Number 12 Restaurant

7/10

Number 12 Restaurant, in Euston, treated me to an experience like no 
other.

I’d heard from a fellow restaurant reviewer that Number 12, named after 
its address on a rather long strip of hotels, is a popular haunt for 
foodies and business types, serving great food at reasonable prices. To 
ensure a table, I booked some time in advance.

From Euston station, my friend and I set off, in the snow, on our 
perilous journey in search of the said restaurant. According to our 
phone app directions, we had passed it. Retracing our snow prints, we 
reached our destination, a small and unimposing building attached to 
the hotel to which it belongs.

I expected it to be teeming with life; instead, it was completely 
empty, soulless. This was a unique experience, one like no other. We 
asked our waiter if we were the only booking for the night. Yes. His 
excuse for lack of custom was the snow outside; people would rather 
stay at home or in their hotel rooms. I couldn’t help but be cynical. 
After all, Prezzo, a few minutes away, was packed. Number 12’s 
emptiness was rather disconcerting at first, but one soon got used to 
it, delighting in the privacy given us, with the exception of the 
penetrating gaze of the staff.

Yet they weren’t so attentive as to notice our shivering. It was 
snowing outside, but was just as cold inside. All that toing and froing 
between kitchen and seating area must’ve made them insensible to the 
chill to which we’d been subjected. Try as I might, I could not convey 
to them the fact that we were cold; I shivered and I cupped my hands 
around my mouth and blew loudly, in a feeble attempt to warm them. I 
even went so far as to suspend them over the table candle. Perhaps I 
should have asked for my coat to really drill in the message.

Our food soon came and warmed us up – perhaps their not upping the 
temperature was an attempt to force us to appreciate the warmth and 
comfort of the food served to us. They needn’t have bothered to resort 
to such devious tactics. The food alone was good enough to raise us to 
the heights of appreciation and admiration. To start, I had the Dorset 
crab linguine with a tomato and chilli sauce, topped with basil. The 
sauce packed a punch, but I could taste neither chilli nor the subtle 
flavour of crab. It was slightly disappointing. I couldn’t resist 
digging into my friend’s dish of goat’s cheese and beetroot. The cheese 
was cloyingly rich and wonderful, sticking to the roof of my mouth, and 
the earthiness of the beetroot added both texture and flavour.

Equally successful was her main, fish pie. It was creamy and filled 
with scallops, prawns and salmon, lending the dish some bite. I had the 
chargrilled Italian wild boar sausages with polenta cream; the sausages 
were chunky and seasoned with various herbs and the polenta soft and 
velvety. The balsamic pearl onions, braised fennel and thyme jus 
elevated the dish from good to great. In this dish, the chef exhibits 
his great talent of balancing sweet and sour, as well as his ability to 
deliver big flavours. The desserts were as successful. The chocolate 
fondant was delectably rich; its gooey centre erupted when pierced, and 
mixed with the scoop of vanilla ice-cream sitting on top, offering a 
balance of hot and cold. The panettone pudding was light and sweet; 
rather than crème anglaise (custard to you and me), it was served with 
a white chocolate sauce, adding a subtler flavour. The pistachios added 
crunch and the hint of cinnamon another level of sweetness and spice. 
This mix of big and delicate flavours certainly made up for the 
linguine’s lack of subtlety.

The service was great. Despite not being so receptive to hints, members 
of staff were personable and attentive as regards food and wine, to be 
expected, given the emptiness of the restaurant. However, the décor was 
slightly dull, making me experience a strong sense of déjà vu upon 
being seated; was I on a ferry en route to Calais?

Overall, it was an enjoyable evening. The talented chef Charles Holtz 
and his team offer fine dining which is at the same time hearty and 
substantial. The menu is varied, with a range of dishes from both 
Britain and Italy. Critics may see Number 12 as a restaurant struggling 
to find its identity. But I feel that Holtz’s reconciliation of these 
flavours has enabled him to construct an identity different from his 
competition.

