Mission Burrito, it was the only independent restaurant on the Oracle Riverside. I figured that alone had to make it worth a shot so on a weekday, on my ownsome, I turned up early evening to take my table for one.

When you consider what a sterile space this could be, I think Doux Sourire has done a good job of making it homely. It felt much more spacious than the Starbucks used to be, and lining so many tables against the full length windows meant you had a fighting chance of looking into the room rather than out on the rainswept Riverside. They had one of those glass fireboxes by the entrance and, pleasingly, French music was playing.

My table was tucked away in the corner. It gave me a good look into the room, and I liked it – the tables were rustic without being rudimentary, and you could see dozens of bags of flour stacked away behind the counter. The shelves on either side, with creepy dolls looking down from them, were less successful: I’m not sure what the thought processes behind that were. French farmhouse is a very winning aesthetic, haunted French farmhouse less so.

But the welcome was warm and immediate, and my server brought over a couple of blackboards with a handful of specials on them – a salad and a soup on one, a couple of crêpes on the other. Doux Sourire’s menu overall felt more to me like a lunch menu than a dinner one, a sentiment arguably reinforced by the fact that the place shuts at 9pm. There were a handful of toasties, a cheeseboard, a baked Tunworth and hand carved jamon, or otherwise you had one of the crêpes. Toasties came in just under a tenner and the crêpes ranged from twelve to sixteen, more if you wanted your crêpe made with buckwheat flour.

So it was tricky to take a starters, mains, desserts approach to the place, although I did my best: it’s the responsibility you bear when you dine on your own, you see, to try and cover as many bases as you can. But first, wine. I expected this to be a strong point, given Doux Sourire’s origins as a Windsor wine bar, and the list was compact – five whites, three reds, an orange and a rosé, all available both by the glass and the bottle. I was a little disappointed not to see any Breton cider, a traditional accompaniment to this sort of thing, and the beer selection was limited too, although it had a couple from Marlow brewery Rebellion.

My red, a pinot noir, came out in a chunky, rustic, stemless bowl of a glass, and as the strains of C’est Si Bon floated through the restaurant I thought that this, on paper, had the potential to be absolutely my kind of place. A warm welcome, a good glass of wine, non-stop chansons and galettes, the kind of bubble of Francophile otherness Reading hadn’t quite had since Forbury’s closed. Sign me up, I thought.

My starter didn’t offer conclusive proof that Doux Sourire would be that sort of place. I’d gone for the special, the cauliflower soup with truffle oil. I never order soup, but I had a feeling that a toastie then a galette would have been too samey, so soup it was. And bits of it worked – the texture was velvety, and the squiggle of truffle oil offered something without overpowering everything. I am as dismissive of truffle oil as a quick cheat as the next person, but it had its place here.

The problem wasn’t what was there, it’s what wasn’t: the truffle offered a little contrast but otherwise the soup was all sweetness without anything to offset it and make it interesting. When my soup was brought over I also took custody of a little salt and pepper mill. I think in all the years I’ve been reviewing restaurants I have never seasoned anything I’ve eaten, unless it’s chips, but about halfway through this soup I broke out the salt mill. As I did so I couldn’t help wishing the kitchen had taken care of this for me.

The thing that redeemed the soup was the sourdough bread that came with it, and a brilliant accident. The menu talked about the soup and bread and said ADD CHEESE £2.00. Now, I assumed this meant I’d get some to top the soup with, but that was my happy mistake. Because what I got instead was a thick slab of sourdough completely enveloped in cheese, toasted until golden and brown-spotted. And it was absolutely divine. Somehow the bread was almost totally smothered in cheese – practically on both sides – and the whole thing was a treat.

It didn’t go with the soup, you couldn’t really eat it with the soup. But for two quid, your fair to middling soup was accompanied by a magical slice of cheese on toast. I couldn’t decide whether this reflected well or badly on Doux Sourire, so it was probably a bit of both. It also made me think that coming here for a toastie at lunchtime was a good idea: if they could do this with one slice of bread, imagine what they could do with two! But Doux Sourire’s menu is funny in this respect: for toasties it trots out Paysan Breton brie or a nameless goats cheese, whereas elsewhere on the menu cheese royalty – especially Ogleshield – is left unable to achieve its full potential.

My pinot noir, by the way, was disappointing. It wasn’t unpleasant, but for a tenner I thought it was a little thin and unremarkable, a rather one-dimensional mixture of cherry and oak. I ordered a viognier to follow up, and again although I liked it enough I thought it was unspecial. I’d obviously been ruined for wine in general and French wine in particular by my recent visit to Paulette, but I expected a bit more from a place which was at least slightly wine-led, very proudly French and descended from a wine bar. Je Ne Regrette Rien was playing in the background, and I wasn’t sure I could completely identify with the blessed Edith.

One of the specials, a rather avant-garde combination of crêpe filled with ragu, was off the menu but never mind – with my unerring ability to sniff out the most expensive thing on the menu I’d ordered something called the Spaniard. It was sort of Spanish, but on paper it was more like an advert for European unity, incorporating as it did Serrano ham, a buckwheat galette, pesto, sundried tomato and cheddar. I make that easily four nations on one plate.

I’d picked it because Doux Sourire makes much of its hand-carved jamon, and I don’t think I know of anywhere in Reading, with the possible exception of Thames Lido, that has ever done this. And god knows I’ve moaned about it enough over the years, so when it did crop up on a menu I felt duty bound to order it. The chap proudly told me that they carve it themselves, and told me there’d be a slight delay as they had just finished a ham. So I saw him take another one out of – I’m not making this up – a cardboard box, place it in the jamonera (the fancy stand thing with the clamps) and, with great ceremony, take the first slices off it.

I took a picture of the ham being carved and sent it to Zoë, having dinner up in London on a rare night away with work. I’m popping this ham’s cherry, I said.

Fucking hell came the response. It might just be the best thing in the Oracle since I left. You can quote me on that.

And again, the theory was so good but the practice is what counts, because you can’t eat theory. My buckwheat galette turned up looking the part, and you couldn’t argue with the sheer quantity of jamon – a big heap of it on top and an awful lot stuffed inside, so much that it could actually be hard to cut. But I wasn’t entirely sure that this mishmash of ingredients showed anything off to its best effect. The ham was, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, overkill, and although it was better than the clammy packet stuff you so often get in the U.K. it didn’t have that melting, savoury quality you get in the best of the Spanish stuff. Maybe it would be better served on its own – you can get a platter of it for eighteen pounds – but in a galette it just got lost.

And again, the mixture of the good and the ordinary was a problem here. So the ham was decent, if not the best, but the pesto felt shop-bought, with that vinegary note that suggested it wasn’t just made of basil, pine nuts, parmesan and really good oil. The cheese was decent enough, but the sundried tomatoes had that feeling too, of being entry-level supermarket fare. And although the balsamic glaze wasn’t as overkill as it could have been, it felt unnecessary. Doux Sourire drizzles it on all of their savoury crêpes, and if you ask me they shouldn’t. I’m not sure a pile of leaves, also drizzled but not dressed, added much.

All of this detracted from what could have been a very enjoyable, buttery galette, which should have been the feature attraction. And just to add to the onslaught of constructive criticism, in most of the places I’ve eaten or seen crêpes, they are assembled by folding the edges in, creating a square shape. For this one, Doux Sourire just folded the whole thing in half, and what that meant was that the filling was very unevenly distributed, with a lot of it in the middle and none of it at the edges.

This reads like a demolition of something I didn’t mind, but it’s more motivated by frustration that it could have been better. Doux Sourire has a limited menu, most of which consists of permutations of a couple of things, so it stands or falls on the quality of its ingredients, and that’s where I felt like there were mixed messages throughout. And the other reason why this is important is that my crêpe cost eighteen pounds fifty. Some of the challenges I’ve heard about Doux Sourire’s pricing feel a little misjudged – after all, we think nothing of paying fifteen quid for pizza – but even I thought this was a lot of money for something that didn’t quite hit the target.

I felt a moral responsibility to stay for dessert, so I had the baked cheesecake. You get to pick your toppings, and one of them was caramel sauce, so I went for that. The menu said that all Doux Sourire’s desserts were home-made – most of them are sweet crêpes or waffles – and I could believe this was true. But again, I noticed the flaws more than I should have. The texture of it didn’t feel especially baked, and the biscuit base was so thick that getting a fork through it felt like a series of high risk manoeuvres.

I had gone for caramel sauce, hoping to get a caramel au beurre salé, but it was more like the generic butterscotch syrup you so often see instead, and there was too much of it. Little nubbins of what could have been toffee had been strewn on top. It was my mistake to pick this, as it detracted from what could have been a perfectly serviceable cheesecake with a hint of lemon, notwithstanding the huge plate of baked biscuit it was standing on. I suspect a better option would be a sweet crêpe, but that’s the other thing about Doux Sourire’s menu: limited replay value, you see. Speaking of replay, I was pretty sure we were on to our second rendition of La Vie En Rose coming through the speakers by then.

I was by no means the last customer, but as I settled up – sixty quid including tip – I spoke to both my servers. They were absolutely lovely and really attentive throughout, and told me that they’d been open since October and things were going well. They have regular jazz nights which are booked out in advance, and I can see they could be a lot of fun.

I found myself really pleased that their brave experiment was succeeding, so far, and as I paid my bill and thanked them and told them I’d had a nice time I did also find myself wondering, before it was even begun, how I would end this review. The Oracle was a bleak place at half past eight, and two people in quick succession asked me if I had any change. I walked to my bus stop past Côte, still doing a very brisk trade on the Wednesday before payday. What would sixty pounds have bought you there?

So yes, this is hard. The romantic in me wants to give Doux Sourire a higher mark because I want it to be good and brilliant, the combination of the wine bar Reading still needs and the French bubble it hasn’t had for too long. And I want to give them a higher mark because they really seem to care, and the service was excellent. I want to give them a higher mark than this for lots of reasons, but if I did I would be awarding the rating they might have one day, rather than the one they have now.

