COCONUTS CRITIC’S TABLE – It’s not often the world takes culinary cues from Britain. Legendary New Yorker writer and bon viveur AJ Liebling once said, “An Englishman teaching an American about food is like the blind leading the one-eyed.” And let’s face it – he had a point. But in the case of “nose-to-tail eating” – the oh-so-now cooking paradigm in which the likes of offal, brawn and bone marrow are no longer pariahs at the dinner table, but the most interesting guests there – the world is taking its culinary cues from a London restaurant.
The restaurant is Fergus Henderson’s St John. As if to underline St John’s status as one of the world’s hippest eateries, last year Anthony Bourdain ranked it No. 1 in an article entitled “13 Places To Eat Before You Die,” ahead of The French Laundry and the late elBulli. But St John’s economical style of cooking is easier to imitate than the insanely exacting, labor-intensive cuisine served at the latter restaurants. So many of the world’s kitchens are saying “out with the tenderloin, in with the testicles.” