MASH STEAK HOUSE
77 BREWER ST
LONDON
http://www.mashsteak.dk/blog/spring-is-finally-here/
Missing Mash Steak House was like having missed a European country with out noticing….embarrassing.
It’s situated on a corner in Soho, somehow the giant door seemed awkward to open and looked like an office block but even someone with impaired eyesight could see if they were looking.
The name is simplistic but has nothing like what they have to offer which is nothing short of excellence, sophisticated and impressive.
The entrance lobby is impersonal but they guided me over to large black lifts to descending into the basement decorated with the grandeur of a Manhattan 1930’s of ocean liner, and a few million bucks from a consortium of Danish international investors. It’s a statement.
An amazing large bar of serious proportions dominated the space and demanded respect.
That was far as I got. I was caught in its web, rolled around in the spider’s silken threads and offered my self up as easy prey.
I climbed up with dignity onto the end leather barstool, gave over my business card and introduced myself.
This bar had to be understood before I marched off into another kitchen before saying ‘mash potatoes’ then back out into the freezing cold grey wind; I did need to warm up as a very smart barman gave me a glass of water.
“So please tell me, what’s the story behind this great looking place?” I asked the professional, smart, neat young man.
Straight ahead I could see French style banquets, a forest of dark mahogany, a furnace of polished brass, and high ceilings with 1930’s handsome architectural details. The more I saw the higher the prices climbed in my mind. This was not a place of ‘mashed potatoes’ this was serious black/platinum card dining for those with time, an appetite and money.
He told me about the aged N.Y. Strip, Uruguay Rib, Serrano Ham, the Key Lime Pie, the crowd and how his cocktail bar was one of the best award winning innovative, world famous bar, with a dedicated team who marinated cherries, made their own syrups and changed the drinks menu seasonally.
I don’t remember how exactly but in no time my truffle bag was opened and I proposed he make a Hungarian Honey truffle cocktail, with a touch of truffle-flavored honey.
By now another barman had joined in, sniffing, squeezing and suggesting combinations so I was cemented to the bar stool balancing with core muscles drinking in their every word.
“There voila. That’s our suggestion based on a champagne Honey truffle cocktail” As he pushed over a slender elegant flute filled with the golden liquid whose tiny bubbles has slayed many a man.
“Can I taste it?” I asked reaching out tenuously.
“Its yours-you can drink it. Tell me what you think?”
I took a slip, careful not to suddenly swing, and fall to the floor still clutching onto a broken glass like a fool. My legs swayed frantically, searching for an anchor and wedged themselves against the bar at a very uncomfortable angle.
“Oh… this is sublime” I replied as the heavenly liquid hit my tongue, the roof of my mouth, the back of my throat and I swallowed hesitantly. “If we lined them up, one after another, until we ran out of ingredients would that be rude???” I thought of asking, but didn’t.
I took lots of photos. Photos of the two smiling proud men, photos of the glass, of the truffles and photos of the bar and I asked them if they would like to include this on their next seasons menu.
Their words faded into the background as I stared at the flute wondering how long I could make it last.
Perhaps they sensed my hypnotic state as they wondered off and left us to get deeply acquainted.
It was the end of lunch service and only a few diners were left over coffee, brandies and petit fours, thrashing out the fine details of global industrial mining deals.
A small grey suited man had excused himself from another table and took a seat at the far end and ordered a very special whiskey in cut glass tumbler, which he nurtured with love and affection.
He didn’t want anything in the world to disturb him and had someone screamed ‘fire’ we would have not moved until the flames were at our feet.
I forgot about the chef. I didn’t care if he had left the building and rather wished he had.
Deep melodious tones swept the high ceilings drooling out some New York City type of jazz that had no name but all the right notes.
I loved the music, loved the 1930’s, loved champagne, loved truffles and loved the fact we were all together united, while hoping someone would lock the doors and leave us alone.
“You are a genius-thank you so much” I said warmly as watched the young man take away the glass and little black napkin.
“Who do I like enough to bring to such a fantastic place, spend a fortune and spoil with the best money can buy?” I asked myself as I went back up in the office lift, which now began to look positively cozy, and across the black gloss lobby entrance.
“No one.” Said a voice from inside my head. “The place is big enough to get lost in so go there on your own if you need to” the voice ordered me.
“Ok” I agreed with myself and crossed the busy narrow grey windswept street, which disappeared into Soho, promising to see the chef on my next visit.
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