Harwood Arms: Fulham, London

Just over a week ago, the UK Michelin Guide results for 2010 were leaked. Among the Twitter frenzy, the Harwood Arms was outed as the first pub in London to be awarded a much coveted star. While the Michelin Guide has its detractors, this is certainly fine recognition about which any dining establishment would be suitably chuffed. One can only assume the champagne corks were popping in Fulham. But can a Scotch Egg really be that good? I considered it my duty to find out...

The Harwood Arms has a top class pedigree. Spawn of The Ledbury's Brett Graham and Pot Kiln's Mike Robinson, it has wisely posited chef Stephen Williams (also formerly of The Ledbury - which itself gained 2 stars this year) at the stovetop.

And I loved it at first sight. Relaxed country pub style, without the kitsch (not a wellie in sight), I found it warm and charming right down to the friendly, live human garden gnome sitting at the bar with his ale.

But better still was the menu. British and seasonal to the extreme, I could have thrown a dart at the thing and been happy with any line on which it landed. I eventually settled on some happy choices and remembered contentedly that there is another up-side to winter (in addition to re-discovering long forgotten treasures in the winter wardrobe) in the form of hearty winter feasts at your local pub. (Ok, so it's not my local, but you can definitely tell it's someone's.)

Enter the soda bread. Oh. My. Lordy. Lord. This bread was baked and handed down by God's own oven mitt. Only once before have I tasted bread this good - a very similar soda bread at The Crown Inn, in Amersham earlier in the year. But that requires a long train ride, a bus and likely dealings with lace doilies, tartan and old men with hunting rifles. This stuff's in Fulham. Unfortunately, the butter was as hard as a rock and completely unworkable without a bunsen burner on hand, but was hardly necessary with bread this moist, sweet and almost nutty.

Our starter was the easiest choice - you don't come to the Harwood Arms without trying its much famed Scotch Egg. The plate of venison starters for 2 was lovely containing a venison Scotch Egg, rissoles on licorice, pickled mushrooms, and some rare bits - on bread with a rich pate and on the side with a salad.

Simple, fresh and lovely. The meat was rich and tender, and well balanced with the bite of the salad and the rolling sweetness of the licorice. However, all eyes were on the Scotch Egg. Slowly, mouths open, eyes focussed, we took a knife to it.

Marvellous. Crispy bread crumbs and delectable layer of venison encased a perfectly soft boiled egg with gloriously runny yolk. Delicious. I took pause to think of those mysterious bottles of spirits at the back of your uncle's liquor cabinet with the larger-than-bottle-neck pear in them - just how do they do it? (Please don't tell me - let me have my dreams.) The Harwood Arms' venison Scotch Egg is truly a thing of awe and wonderment.

After some indecision, I had settled on the braised beef cheeks, with creamy mash, onions and carrots for my main meal. It was certainly a lovely, rich and tender dish - although nothing here stood out beyond what I would expect from any good gastropub.

The Peanut Gallery went for the daily special - deer, steak and shoulder (the latter fried up in crispy bready bits), with crispy garlic potatoes, mushrooms and (if I recall correctly) a licorice sauce on the side. Again, this was a terrific dish - no bells and whistles, just good solid pub fare.

For dessert - would madame like doughnuts with marmalade, orange sherbert and whipped cream? Uh, yuh-huh. I adored these doughey little balls of goodness - the tang of the marmalade against the glory of fresh cream. I couldn't distinguish the sherbert, but this was a delectable and surprisingly light end to my meal. Old sweet tooth, TPG, did naturally have a whine about his view that raspberry jam was the only acceptable filling for a doughnut (with the possible exception of custard) but my dough babies and I blocked it out as unnecessary background noise and marched on.

TPG was rubbing this hands together over the thought of his baked custard with gingerbread, cider sorbet (from memory) and poached pear. Imagine how his poor little heart sank when he found himself confronted with what appeared to be a creme brulee instead? He was, it seems, expecting something closer to a creme caramel - less cream, more eggy. Well, TPG's loss, my gain - give me a creme brulee any day. The custard was lovely and creamy and the gingerbread was delicious. However, the sorbet was too beery and acidic - a match that didn't quite work for me.

Service was friendly, and the only glitch was the inability to grab anyone's attention to pay our bill, after which the card machine remained broken for 15 minutes so TPG was summonsed to walk to the bank (in driving rain - TPG). We also noticed they brought the plates out for the table next door while none of the relevant patrons were seated (all being outside for smoko) - I would not be a happy camper to come inside to cold food.

One of the nice things about this high achieving neighbourhood pub is its mixed crowd. From old men eating their snails at the bar, to cool young thirty somethings having a drink on the couch, there's surely something for everyone here.

