Spicing up the pub scene
The Salt House is quite magnificently camp. Should you happen to float in expecting the archetypal gastropub (like its sibling, the Salisbury in Queen's Park), you're in for something of a major culture shock.
This is the sort of local you could imagine Aleister Crowley finding himself quite at home in. Painted in jet black, it simply oozes decadence.
There's Venetian glass everywhere; the ceiling drips with cascades of subtly twinkling chandelier; small, boudoir lanterns cast a dim light pregnant with promise. Handsome, saturnine and utterly charming waiters complete the tantalising picture.
No offence to my perfectly delightful female date, but it's a place you need to visit with the kind of person who might commit outrages on you under the table.
We were initially seated in a tiny alcove, dimly lit and reeking of possibilities; I had to be moved: my blood pressure couldn't stand it.
This dark sense of drama has an interesting effect on your fellow diners. Instead of the perfectly respectable denizens of St John's Wood they most likely are, you begin to imagine them as protagonists in a series of febrile vignettes: the three, suited, middle-aged chaps in the corner were clearly members of a powerful, corporate sect; the pleasant, soignèe woman opposite was quite evidently softening up her elderly companion before administering the final dose of untraceable venom.
So what kind of food would you expect to find here? Silky broths laced with the aphrodisiac qualities of powdered pearl? Larks' tongues en papillote?
Surprisingly, the menu is rather hearty Italian at resolutely restaurant prices. There's a splendid wine list, bursting with interesting, offthebeaten track options.
But the food is good: very good. And there's a surprising level of sophistication, both in the ingredients - the likes of cardoons, pane casarau or wafer-thin Sicilian bread and dandelion all put in an appearance on the regularly-changing sheet - and in the realisation.
My meaty, toothsome squid was treated to just the right amount of chilli and garlic and rather too much rocket (although I know I'm in a minority with my contempt for that particular weed). Cured goose breast, an interestingly dense, pungent meat, was paired with a blandly earthy 'mushroom tartar' - more like a duxelles - and more rocket.
We passed on pastas - choices such as squid ink tagliolini with diver-caught scallops or ravioli of courgettes and pinenuts with saffron butter - and went straight to mains.
My monkfish was a vast slab wrapped in smoky speck, and blastroasted so that the fish was moist and the ham a crunchy carapace: superb. It came with roasted new potatoes, more bloody rocket and little sign of its billed black peppercorns, although I didn't hold that against it.
I ordered a mixed salad; it came as a couple of desultory bits mixed with a whole bunch of rocket. Grilled halibut with asparagus, puntarelle (an Italian wild chicory) and leek vinaigrette was a serious chunk of fish, sensitively handled and blissfully rocket-free. In fact, I would have been sorely tempted to give The Salt House a four-star rating, had it not been for the wanton abuse of arugula.
Wealthy, staid St John's Wood seems a strange place to find this slice of loucheness. Instead of the gothic beauties it should be hosting it's full of smug yummy mummies congratulating each other on their 'find'. But lucky them, I'd be equally thrilled if I had The Salt House as a local. And, as a wild and wonderful departure from the usual gastropub clichès, it's to be applauded in a big way.
The Salt House
Abbey Road, London, NW8 0AE
