Some new openings just sound unappetising on paper. Take the dining cellar Marjorie’s in Soho, a brand new, Parisian-inspired wine bar serving small plates in London W1. “Oh God,” I said on learning that its proprietors are Michael Searle and Josh Anderson. “Never heard of ’em.” Sorry to quibble, especially seeing as this seems to be their first hospitality venture, and I am well aware that eating out for a living is a huge jolly, but eating in wine bars? Well, I am not a fan: too noisy, too boisterous, too give-me-my-bloody-dinner generally – not to mention too many drunken elbows in your cheese toast while a sommelier bores on about beaujolais nouveau. Also, Marjorie’s is alarmingly close to Carnaby Street, the natural habitat of the disappointed diner.
So I set off down Foubert’s Place, muttering to myself that at least I’m not heading for the nearby Kingly Court food hub that brims with dining options, each of them more impersonal and oversubscribed than the next. Back in the noughties, Carnaby Street still gave a slight nod to its Swinging Sixties roots, with a few remaining independent shops selling goth gear, pantaloons and bongs. Today, however, it is a shiny row of sleek international flagship stores, with the wondrous, olde worlde Liberty at one end, clinging on for dear life, the poor love, before she is inevitably turned into a Lululemon.
Anyway, it turns out that it is for all these reasons that we should actually be grateful for Marjorie’s, because, yet again and with no fear of this letting up any time soon, it also turns out that I am an absolute idiot. Marjorie’s may look like a wine bar, but Searle and Anderson have opened something tiny, brave, bespoke and appealingly odd. Oh, and delicious, too, because the duo have tempted Giacomo Peretti, formerly of Le Gavroche, to cook for them. He has also worked at the crowdpleaser Temper, the wholly underrated Firebird and the dependably brilliant the Culpeper, and if you head down to the basement, where there are more tables, you’ll be able to watch him weave his magic.
Snaring Peretti to do wine bar snacks and letting his imagination fly is a stroke of genius, because now you have a brilliant chef serving gooey chicken liver “rocher” – think rich, nutty, nibblable savoury Ferrero Rocher – pretty little yummy crab tartelettes made all the merrier by the addition of kumquat and a delicate and rather bizarre lamb tartare dotted with spring vegetables, goat’s cheese and a tiny fresh strawberry. Surprise! This is actually, and quite unexpectedly, a restaurant with serious food; in fact, it might well be the most earnest, accomplished, imaginative food being served in this square mile right now.
Yes, you could play safe, grab a space at the long bar upstairs, order from the exclusively French wine list and feast only on a selection of La Fromagerie cheese and rustic pain served with a shedload of salted French butter, perhaps with some saucisson with cornichons on the side. But don’t do that: Peretti’s larger and admittedly stranger-sounding dishes are well worth the risk. There’s a bowl of escargots with seaweed in a silky pinewood cream and a soft, delicate salad of good, mixed green leaves with a sweet, citrussy, orange blossom vinaigrette. Original, perhaps offputting to some, but truly, madly good.
Two other standouts were a stinky, slightly warm piece of runny brie de Meaux served with lush fresh apricot – outstanding – and some proper French soul food: poached chicken on white rice made decadent with brown butter. This was a rhapsody of classy, beige carbs, and I scraped at the bowl like a sad labrador released from her kibble diet. Slices of tempura courgette, almost like cigars to look at, came dotted with trout roe and rouille, and were equally weird and wonderful.
The dessert list offered a millefeuille with diplomat and strawberries, but my eyes had already been greedily drawn to a warm, frothy, olive oil-strewn bowl of fresh chocolate mousse topped with crunchy hazelnuts. Again, this was just heavenly.
As a non-drinker, I spend little time in wine bars these days – after all, as the old saying goes: “If you stay in the barber’s long enough, you’ll probably end up with a haircut” – but for Marjorie’s I’m making an exception. Service is prompt, the menu intriguing and there’s a sense that you’re in on a secret that no one else knows about. Go for the vin, the gossip, a bowl of nocellara olives and some great baguette; stay for a dinner that’s currently one of the best in London. It’s really worth going to Carnaby Street for. Courage, mes braves!
Marjorie’s 26 Foubert’s Place, London W1; marjorieslondon.co.uk/ (no phone). Open all week, noon-11.30pm (Fri & Sat midnight, Sun 10pm. From about £40 a head, plus drinks and service
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