There are a few flaws, namely its location and interior decoration. The 
magnificence of nearby hotels overshadows it and the restaurant’s sign 
does little to stamp its presence. Moreover, its name does not 
contribute to its desire for individuality. If Number 10 Downing Street 
were to open a restaurant, I doubt they’d call it Number 10. A good 
name does wonders for a restaurant; The Fat Duck or Hedone, for 
example.

Nevertheless, the greatness of the food redeems these flaws; I wouldn’t 
say no to a return visit.


£77 for 2, including 2 glasses of wine.

Les Associés, Crouch End

6/10

£114 for 2.

Arabella Weir, reviewing Les Associés for the Guardian in 2005, asserts 
that despite its rather uninspiring ‘1980s paint job and Highland 
décor,’ its ‘unpretentious, high-quality food’ made it a pugilist able 
to do battle with the finest French restaurants in London. 7 years on, 
is Les Associés still the in its golden age?

Faced with the question of how to spend New Year’s Eve, I decided to 
shun the many options available and simply eat out. My date, Ruth, 
scoured the internet for decent, local restaurants. She stumbled upon 
Les Associés, read several reviews, including the aforementioned one 
and, since its website is rarely updated, called the restaurant to ask 
for more information than opening times and Le Menu du Dimanche. The 
restaurant was offering a competitive £40 (per person) set meal of 4 
courses plus cheeses. Happy with this, she booked a table for 8pm. 8.10 
and we were still looking for the restaurant. A quick look at a mobile 
app told me that we were to leave Crouch End and walk some distance 
along a desolate, and spooky, road. At 8.20, we arrived. Late (if you 
hadn’t worked that out). I had visions of a busy restaurant, a rather 
petulant host rushing to the front, contorting his face into a look of 
disgust at our inability to be punctual and turning us away because 
he’d donated our table to someone else. Instead, we were greeted with a 
smile and, since the restaurant was half full, given a choice of 
tables.

A suitably sweet Kir Royale and half a glass of red wine later, the 
first course arrived. A slab of fois gras with a salad. It was fatty 
and stringy, not smooth and rich in flavour – indications of its low 
quality. I wasn’t surprised given the cheapness of the menu. The 
vinaigrette was rather nice, a mixture of sweet and sour that managed 
to compensate for the little flavour of the fois gras. The second 
course was nearly faultless; a trio of fish, salmon, mackerel and cod 
coated in a creamy but slightly bland sauce. Equally impressive was the 
third course, chicken with a lovely crown of parsnip crisps, which 
provided texture, and a medley of glazed vegetables. The presentation 
was sophisticated and the taste pleasant. I’ve two complaints, though. 
One is much smaller than the other. Let’s begin with the bigger one. 
The dish lacked a rich and thick jus to bring all the flavours 
together. Instead there was a dribble of sauce. Obviously, the chef de 
cuisine is not an Escoffier disciple. This restaurant that purports to 
be a French restaurant deserves eternal condemnation – I say this in 
jest. My other, inconsiderable, complaint is that the chicken was 
slightly overcooked. The dish, nonetheless, was great. The dessert, ice 
cream with a mint infused strawberry coulis, was slightly less 
impressive. The texture of the ice cream was icy, and its honey flavour 
too subtle. However, the flavoursome coulis and the wonderful honey 
pastry parcel easily redeemed the dessert.

The service was attentive, but not overly so. The waiter has mastered 
the skill of surreptitiously hovering, and refilled the bread basket as 
soon as the last roll had been eaten. The proprietor was also on hand 
to help out, a charming presence. It wasn’t very busy. If busier would 
service suffer? Perhaps. The duo felt comfortable seeing to 5 tables. 
Any more and they’d be flustered, panting and sweating. The lack of 
custom is due, in large part, to the unclean state of the restaurant. 
It’s like an extension of the road, dirty and squalid. One expects its 
seedy underbelly to show itself any moment. It’s a terrace house that’s 
been lazily converted into a restaurant. I felt like I was in someone’s 
front room. Defenders may argue that this is part of its charm; one 
goes there for hearty food cooked by a real French matriarch, rather 
than those charlatans working in London kitchens. I disagree.

The atmosphere was gloomy, and the décor did little to enliven it. It 
lacked the gaiety one would expect on New Year’s Eve, merely depressing 
one into submission. Perhaps the drab decorations were a ploy to sell 
more wine. One needed a few glasses to forget where one was.

Les Associés opened in 1989 but sadly it hasn’t moved on. It proclaims 
to be a ‘traditional French restaurant’ yet bears little resemblance to 
the traditional bistros of France. It becomes clear that the word 
‘traditional’ for the proprietor of Les Associés means old and 
established. Others, such as Michel Roux Jr, create new dishes in 
accordance with tradition: ‘The meals remain works of art but they are 
lighter, more modern versions of the classic French haute cuisine that 
Le Gavroche is famous for’ (Le Gavroche website). Les Associés, with 
its grimy interior and filthy loos, is in need of modernisation. The 
fact that it hasn’t improved since Mrs Weir reviewed it suggests that 
it cares little about improvement.

As the ‘traditional’ food was very tasty, I am by no means saying that 
Les Associés should throw in the towel. But it’s equally difficult to 
sing its praises. It languishes in its bronze age.

Pappagone Pizzeria, Finsbury Park

5/10

Pappagone, an independent pizzeria in Finsbury Park, is an Italian 
peninsula boot to the face.

Even at 9pm, the time of our booking, the pizzeria was packed. It was 
so busy that we could not move to the bar; instead we stood like 
sardines in front of the entrance, and grimaced when more people wanted 
to come in. One customer, observing the multitude pushing and shouting 
to catch the barman’s attention, said she felt she was in a nightclub. 
She was right. Like its customers, who all seemed full, Pappagone 
needed to undo its belt and disgorge a few customers, so that these 
punters blocking the bar area, including my party of eight, could be 
seated.

At 9.15pm we were shown to our table. Most of the waiters at Pappagone 
were friendly, if slightly loud. But our waitress was incredibly rude 
and incompetent. She had little patience, missed orders and on several 
occasions failed to notice our desperate cries for her attention.

I had two starters, scallops and Melanzane alla Parmigiana. Both were 
edible. The scallops did not have that sear that one would expect in a 
restaurant, and needed a sauce. With the lack of sear, the greasy and 
mushy courgettes that accompanied them, the dish lacked texture and 
flavour. Similarly, the Melanzane was bland, lacking garlic and basil. 
Instead it was slathered in cheese. Having eaten at several pizzerias, 
it seems pizzeria chefs endorse the vain idea that ‘cheese will please’ 
– oodles of cheap parmesan will add flavour or at least hide the lack 
of it. The dish was one-dimensional, bearing a striking resemblance to 
those microwave meals one finds in a supermarket. We also ordered two 
garlic breads, which packed a garlic punch, but one was thin and 
crispy, as it should be, and the other burnt on the outside and soggy 
in the middle. Already, Pappagone is drowning in the puddle of 
abomination, the puddle of inconsistency, the puddle in the middle of 
its garlic bread.

Even less impressive was the calzone I ordered for main. It looked like 
a deflated rugby ball and tasted like one – I assure you that this is 
not an exaggeration and I also assure you that I’m not a man who makes 
a habit of eating rugby balls; I have never eaten a rugby ball but the 
comparison still stands. The calzone was mostly dough and had little 
filling and, with its stringy cheese and stubborn pepperoni, had a most 
unpleasant rubbery texture. I was not happy. I looked sideways at my 
father who seemed equally unhappy, and who seemed to be battling with 
the steak he had ordered. I am not sure who won. At the time, the 
steak, but given his toned jaw the next day, I am not so sure. Everyone 
else enjoyed their pizzas – the pizza polletto seemed most appealing, 
and I was told it tasted as good as it looked.