So, is the production of what might just possibly be the world's greatest Scotch Egg and Soda Bread sufficient to justify a Michelin Star? I'm certainly excited for the Harwood Arms that they've achieved one, and I love the fact that places like this are recognised by the Guide. But, if I was after Michelin Star dining, and all the dazzlement that I normally associate with it, this would not be my first choice of venue. In the end, this question doesn't really matter. The food is homely but well executed, with even some outstanding moments - particularly on the simple things (egg, bread). Service, although friendly and refreshingly relaxed, could improve and would do well to be a little more polished and knowledgeable on the product and the wine list.

I'm probably holding the Harwood Arms to high standards, but this seems only fair when visiting within a week of its star award. But go in expecting great, solid gastropub food, in a comforting atmosphere, and you won't be disappointed. All up, our meal came to just under £95 including wine and service.

27 Walham Grove, Fulham, London, SW6

The Duke of Wellington - Marylebone, London

It's been a while since I've dined at the Duke. My lasting memory from my previous visit is of a fellow guest, a usually sane and extremely law abiding citizen, telling a Seinfeld-esque tale of skulduggery and grand larceny involving him, a dry cleaner and at least 1 pair of lost trousers. I can't for the life of me remember what I ate - but I remember it was good.

This time, I'm on the ball. Our group of six settled into the upstairs dining room, which is a lovely enough space with the semblance of a proper, grown up sitting room - intimate setting, white walls, dark floorboards, big breezy windows. So perhaps it's down to my juvenile and unsophisticated nature that I'm always slightly reluctant to leave the cheery downstairs pub behind - it's also a lovely place to eat.

The menu offers simple-but-posh pub nosh. There's crab on toast, crab bisque, jerusalem artichoke soup with truffle oil and steak supplied by the Ginger Pig.

I was, for once, avoiding the meatier dishes in preparation for the Christmas feast awaiting me later that evening. So, I settled on the mussels in a light, soupy Thai green curry with a side of pilaf. Alright, alright, I hear the gasps. I never order Thai curry in a pub, nor even mussels for that matter. However, this version was enjoyable - and would have been even more so had I been given a spoon to get at the lovely soup. Instead, I resorted to the scoop by shell method. Classy.

The grilled haloumi was a popular choice with the ladies - a salad with toasted almonds, rocket, hummus and grilled bread. As much as I adore haloumi, it has to be cooked well and eaten in a timely fashion to avoid the rubber tyre effect. It seemed to pass the tyre test with flying colours and gained the full approval of the girls who nodded and devoured and attacked it wholeheartedly.

The Peanut Gallery opted for the rather plain looking scrambled eggs - perhaps one too many fandangled protein shakes that morn, TPG? But he was happy enough with his choice.

Our sides of spinach and long, knobbly new potatoes were all cooked well, and as satisfactory as such sides could be. I certainly hopped in for my 3rd side of carbs (rice, bread and potato - mmm...). The bread was hot and fresh from the oven - always earning a big tick on the Greedy Diva checklist.

Desserts were fab. I had my heart set on the apple crumble but it was, to my dismay, sold out by the time we got around to ordering. However, the sticky toffee pud with banana ice cream was a solid wingman, ready to step up to the plate. The sauce was delectable, the pud rich and moist, and it was happily generous in size. The ice-cream was disappointingly icy but, all round, it earned a big thumbs up from me and Mands (we had one each, of course).

The Peanut Gallery's rice pudding with raspberry compote was lovely and creamy, and I liked the bitter sweet tang of the fruit - although he, of course, thought it superfluous. Don't put expendables between TPG and his pudding.

The Duke of Wellington is a lovely place to eat fine pub fare. What it does, it does well, as recognised by its Time Out Award in 2008 for the Best New Gastropub. Go lofty upstairs for a reliably good meal with friends, or nestle in downstairs for a relaxed and lazy afternoon pint, watching the rain fall over the quiet streets of Marylebone.

94a Crawford Street, Marylebone, London, W1J 2HQ

32 Great Queen Street, Covent Garden (London)

Finally, I can sleep again at night. No longer do I need to lie awake at grim hours, tossing and turning, racking my brains, for a worthy place to meet friends for a pub lunch in the realms of Soho.

Soho is great for coffee, wine bars, restaurants and, obviously, drinking out of a brown paper bag with a crack pipe in your pocket (if that's your thing). But foodie pubs are another story. The quest to find one has been the source of an inordinate amount of anguish and heartache in my obsessive little life. Yet somehow, despite my enormous snout for a good Sunday lunch, I had missed a corker: 32 Great Queen Street was that missing piece of the puzzle.

The Peanut Gallery and I had a date for Sunday lunch with our ever affable friend, Ray, on his brief visit from Australia. Ray is one well-travelled foodie, so the aim was to show him some decent British fare, vaguely in the vicinity of his hotel. Related to two other great British gastro pubs, the Anchor & Hope in Waterloo and the Eagle in Farringdon, 32 GQS was likely a safe bet.