I hope that as they settle in they sort out their inconsistencies and find a place in Reading’s affections. If it was in my gift, which it isn’t, I would get them to stock more and better wine, and exclusively French wine at that. I would look at a menu that feels too narrow, and find a way to make better use of their produce, and for that matter I would get better produce. I’d maybe lose the creepy dolls from the shelves, while we’re at it, but I’d keep the music and the service. But am I talking now about what Doux Sourire could be, or am I, like James Stewart in Vertigo, trying to just shape it into what I really want?

Perhaps they’ll do perfectly fine as they are. I do sort of hope so. I may well drop in for a toastie one lunchtime, and a coffee – they have a big Victoria Arduino espresso machine, a serious piece of kit – and when I do I hope to see them prospering. I might go on my own, though. It’s that kind of place.

Creperie Doux Sourire – 6.8
Unit R19, The Riverside, RG1 2AG
0118 2294645

https://www.creperiedouxsourire.co.uk

As of January 2025, Edible Reading is partly supported by subscribers – click here if you want to read more about that, or click below to subscribe. Whether you’re a subscriber or not, thanks for reading.

CLICK TO SUBSCRIBE

Restaurant review: Sartorelli’s, Oxford

On June 14, 2024June 10, 2024 By ediblereadingIn ReviewsLeave a comment

I’m of the firm opinion that everyone has at least one useful life lesson you could learn from them. Someone I used to know, for instance, was convinced that you could never go wrong taking champagne to somebody’s house: we didn’t agree on much, it turned out, but on this she had a point. My stepmother has a rule, a very wise one, that you should never buy her any Christmas or birthday present she has to dust. I sometimes give her champagne, which combines those two rules nicely.

A married couple I used to know had two excellent customs. One was that using the W word, talking about work, was strictly verboten on Sundays. The other was that, once in a while, one of them could play a joker and opt out of adult life for a whole day. The other one had to make all the decisions – where to go, what to do, what to watch, everything.

I’ve tried to introduce that latter rule into my own life, but without much success. Most of the time my spouse, tired from working to the core of the bone, doesn’t want to make decisions for anybody else. And when she does, she has a bad habit of making plans for me that I just don’t like.

“I think you should stay at home and pack for the move” was Zoë’s suggestion last Friday when I was facing another Saturday on my tod and asked her what I should get up to: I didn’t fancy that at all.

So on a whim, a solo Saturday stretching out in front of me, I thought “fuck it, I’ll go to Oxford”. I headed for the station, and was sitting in C.U.P. having a mocha and making my plans when Zoë texted me. I thought I’d have one last crack at abdicating responsibility.

“I’m going to Oxford but I’m torn between grabbing a late lunch at the Magdalen Arms or trying Sartorelli’s, that pizza place in the Covered Market. What do you think?”

“Have the pizza. You can review it.”

What happened next was a series of some of the happiest events. First, that moment when your train pulls up and it’s mostly empty, no standing in the aisle holding on to the back of someone’s chair, sitting on the luggage rack or slumped in the vestibule. Instead, a leisurely trundle through Oxfordshire, just me, my phone and the music in my headphones. As Larkin puts it, all sense of being in a hurry gone.

Getting off at Oxford I was struck that although it wasn’t quiet – it never is – it wasn’t crazily busy, and as I strolled in, up George Street and Ship Street, I thought how curious it was that I’ve never quite escaped this city, just up the train tracks from home, where I spent three years learning a lot about a little but precious little about life. That used to put me off the place, but now I’ve reached some kind of accommodation with it.

Another glad event followed as I entered the Covered Market. It was that wonderful coincidence that happens when you arrive somewhere very busy literally as somebody else is just leaving, and can jump into their place. So I got a plum spot outside Sartorelli’s at one of the long tables, just by being in the right place at exactly the right time: after that, the queue just grew and grew. If I’d got there five minutes earlier, or later, the day would have had a completely different shape.

The Covered Market has always been one of my favourite spots in Oxford, even back in the early Nineties when I used to stop there to pick up a lunchtime pie from a trader called Ma Baker (Boney M fans, I presume). But its character has been changing in recent years, with many of the traditional traders driven out by high rents: the butchers and fishmongers have left, and on this visit one of the old-school mens’ outfitters had a closing down sign in the window. The likes of Fasta Pasta, who used to do the best ciabatta in the world, are gone too.

But in their place a very different sort of trader is settling in to the market. Although they recently got a little tap room from Botley’s Tap Social, I first noticed the phenomenon a few years back with Teardrop, a micropub offering beer from Church Hanbrewery, a little brewery based out past Witney. They had half a dozen or so beers on cask and keg, and sold charcuterie and the like, and they had a few barrels and tables outside. And then there was a wine bar, Cellar Door, next to it – again, selling wine by the glass. And finally, there was Sartorelli’s along from that, setting up a little ecosystem – wine, beer and pizza all in one little corner of the market.

Sartorelli’s also sprung up out of Church Hanbrewery, first offering pizza at the brewery taproom before opening in the Covered Market in March 2022. And since it opened, every time I’ve been to the Covered Market – usually to buy cheese, or grab a latte from the excellent Colombia Coffee Roasters – I’ve gone past, thought the setup looked great, eyed the pizzas being devoured outside with no small degree of envy. And then sighed. because I had a lunch reservation somewhere else. But on this occasion I was in Oxford with no plans, and this space at a table outside had miraculously come free. When opportunity knocks like that, you don’t send it away.

The very kind couple next to me kept an eye on my stuff and I went up to order. The place was a bustle of activity, with a big wood-fired oven and a menu displayed on the wall that was simple almost to a fault. Fundamentally you can have a margherita for £8.50 and load it with whatever you fancy, at a cost of 50p per topping, or you can have one of their suggested combos. The menu explained that sartorelli means small tailor, and that as far as they were concerned you could tailor your pizza however you like.

I spotted one of the suggestions that mentioned anchovies, ordered it, paid £10.50 and scuttled back to my seat and my bag, gratified that they were still there. My tablemates then kindly agreed to keep looking after my bag while I went to Teardrop and ordered two thirds of their Teardrop Citra on keg. It cost just under four pounds and was absolutely gorgeous – cold, crisp and, I hoped, perfect pizza accompaniment. I went back to my table with my winnings, saw the queue beginning to build and felt like coming here for lunch was turning out to be a very smart decision on my part.

My pizza arrived just over ten minutes later, although I was having such a lovely time that I’d quite happily have waited longer. It came on a metal tray, à la The Last Crumb, but they’d sensibly put paper underneath it which also helped it stay warm longer. Sartorelli’s just gives you a pizza cutter, a napkin and some chilli and garlic oil, so if you’re a cutlery user, their pizza might challenge you. And this was the point where I realised I had completely missed the fact that, on the menu, my pizza was billed as coming with a “sprinkle of rocket”. It was a nice idea, but it was more than a sprinkle, and without cutlery it added a layer of complexity to eating the thing with your hands.

Initially I also wondered whether the rocket might have been used to camouflage the toppings, to conceal any caper or (especially) anchovy-related stinginess that was going on. But once I settled down to eating the pizza, I realised nothing could be further from the truth. It was liberally carpeted with tiny, punchy capers, had a respectable number of plump black olives and, most importantly, plenty of glorious, salty anchovies.

Not only that, but the base was excellent – especially the crust, all blistered, puffy and chewy. I was having an absolutely marvellous time: a bite of the pizza, a sip of the gorgeous beer, an unworthy look up at the queue, still growing, and I felt like I was properly winning at lunch.

I should have stayed for a dessert, really – it’s just ice cream, which they say is “hand crafted to a secret Sartorelli recipe” – but I had my eye on something from Swoon on the High later on, and I also felt guilty depriving punters of a seat. So I ambled off to the Oxford Cheese Company to pick something up for the evening, and then wandered out towards North Oxford in search of one of my favourite pubs in the whole wide world, the Rose And Crown.

I have broken one of the unspoken rules of restaurant reviewing by reviewing the same kind of establishment two weeks running. Last week was Zia Lucia, this week it’s Sartorelli’s: it’s the equivalent of putting two consecutive tracks on a mixtape by the same artist. But I think it’s very instructive in some ways because restaurants aren’t only about quality, or value, or service, or even convenience. They’re also about expectations, and whether they can surprise or delight.

So I expected Zia Lucia to be something special, and although you couldn’t fault their tomato sauce, or their Parma ham, the overall experience was a little underwhelming. And yet on a wooden stool, at a trestle table in the middle of the Covered Market I had a pizza from a place that didn’t shout or brag, but just did an absolutely marvellous job. Excellent craft beer from a place two doors down, a little people watching and hubbub, and an excellent lunch that, all told, set me back just under fifteen pounds.

Experiences like that are reason enough, if you find yourself at a loose end on a Saturday, to hop on a train and take your chances. I’m very glad I did. Besides, I’m asked quite often whether there’s anywhere decent to go for an informal, quickish lunch in Oxford, and now I have an answer for you. I may not have any great life lessons to impart to you – although my stepmother’s rule of thumb is a very good one – but you can usually rely on me for a restaurant recommendation.

Sartorelli’s – 7.7
21, Covered Market, Oxford, OX1 3DZ

https://www.sartorellis.com/sartorellisoxford

Feature: Table for one

On August 10, 2018February 3, 2023 By ediblereadingIn Features6 Comments

A more up-to-date version of this feature can be found here.

What a difference three years makes: back in 2015, when I last posted a guide to solo dining, I waxed lyrical about it as an experience but, truth be told, I didn’t do it that often. Now and again when my spouse went away on business, mainly, or on the odd occasion when I had a day off to myself, but my experience of it was more limited than my paean of praise made it sound. It probably shows in the piece, because – despite my best intentions – it read more as advice and consolation for those who found themselves unfortunate enough to be eating alone, rather than a celebration of the joys of a table for one.

These days I have a far richer experience of eating on your own, at all points on the spectrum. Separation, divorce, self-discovery, solo holidays, working out that some of your friends aren’t actually friends at all: all that Eat Pray Love bullshit has many effects but one of them, for me, was to give me a far better understanding of the benefits of going to a restaurant accompanied only by a copy of Private Eye (and my phone, for when the cynicism gets too much). Fast forward three years, and I’ve eaten on my own all over the place.

I’ve been jammed in at the bar at a hot – in both senses – packed no-reservation London place on a weekday lunchtime. I’ve spoiled myself by ordering from the a la carte menu at Nirvana Spa, in my fluffy white robe, peering at my paperback between courses. I’ve dined at Pierre Victoire, pretending to pay attention to a magazine while really people watching North Oxford’s finest eating and chatting, imagining all those different lives intersecting, albeit briefly, with mine. And last year I spent the best part of a week in Paris on my own, reinventing old favourites and discovering new ones. A good table, a good view, a good glass of wine and a good book, alone but not lonely; I might not have learned to completely love eating alone, but I certainly came to appreciate it.

Closer to home, there’s a lot to be said for a table for one and lots of occasions where it can be a positive pleasure. The quick solo meal on the way to meet friends in the pub, especially people from the “eating is cheating” brigade (just me, maybe, but I’ve always found that a dreary philosophy to live by). The drawn-out lunch on a Saturday when you have the day to yourself. Or even just the moment – and this might just be me – where I get off the train at Reading station (or Gare Du Ding, as I keep calling it) and I just can’t be arsed to cook. The sun is shining, I have nowhere in particular to be and I think how nice it would be to treat myself before heading home.

Not only has my life changed a lot in the last three years: Reading has too. Two of my choices last time around are not currently trading. I Love Paella has left the Fisherman’s Cottage (in contentious circumstances: less said about that the better) and Dolce Vita has left Kings Walk, forced out by a greedy landlord who wanted to make more money. If Namaste Kitchen was still running its menu from earlier in the year it would have made this list, because I couldn’t imagine anything finer than going there and having a beer, a plate of paneer pakora and a chicken chow mein (one of the joys of eating solo, in a small plates restaurant like Namaste Kitchen, is not having to share food for once).

And of course, I still miss Georgian Feast (the artist formerly known as Caucasian Spice Box) back when they cooked from the Turks Head. It became a regular ritual for me to head over there and eat on my own for the first half of last year: meatballs, spiced chicken thighs, sharply dressed salad and cheese bread – oh, and a pint of Strongbow Cloudy Apple. At the time I was living in a truly awful one bedroom flat, and it felt like having friends cook for you which, after a while, I suppose it sort of was; sometimes you can tell a lot about a restaurant by how it treats solo diners.

The other way that this list has changed since 2015 is that it reflects the rise of what, for want of a better phrase, I would call the Good Chain. Smaller, smarter chains are coming to Reading and they can often provide a little bit of the intimacy of an independent restaurant with some of the polish you associate with a bigger establishment. I make no apology for including so many of them here, because I’m interested in good restaurants – and good restaurants to eat alone in – and it’s not my fault that Reading doesn’t yet have the kind of independents, especially in the town centre, that get this stuff right.

I eat alone less often these days than I used to, nowadays, but a good meal alone is still a wonderful act of self-care, provided you pick the right venue. No quibbles about splitting the bill, nobody judging you for ordering too much, or having the expensive wine. No rush, nobody to please but yourself, and all that people watching. So here are my current recommendations – I hope they come in handy, and if you’ve always considered eating out on your own a step too far I really would encourage you to give it a try.

1. Bakery House

The perfect combination of food and anonymity.

I’ve grown to love an early evening meal alone at Bakery House. I sit facing out into that long, slightly chilly room, sip on an orange Mirinda (it’s basically Tango) and wait for the food to arrive. Some days I’ll munch on maqaneq: little, punchy sausages – you get an awful lot of them. On others I might go for the smooth, rich houmous beiruty, glossy and packed with tahini, beautiful piled on a big bubble of pitta, fresh from the oven.

That done, I can look forward to the main event. I tend to order the lamb shawarma – a big mound of intensely flavoured shreds of lamb, with garlic sauce, chilli sauce and terrific vegetable rice. But then there are also the delights of the boneless baby chicken, all charred skin and tender meat, a holiday on a plate. What could be better than being so transported?

The service at Bakery House can verge on standoffish, grumpy even. In other contexts that might be frustrating, but there’s something oddly comforting about how anonymous you can feel eating there. They don’t care whether you’re in a big group, on a date or alone, they’re simply there to bring you food and to leave you in peace. They’re like the barber that knows better than to talk to you when he’s cutting your hair, and some of my happiest, most meditative meals have taken place at Bakery House.

Bakery House, 82 London Street, RG1 4SJ
http://bakeryhouse.co

2. Cote

Three courses, because you deserve them.

Cote, for me, is for the full solo three course experience. Sitting on the banquette looking out into the room is one of the best, most uplifting ways that you can say “I deserve this”, whether you’re ordering from the set menu or the full a la carte. The latter sometimes has some brilliant specials – confit duck, perhaps, or the rare treat of a skate wing swimming with butter and festooned with capers (there isn’t much in life that rivals flipping a skate wing over halfway through eating it and realising that you have the thick side yet to come).

