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.