Straker’s: Dine, though perhaps only once
Let’s be honest, TikTok drew us here. We were promised ‘All Things Butter’ and hot, young chefs.
TikTok can be a strange mélange of conspiracy theories. A personal favourite is that Jackie Kennedy ate exclusively scrap metal. On the odd occasion, though, TikTok can provide half-decent restaurant recommendations. Luckily, Straker’s fell mainly into the latter category. Here are scores on the doors:
- Food: 6/10
- Service: 5/10
- Interiors: 7/10
- Atmosphere 8/10 (excluding chefs snogging their girlfriends)
- Value for money: low
- Hotness: one billion degrees Celcius
Let’s start with the vibe of the place. The restaurant is dark. Not to sound aged, but I felt like Stevie Wonder. Don’t get me wrong, I’m fond of moody lighting but mounting the bar stool as a 5'3 woman without embarrassing yourself was nigh impossible. Thank GOD the chefs weren’t as hot as promised.
Straker’s wasn’t as buzzy as we would have thought for primetime on a Wednesday. In fact, it was quite empty at 8.15pm. We weren’t in the main dining room so perhaps it’s hard for us to make a fair assessment. Our bad for wanting to sit at the bar and gawk at the chefs.
If I were to make an (uncharacteristically) haste comment on the overall vibe, I’d say there were a sufficient number of diners but an insufficient demographic. A flurry of bored girlfriends — looking down the barrel of 30 — seemed to have dragged their boring boyfriends out of Clapham to the what they probably consider ‘North London’ (Golborne Rd). Perhaps that’s why it took until 9pm to fill up. It takes time to rush home from the office, throw on a fresh gilet and ensure you have your Amex.
It’s tough to transition from shit-talking chins to admitting you ordered a spicy margarita. A bang average one at that. But, I suppose, when in Straker’s, do as the basic bitches would. The marg wasn’t spicy enough, nor strong enough. A stronger marg would have undoubtedly made for a more favourable review but, alas, it tasted a little like an alcoholic’s piss.
To be perfectly transparent, we didn’t do a particularly good job of remembering exactly what we ate or taking pictures. That’s probably telling of our overall thoughts. Here’s what we (think) we ordered:
- Mussel flatbread
- Cavolo nero and stracciatella flatbread
- Radicchio salad
- Pumpkin-filled agnolotti with brown butter and sage
The flatbreads
These were pretty superb, we’ll admit. We liked that they have rotating seasonal flavours. Soft, chewy, flavourful nutty flour. Great for sharing — I’m not sure Katie Hopkins at her heaviest could finish a whole one.
The cavolo was deep and complex, perfect for a wet Wednesday in February. The flatbread was a masterclass in when to use stracciatella (or burrata); the creaminess of perfectly offset the intensity of the cavolo. My only negative comment would be that the deeply intense cavolo didn’t need to sit atop such heavily charred flatbread. The carbonation was excessive— Jackie O would have loved it.
The mussel flatbread was delish. The amount of salt consumed likely raised my blood pressure more than explaining my browsing history on a first date. But Straker’s doesn’t sell itself as healthy and it is understandable that this is a standing item on the menu. Would recommend to our loyal following.
Radicchio salad
Well-executed and more interesting than expected. Perfectly zingy vinaigrette, sweet crunchy walnuts. Salty pecorino sardo to balance the zing and bitter. Slices of bright, juicy miyagawa satsuma. The satsuma, an early-season bloomer, was a smart move seasonally-speaking.
The agnolotti
I fear my words on the agnolotti may ring trivial, steeped in the ridiculousness of first-world woes. But ridiculousness is, I suppose, the MO of this blog. Our willingness to cough up £20+ plate of pasta carries both the right to complain and burden of looking out of touch.
I digress. I am saddened by the ubiquity of the sage and brown butter/ pumpkin filled pasta on menus in London. It’s like when your friend gets back together with a mediocre ex. Your heart sinks a little. The boy is fine but nothing special. Quite frankly you’d hope she’d crave something more exciting. You’re not enamoured by seeing them at the pub but they don’t leave a bad taste. They linger in the realm of the forgettable, a fleeting whisper in the cacophony of London’s endless promise of excitement and possibility.
With that said, the execution of the pasta was excellent. This ex-boyfriend/ agnolotti arrived shirt tucked in, Cerave-d up to the tits, and Elf Bar free. Well-seasoned and good flavour from pumpkin that I assume had been roasted.
The chefs
The chefs, I regret to say, radiated more physical heat than allure. The place sweltered so intensely that Asha inquired if I might be perimenopausal. I certainly hope not, not least because I don’t know what perimenopausal means.
Final thoughts
Dear God, this was an expensive meal. 30-odd quid for a main? You have to be putting forward a seriously interesting menu and top-notch atmosphere to pull that off. Sadly Straker’s fell short. A half-decent but overpriced offering. We’re left to answer the question ‘dine or dash’ with ‘dine, but only once every couple of years and only when you’re liquid’.