The set menu really comes into its own on summer days, when you can sit at a little table outside, with a view of the canal. I like to drink a Breton cider, crisp and almost sweet, and watch the world go by while I make my choices. Some of the dishes are good, and some are great, but all are stupidly reasonably priced, and the act of eating before 7pm means that you’re likely to be finished before the light has faded and the best of the evening has gone. I used to think “if I tried hard I could imagine I was in Paris right now”, but these days I think “I’m so lucky to live here.”

Cote, 9 The Oracle Centre, RG1 2AG
https://www.cote.co.uk/brasserie/reading

3. Franco Manca

Comfort food, elevated.

When it comes to comfort, little can top cheese on toast – and if anything can, it might be Franco Manca’s sourdough pizza. I have a real soft spot for their anchovy and caper version (ask for extra anchovies, because although Franco Manca is very reasonably priced you do to some extent get what you pay for). That said, their standard margarita is also worth a go, topped with whatever extras they have on the menu that day (the picture above, coppa and Ogleshield cheddar, was a particular high point). Oh, and have a blue cheese or pesto dip, because it really does transform the whole thing.

Franco Manca is perfect for a quick stop, but it’s actually not hard to make it more of a treat. Some of the starters – especially anything with mozzarella (smoked or otherwise), burrata or fennel salami – well worth lingering over, as long as you can overlook the fact that most of them are stuff you’d put on a pizza taken off a pizza and served cold on a plate instead. I can, anyway. And finally, the chocolate ice cream is pretty decent as is my personal favourite, a crafty affogato.

When I first reviewed Franco Manca I liked the food and was sceptical about the room, mainly because it was impossible to hear your dining companion. It turns out that really isn’t an issue when you go on your own, which means that what could be a wall of noise becomes a strangely comforting hubbub. Sitting outside, on a summer day, is also a lovely thing to do.

Franco Manca, The Oracle, Bridge Street, RG1 2AT
https://www.francomanca.co.uk/restaurants/reading

4. Honest Burgers

Meat and potatoes.

I said the Good Chains had this eating alone business down pat, and you would struggle to find a better example of that than Honest Burgers. Much has been made, quite rightly, of what a beautiful job they did with the interior. And plenty has been written about the virtues of the Reading burger, making the most of our local suppliers. Not to mention the King Street Pale, a truly wonderful beer which even I, more of a lager fan, can neck by the pint.

Well, yes. But for my money, the best thing to do at Honest is forego the Reading special and whatever the flavour of the month is and let Honest do what they do best, which is serve cheeseburgers. I go for their most basic burger, topped with cheddar, and that way you can really taste the quality of the beef, the char of the crust, the hint of salt.

Your mileage may vary, but in any case it really is another fantastic venue to eat well and unfussily, especially if you have somewhere to go shortly afterwards. My stepfather has got into the habit of grabbing an Honest before taking in a movie at Vue, and he is a man who knows what he’s doing.

Honest Burgers, 1-5 King Street, RG1 2HB
https://www.honestburgers.co.uk/locations/reading/

5. Kokoro

Dinner on the run.

Kokoro is an illustration of what I call the “yaki soba effect”. Back when I used to go to Wagamama, I always ordered the yaki soba, a big heap of noodles with chicken and prawns and pickled ginger and plenty of good stuff. It never let me down, and became my takeaway of choice for a while. Then I decided I really ought to branch out, but every time I did my meal was plain disappointing – and, usually, I had to watch someone else eat yaki soba in front of me while I pretended to enjoy chicken katsu curry (a dish which always looks a tad too scatological for my liking).

Kokoro is the same – it’s all about the sweet chilli chicken. I mean, just look at that picture up there. Look at it! Doesn’t it make you peckish? A glossy, fiery deep red sauce (and these days they give you enough to coat the rice or noodles) with clearly visible garlic – the best kind of garlic, if you ask me – and piece after piece of tender, crispy-coated chicken. They serve it in either a medium or a large cardboard tub: the medium is quite big enough for anybody, but the large only costs a pound more. The whole thing comes in at the six or seven quid mark, and it’s one of the very best dinners on the run Reading has to offer. You sit at a basic wooden table, polish it off and watch other people come in and place their orders – usually for the sweet chilli chicken, unsurprisingly.

Last time I went, I decided to try the chicken curry instead. It had lots of tender, chicken thigh cooked into strands. It had an anonymous brown sauce which tasted largely of nothing. It was, in short, not the sweet chilli chicken, and that’s when I realised that I won’t make that mistake again. Kokoro also sells chicken katsu curry, but who on earth orders that? People who don’t like the yaki soba at Wagamama, I suppose.

Kokoro, 13 Queen Victoria Street, RG1 1SY
http://kokorouk.com/

6. Sapana Home

Because the best things come in multiples of ten.

4EC1952D-7962-4818-9132-4C76DF3C89FC

Ten pan-fried chicken momo cost six pounds fifty at Sapana Home. They come on a plate, clustered round a little dish of hot dipping sauce, and when you have them pan fried they have a slightly caramelised exterior which seals the deal. A plate of Sapana Home’s momo, I think, can gladden even the heaviest heart. My favourite momo is the fifth one: before that, they pass too quickly and you eat them almost without savouring them, whereas after that you are maybe a little too aware that your pleasure – as most pleasures do – is inevitably coming to an end.