There is nothing pretty or fancy about 32 GQS. The dining room is dark, scuffed and shabby with a hotch potch of non matching chairs, ricketty wooden tables and thimble sized wine tumblers. However, it serves up gutsy, traditional British pub fare. The food is simple, fresh, hearty and it's good.

The first promising sign was the bread - wholemeal, thick and hearty. Bread can say so much.

I happily tucked into a pidgeon with cannelloni beans (above) - seasonal and delicious. The Peanut Gallery's cuttlefish braised in its own ink (below) was so sumptuous he covertly tried to hide it from us (if you can call building a wall with the menus "covert").

Ray's shoulder of lamb (below) was juicy and sweet and I'm fairly sure I saw him licking the plate while I was distractedly ordering more beers.

I like to think we shared tasty sides of potatoes, fresh buttery cabbage, and mixed leaves - but, truth be told, I pretty much hogged them all.

We finished off with a chocolate pot that looked like a short macchiato (Ray reported it was more cakey than moussey, but in a good way), the white chocolate, raspberry and amaretto cheese cake (yes, it sounds scrumptious and it was) and chocolate doughnuts with sour cream and chestnuts.

This latter dish has since been the source of much lively debate between its owner and I. It has been noted before that The Peanut Gallery loves a doughnut. However, he was not overawed by these examples - he insists they should have been vanilla flavoured (not chocolate) and that the sour cream and chestnuts added nothing. At this point, I was hitting him over the head with my handbag and screeching denials in the middle of Long Acre Road. I loved this dessert and, as this is my blog, let that be the final word.

32 Great Queen Street, you are worthy of your pedigree, and I'm so delighted to have found you at last. I'll be back for the crab on toast.

The Only Running Footman, London

What is the etiquette when the meal you ordered turns out to be so much better than your boyfriend's that you sense he is starting to eye off yours?

This person, the love of your life, is suffering cruelly - but is is really necessary to share? Is it acceptable to pretend not to notice the insipid little salad on the other side of the table, nod encouragingly and wince a little as you bite into your own deliciously juicy feast in the vain hope it might discourage any temptation for him to help himself to your chips?

So was Sunday's moral dilemma. 

The Peanut Gallery and I are mildly competitive when it comes to ordering. No-one likes to be left with the dud dish. The Peanut Gallery has even been known to feign indecision, refusing to reveal his selection, until the waitress arrives.


Usually are experiences are roughly equal in quality. Sometimes there is a clear victor. Sunday was one such occasion.


After an exhausting morning watching gazelle-like runners pound away at the London half marathon, the Greedy Diva, The Peanut Gallery and their inspiringly sport friends (some fresh from participating in the event) met up near the Hyde Park finish line - at The Only Running Footman in the swanky streets of Mayfair. The object: to refuel with some serious pub fare.


The Only Running Footman looks like the sort of pretty, English pub you might find  in a country village. Downstairs, the pub is lively, boisterous and bright, with big bay windows, and wooden floorboards and furniture, endowing it with a friendly but chic feel. Upstairs, the soft furnishings are more elegant, and the ambience more subdued and serious.


The breadbasket is always a good indicator of things to come, and the hearty walnut break here was greedily devoured.


The menu is largely traditional British pub fare, done well - 3 kinds of roasts (lamb, beef, and an impressive pouisson with cranberry) with Yorkshire pud and plentiful trimmings, battered fish and fat, hand cut chips, potted Morecombe Bay shrimp, fish cakes with poached egg, a warm veggie option of butternut squash, buffalo mozzarella, broccoli, mustard fruits and Amaretti gratin and some good looking desserts, like spiced banana tarte tartin with dulce de leche ice cream.


But today, in empathy with my triumphant running friends seeking urgent calorific relief, it had to be the burger. And this burger was glorious. OK, so the burger pictured was no supermodel. But beauty is more than skin deep. Thick, juicy and flavoursome, with a nicely toasted bun, tomato, cheese, lettuce and a gorgeously sweet relish - this burger had personality. The Greedy Diva napkined up, and hoed in heartily. And, in the spirit of half marathon day where everyone's a winner, she even threw the odd morsel The Peanut Gallery's way. This was the best burger the Greedy Diva has sampled for some time.


TPG made the somewhat surprising move of ordering the crispy sesame duck salad. I can't even remember the exact description on the menu, because who ever scrutinises the salad option  in a pub? All I know is, I saw a lot of leaves being pushed dejectedly around a plate while The Peanut Gallery stared down my burger.


The Only Running Footman is a solid performer, so long as you stick to traditional British pub fare and (need I say it?) steer clear of Asian style salads. All up, lunch was just over £20 per head, including drinks,


But on the sharing dilemma I think, my fellow greedies, the answer must always be a resounding "yes". Yes, share. Share away. Because one day the running shoe may well be on the other foot.

The Only Running Footman, 5 Charles Street, London W1J 5DE