On the evening of the 15th of July, a feast took place in St. JOHN Smithfield.
Ambling through the foyer, the concrete floor of the old smokehouse grazing our shoes, there was a sense of the devout. In a mid-season lull, Supper Clubs founding members had come together to inaugurate. And, with a very cold supply of the house Blanc de Blancs waiting for us there, we raised a toast, then headed to the dining room.
Its Monastic white walls are a mark of confidence—the food is trusted to do the talking here. Robed waiters brought over olives and a dish of crisp radishes to be drawn through goats curd, before leaving us to finish the champagne and serve each other as families do.
With the radishes gnawed down to leaves, gouging instruments were readied—a platter of chilled langoustines arrived at one end of the table, hot marrowbones at the other. Some practiced proper marrow eating—spread on toast, sprinkled with grey salt, topped with parsley salad—and favoured Guinness over wine. Others plucked langoustine meat, content with the Sancerre. Curiosity got the better of both camps.
The entire pig landed bit by bit—the head being first, as is the custom. We began to understand something unflattering about ourselves . . . before taking a drink of Grenache Gris. Never mind. There were a couple of turbots, too.
Next came an unlikely match—a tray of squat sticky date loaf, drowned in butterscotch sauce, and a huge, ruby crowned pavlova. The good Madeira held both of their hands sentimentally.
All the while a question had rippled along the table: with our chins down, what do we actually enjoy eating? The answers are all simple things, like, undercooked scrambled eggs on white toast; red Leicester sandwiches dipped in Heinz tomato soup; crackers with goats cheese, honey and pea shoots.
Each great journey begins at home, and that is precisely what St. JOHN represents for us.
But now it was time to leave it.