There are other dishes there I recommend, if you’re feeling greedy. The chicken fry is wonderful – pieces of chicken, spring onion and tomato with that same hot sauce. The chow mein, which is fundamentally the chicken fry plus noodles, is also splendid. And if you feel more adventurous I heartily recommend the samosa chaat, a glorious four-way pile-up involving samosas, yoghurt, crispy noodles and red onion.

Late 2016, when I took a break from reviewing restaurants, was a pretty bleak period in my life. Nothing was going right, and when I finished work and got back into town on the train I really didn’t want to go home any time soon, much of the time. What got me through many difficult days, back then, was a plate of momo at Sapana Home. It’s a little place, and it’s best to sit upstairs if you can, where there is daylight. The service is brusque but not unkind. There was a period when sitting there, eating momo and listening to the oddly comforting (if mindless) strains of Heart FM was truly my happy place.

If any further illustration was needed, it’s this. The photo above was taken last night: writing this made me want to go back, so I did. Things have changed a little since I last went: the music was classic Bollywood rather than commercial radio, and the momo (they now do lamb too, although I didn’t order them) were slightly less packed with filling, lighter and more delicate. It was like seeing an old friend after a while and realising they’ve lost weight. I did, for a moment, consider putting Kings Grill in this sixth spot instead. But I’ve kept Sapana Home on this list – it may be mainly for sentimental reasons, but momos six to ten were still as bittersweet.

Sapana Home, 8 Queen Victoria Street, RG1 1TG
http://sapanahome.co.uk/

Jamaica Blue

On March 23, 2018September 7, 2025 By ediblereadingIn Reviews9 Comments

It happens less than it used to, but every now and again I still review somewhere because of a recommendation or a request from a reader. You have Anna to thank for this one, because a month ago she left this comment on the blog:

This might seem like a weird suggestion, but how about trying the new Jamaica Blue cafe at the Royal Berkshire Hospital… Looking at their website it seems like a successful Australian chain, they have only four branches in the UK. I’ve popped in a couple of times after appointments and the coffee was great. I was very pleasantly surprised by the range, quality and freshness of their lunch options, really nice deep filled flans and unusual sandwich/ciabatta choices. So nice I’d even consider dropping in if was in the area and I didn’t have an appointment.

My curiosity was piqued. Partly because this was a hard sales pitch to resist: a promising new café in town that almost nobody knew about? How could I stay away? But more to the point, I live very close to the hospital, and many’s the time working from home that I’ve sloped up the Craven Road to visit the AMT just inside the main entrance. If the weather’s bad I have a Café Maya, and if the weather’s good (by which I mean anything above twelve degrees with no rain) I have a Froffee, that hypnotic, magical milkshake made with ice cream, espresso and dreams. But I never get any food there, and Café Yolk never quite feels worth the additional walk. I made a mental note: next time I was working from home I’d go to Jamaica Blue and try it out, a rare solo excursion.

Feature: Solo dining

On September 11, 2015February 3, 2023 By ediblereadingIn Features9 Comments

N.B. A far more up to date version of this feature can be found here.

One of my favourite things about this gig is all the times I’m asked to recommend a restaurant. No two requests are exactly the same, so one day it will be What’s the best Indian restaurant in the town centre? and the next it will be Where’s good for a special occasion? Or sometimes the requests are more specific: Does anywhere have a private room that could deal with about fifteen only slightly rowdy diners? Where can I go that’s quite upmarket but I could go with my kids (oh, and preferably gluten free)?

One question I never get asked, though, is Where’s the best place to eat on your own? I guess ER readers are a sociable bunch and never think to eat out alone (I know a few of you are only down in Reading during the week for work, and have used the blog to find places to eat while you’re away from your families: really glad that it’s come in handy!). Or perhaps it’s because of the stigma attached to dining solo; it feels like this is sometimes judged in a way that going to the cinema, for example, just wouldn’t be. Waiting staff in restaurants don’t always help – I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve been asked whether someone is joining me followed by the look of confusion or pity when I say actually, no, nobody is.

There’s a lot to be said for eating alone – being able to read a newspaper or a paperback between courses (and being able to put it down to take part in people watching, one of my favourite hobbies). Being able to order whatever you like without being silently judged; it can’t just be me who has friends like this? And, odd though this might sound, I love being in a restaurant on my own with all that bustle going on around me: silence is all very well, but there’s also something about the chatter of a buzzy restaurant which makes for very comforting background noise.

The perfect restaurant for solo dining has to meet slightly different criteria. Obviously the food has to be good – that never changes – but apart from that other considerations are higher up the list. Good tables for one which don’t involve you being stuck in a corner facing the wall in the spot specially designated for Billy No Mates. A decent view, preferably with a steady stream of passers-by. And, last but not least, the kind of warm service that doesn’t make you feel like a charity case who’s been stood up.

