Early October in London can surprise you. Even as the leaves are turning orange, the temperature can get into the early 20s and with the sun blazing, and with your eyes shut you can imagine yourself in some exotic destination in the middle of summer.

Of course walking round London with your eyes shut inevitably brings you into conflict with locals and tourists alike, unless you find yourself near Tower Hill station in which case the invective is delivered mainly in an American accent. Which is where I found myself yesterday.

Dawn of the D

I was meeting an old friend, D, for lunch. We’ve known each other for years, and have a shared interest in good food and talking shit, so we like to meet up from time to time, and due to its proximity to where I used to work, we always meet in St Katharine Docks. D is a salesman, and has a long and storied history, which if it were anyone else, you would not believe most of what he says (I have another salesman friend, nickname “Topper”, because there is no story you can tell that he can’t top: They can’t help themselves, poor loves). But D really has travelled the world, getting into scrapes, getting other people out of scrapes, and generally picking fights with idiots (a barrage of words being his weapon of choice), which in his view is about 99.9% of the people he meets. He’s exactly the sort of friend you would want by your side if there were a sudden collapse in civilisation due to zombies, virus, fungus or whatever post-apocalyptic nonsense tickles your fancy.

Fortunately London stayed calm and sunny.

Top of the Tapas

Even though this restaurant is now enormously out of my way, we keep coming back because of the food. I have eaten all sorts of tapas over the years, served free in Madrid, as pinchos in Bilbao, on sherry casks in Valencia, even as far afield as Hammersmith. But nothing comes close to Bravas Tapas.

It is fancy tapas, it has to be said. You won’t get a plate of fried chorizo or a tortilla. But what you will get is exceptional food served, if you pick the right day, in beautiful surroundings.

The Long Good Thursday

St Katharine Docks is a funny place. Heavily bombed in WWII, it was extensively rebuilt and revitalised in the 70s and 80s (It is famously featured in The Long Good Friday). Much of it has been restored to its former glory, but I feel that I must channel my inner Betjeman and wish for friendly bombs to come and fall on the Tower Hotel, which is a Stalinist wet dream of concrete and drabness which dominates the area, and overshadows both the Tower of London and Tower Bridge. So it is 80% watery tranquillity and 20% prison, but if you sit outside Bravas Tapas, as we did yesterday, the worst of it is hidden, and you can watch the boats bob.

In a Pickle

Service is a little patchy. Some of the staff do a good job of being welcoming and friendly, and try to remain stationed outside for those diners who like a little wind with their meal. Others, less so. We always start with the jar of pickles (often 2), which have the most amazing olives in them, and you are usually given tweezers long enough to sup with the devil to fish them out. Not so yesterday. It was only when D and I had stuck our (fairly clean) fingers deep into the pot to pull the last bits of garlic out that another member of staff remembered the crockery and cutlery.

Fowl Play?

After the second pot of pickles and a second (non-alcoholic) beer, the rest of the food came quickly. With no Negroni on the table, my trusty barometer for the whole experience was off duty, so the food was going to have to do, which it duly did con gusto. As a food critic, I have to be prepared to try those things that others won’t, in order to be able to report back to my readership. On one occasion this extended to fried pigs’ ears (delicious). Yesterday, it was the crème brûlée with foie gras. I shouldn’t eat it and I really shouldn’t like it, but honestly, it was one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted, the crunchy caramel topping going perfectly with the creamy foie gras. I really need someone to make it illegal, fast, as it is almost compulsively good.

After this, the lamb chops turned up. They were the most succulent chops I have had in my entire life, as if someone asked AI to generate the most perfect piece of meat on the bone there has ever been, with the most perfect smoky, mustardy sauce, and then DNA print it onto a plate. I could have eaten dozens of them.

The octopus (a dish I can only eat when Mrs Nigel is not around) was so tender you could have cut it with one of D’s harsher words, not some of the rubbery tentacles you often get, on a bed of the same sauce as the lamb.

The only slightly bum note was the sliders. I love black pudding, but the Morcilla de Burgos and the bun it was on were overcooked going on actually charred, and not in a good, Texas BBQ sort of way. Nonetheless, in any other context, you would have thought them excellent.

Reading the Riot Act

We finished off with coffees, and sat and put the world to rights for the best part of 2 hours, generally agreeing the world would be a much better place if the people who are currently in charge weren’t and if people like us (possibly just actually us) were instead. I think this is probably a very common thread for many such lunches these days, but we got there sober…

Mrs Nigel is now demanding a trip to Tower Hill next time we stay up in town. I’m sceptical, not least because that’s the octopus off the menu. D took Mrs D to Bravas Tapas fairly recently, as he too goes home in something of a food daze when he gets back, and so she wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Apparently, the table next to them was all about the fuss, complaining about every dish, its temperature, texture, cost, pretty much everything they could think of. The meal was somewhat ruined as a result (not quite as ruined as it would have been had D actually done half of the things to the bloke that he outlined to me). So the riot I predicted very nearly happened, just on someone else’s watch, with D as the most likely ringleader, and not because foie gras is on the menu. Given that it’s usually me who is doing the complaining, I am going to be more sensitive as to who I am sitting next to in future.

Verdict: Pass the Muster

All told, an amazing meal, and only £50 each for 4 fake beers, enough food for both of us, and 2 coffees, and including service. If you live or work nearby, like in Aldgate or similar, don’t go towards Liverpool Street for lunch, head south until you hit water…

Conclusion

Overall Rating: 5/5

• Food: 5/5
• Drinks: 4.5/5 (It tasted like beer!)
• Service: 4/5
• Ambience: 5/5
• Value for Money: 5/5
• Price: ££

Would I go back? It’s my muster point when the zombies turn up.

Bravas Tapas: https://www.opentable.co.uk/restaurant/profile/106566?ref=4208