Pappagone’s food is slightly suspect, but its desserts are fantastic. I 
had banoffee pie with pistachio gelato (not ice-cream), which was 
absolutely divine. The gelato was as good as that in Italy, and the pie 
was heaven on a plate. The two made an award winning combination. The 
gelato is this pizzeria’s saving grace, it is creamy, rich and 
indulgent. I soon found out that the gelato, which is so good and 
authentic that it could be found in an Italian Gelateria, is actually 
imported from Italy. That the pizzeria orders it from Italy suggests 
that it is willing to go that extra mile for quality. I commend you 
Pappagone.

Equally great is the atmosphere (if slightly cramped), which lends 
Pappagone its charm. And the décor is pleasant, it does not move me, 
but it suffices.

On its website, Pappagone proclaims to be a ‘restaurant and pizzeria.’ 
One must never conflate the two, unless the food served in the 
establishment is restaurant quality, which usually is not the case. 
Pappagone serves Italian dishes to provide variety for customers. But 
the food it dishes up is just as expensive as that served in Italian 
restaurants. And its food is no better than the ‘chain restaurant,’ 
Bella Italia, lacking that all important Italian touch needed in an 
independent Italian restaurant.

Pappagone is a terrible ‘restaurant’ but a good, if inconsistent 
pizzeria. One goes there for a decent pizza, a great gelato and the 
buzzing atmosphere, but little else.

Bella Italia

2/10

Bella Italia, a well established chain serving mediocre Italian food,
started and nearly ended my relationship.

Bella Italia. I took my girlfriend there on our first date, in
Cambridge. It was good, and that we are still together is largely due
to this experience. Though I suspect it was not so much the food, which
was OK, as the chemistry we shared, and the kiss at the end of the
night. As a confirmed couple, a few months later, we returned, hoping
to order a takeaway pizza that we could eat whilst walking beside the
river Cam. We were disappointed. The waitress behind the counter
lamented the absence of cheese and takeaway pizza boxes. A
pizzeria/restaurant without cheese and takeaway boxes? She insisted
that we could still have our pizza, if we were prepared to compromise,
that is, have a cheeseless pizza to eat in. No thanks.

So when, in London, the said girlfriend suggested that we go to Bella
Italia, I was slightly wary. Let me explain. I was in a predicament,
with which, I am absolutely certain, you will identify. It was late in
the evening and I could no longer avoid my stomach’s cries. But I did
not know where to eat. A voice dives through the air and bombs into my
ears. ‘We could go to Bella Italia,’ my girlfriend suggests, as we
stood outside its Leicester Square branch. This is not to say that it
was her fault. We were in London. We could go to any other restaurant.
Or indeed, any other chain. But then the thoughts, in a seemingly
logical flow, arose: we are students with little money to spend. And
there are Bella Italia vouchers available on the internet that we can
use giving us 50% off the total bill. The latter point clinched it.
Having printed off the voucher, we made tentative steps towards the
restaurant.

We were shown to a table for two. This table was so small that it could
only comfortably fit one. I know my name is gargantuan gastronome, but
I assure you, I am but a slim chap – I hope you will appreciate the
irony. So I kindly asked to be seated at another, larger table, that
is, a table for four. And as the restaurant was not busy, I did not
think this an absurd request. I would like to say that within minutes
we were shown to one of the many empty tables for four. But it was more
like ten minutes. After much faffing about, we were shown to a bigger
table. I finally felt at ease to study the restaurant. It is like a
traditional trattoria – slightly dated. But one could argue that this
is part of its charm. I disagree. After the table incident, the
atmosphere felt slightly awkward and one could tell that the waiters
and waitresses were feigning their smiles. Awkward.