My best solo meal this year was in Pierre Victoire in Oxford, one of my favourite restaurants. I had a day off on my own and I went in on the off chance. They found me a lovely table upstairs, facing out into a room full of happy, boisterous, gesticulating diners. I had the two course set menu with a nice big glass of red (because I could) and an Orangina, served in that iconic glass bottle. I ate my food, I managed to finish off my book in between courses, and I just about managed to convince myself that I was in France after all: damn near unimprovable. So anyway, if you haven’t enjoyed the delights of a table for one I reckon you’re missing out. Here are six of my favourite places to do that in Reading, in case you fancy making like Jason Derulo.

I Love Paella

This part-time restaurant is fast becoming one of my new favourites in Reading. The seats at the windows offer a view which is every bit as good as television, onto the Oxford Road in all its chaotic, character-strewn glory. Food is bite-sized and it’s perfectly fine to order a couple of dishes, then a couple more if you haven’t had enough (and then, if you’re me, a choripan montadito for the road). There’s no alcohol license, so you can take along your own alcoholic drinks: personally I like a nice cold beer, or – judge away – gin and tonic in a can. Usually it’s a one man band here, so front of house is also the chef: he’s warm and welcoming and always seems slightly surprised to be busy, even though he deserves to be. Other diners here are especially lovely, with the large table in the middle fit for sharing, should you decide that you want a little conversation with your (amazing) pulled pork empanada.

Côte

Somehow Côte manages to be the acceptable face of chains on the Oracle, with an interior that is perfect for a party of one. The tables round the edge are comfy and cosseting and mean that it’s possible to be tucked away whilst still getting to watch all the human traffic in the rest of the room. If the weather is nice the tiny outside tables facing onto the canal are even better – perfect to watch passers-by passing by, perhaps with a novel, a pair of sunglasses to hide behind and a glass of vin blanc to sip. The tuna nicoise remains one of my favourite dishes in Reading – and if you’re dining alone you can have that basket of bread all to yourself, because you’re worth it *swish swish*. There has been some recent controversy about whether Côte trousers all of the “optional” 12.5% service charge: the Evening Standard says they do, Côte vehemently denies that. Either way, probably best to knock it off the bill and tip cash, if only to reward the consistently excellent service.

Bakery House

A recent discovery, Bakery House is perfect for solo dining. It’s an unfussy room, the service is nice but unobtrusive and it’s always full of other diners enjoying some of the most interesting food in Reading right now. Because it’s emphatically casual dining you won’t be interrupted or turned or moved on, so you can take your time. And the dishes are well worth taking time over: last time I went there on my own I had the ozey lamb, a heap of spiced rice with minced lamb with big slices of lamb shank on top of it. Separate the meat from the fat, shred, mix in with the rice and eat with big dollops of thickened yoghurt. Utter bliss. No alcohol license here either, but people tell me the home made mint lemonade is so good you won’t miss it. Oh, and be warned: many of the dishes make liberal use of garlic so you might also want to remain solo if you go on anywhere after your meal.

Yo! Sushi

Yes, I know it’s another chain but there’s something about conveyor belt dining that is absolutely perfect for eating alone. You can choose what you like without having to compromise and you can clock up as many brightly coloured bowls as you like without anyone looking down their nose at you. Also, Yo! offers great people-watching potential as you look at other people sitting by the belt and imagine what their stories could be. The other advantage of turning Japanese is that this is one place where the staff only speak when spoken to. So if you’re feeling antisocial – or really engrossed in your book – it’s possible to have the whole meal without being interrupted, unless you want to order something that isn’t on the belt (I’d recommend the spicy pepper squid or the avocado maki). Shopping in House of Fraser beforehand is entirely optional; I do it, but the less said about my Paperchase habit the better.

Dolce Vita

Dolce Vita makes this list because there’s nowhere like it in Reading for service: the staff are all, without exception, warm and friendly and if you’re dining alone they check up on you to make sure you are alone but not lonely. It feels a little like eating round a friend’s house – a trick very few restaurants get right, mainly because so many of them can be a little over-friendly. The set menu remains pretty solid value and usually has some unusual stuff on it (at the time of writing the shakshuka – baked eggs – is especially good) but to be honest you could do a lot worse than a pizza. To top it all off, a seat on the balcony offers a nice view out and, on good days, plenty of sunshine.

Tasting House

I never used to be sure about settling in at the Tasting House – the furniture always seemed to scream stay here if you absolutely must – but since then a subtle refurb has made it somewhere you really want to linger. My absolute favourite spot is at a stool in the window, watching the people of Reading strolling down Chain Street (and in most cases doing a double take, as if they have never seen a wine bar before, let alone one with cheese boards). Food here is on the nibbly side, with cheeses and meats to pick at while enjoying your wine. Particular high points for me are the coppa and the tomato chutney, heaped onto a strong cheddar or a stinky blue. The staff here are the opposite of Yo! – if you’re having trouble choosing they’re as approachable as they are knowledgeable. Oh, and if you don’t have a Tasting House card for the enomatic machines it doesn’t matter – they can give you a staff card to use and bill you at the end. Only one thing stops it being the perfect solo destination – I’ve never managed to get a decent mobile signal there to go on Facebook and tell everybody how much fun I’m having. Oh well – there’s no shame in a restaurant being humblebrag-proof, is there?

Subscribe to continue reading