To start I ordered the meatballs and for main, stuffed roasted peppers.
A small dish was placed before me, and judging from plops of brown
balls, I astutely guessed this was my meatball dish. Visually, it was
unappealing. Taste-wise, OK. Rather like the meatball sandwich one
finds in Subway. The meatballs were drenched in a sickly sauce, made
even worse by the melting mozzarella sat on top, which copulated with
the sauce engendering a taste so foul that I almost fainted,
metaphorically. The next dish was much better. But, before I can move
onto this dish, I must express a fact followed by a complaint. My
girlfriend is a vegetarian. I often complain about this, but this is
not my qualm. This is my complaint: having ordered a vegetarian pizza,
she thought it a slap in the face when the waitress placed in front of
her a chicken salad. Doh. The waitress kindly removed the dish, and
went into the kitchen at which point, I assume, she asked for what my
girlfriend actually ordered, a vegetarian pizza. By the time the pizza
arrived, I had already eaten my dish. So much for eating out together.
This pizza, incidentally, was slightly undercooked.

The peppers – two, to be precise – were stuffed with risotto. The rice
was al dente, just the way I like it. A nice salad accompanied the
peppers and its citrus dressing nicely offset the stodginess of the
risotto. Overall, a good dish.

Service was efficient, what I would expect from team of ten working in
an empty restaurant, but this did not redeem the many faults that
occurred during our meal. Why did I come here? My girlfriend suggested
it. And knowing the principle that men must be obsequious to the whims
of their other halves, I went with it. But this was nearly at the cost
of our relationship. We had our first date in a Bella Italia and it
looked like we were going to have our last in one. The £20 bill saved
the relationship, just.

SOJO in Oxford

3/10

If Giles Coren, the notable food critic, favourably reviews a 
restaurant it must be good. No questions asked. When I started to read 
his review of the restaurant, SOJO, in Oxford, feeling as a wearied 
traveller feels when consulting an oracle, I felt in good hands. That 
Mr Coren focuses on a cricket game that he played earlier more than the 
restaurant itself is irrelevant, it merely suggests that he had worked 
up a large appetite. And that it was sated is indeed testament to a 
good restaurant, surely. What should we learn from this? Not that Mr 
Coren plays cricket. Rather, that whatever he says goes. So, as I 
entered SOJO in Oxford, as a student with a stomach unsatisfied by 
college hall food, I expected good food and decent service. I was so 
wrong. Neither was up to scratch, and I found myself cursing Coren, 
speculating as to the reasons that induced him to give this restaurant 
a glowing review.

My girlfriend and I were seated in the most abrupt manner possible, a 
shove and a grunt. It was as if we were intruding, as though we were 
not welcome. The hostile stares from the staff seemed to confirm this. 
One of the waiters came over to our table and tossed a (yes one, not 
two) menu onto it. Within minutes he returned expecting to take our 
order. I told him that I liked chicken and wished to have a dish that 
deviated from the norm (sweet and sour chicken) and asked what 
I should have. One expects, justifiably, a waiter to have some 
knowledge of the menu given out in the restaurant he or she works in,

so that the waiter can recommend dishes that a customer might like. 

That is not to say that I expect the waiter to have an encyclopaedic 

knowledge of, say, Asian cuisine, but rather that a simple suggestion, 

having listened to what a customer likes and dislikes, might be 

appropriate. Instead of recommending a dish that might tickle my fancy, 

he retuned my eager enquiry with a look of complete vacuity. After some 

time – obviously he was deeply thinking about the best dish for me – he 

responded by pointing to a random dish in the chicken section of the menu. 

I went with it, and my girlfriend went for a tofu dish. The food arrived 
within ten minutes, incredible timing, we thought. But, the food was so 
quick for a reason, that is, it was likely thrown into oil, cooked 
quickly and then thrown onto dishes, which in turn were thrown onto our 
table. The food was greasy, the sauces, the rice and noodles were oily, 
and looked as if all had been cooked in one pan. Not only were the 
dishes visually unappealing, but also offensive to one’s taste buds. I 
paid the forty pound bill, begrudgingly, and vowed never to return.

On my way back to my room, hand in hand with my girlfriend, I enquired 
whether or not our experience was an exception and that perhaps if I 
were to go on another night the food would be better. But the thought 
soon occurred to me that consistency is a culinary virtue.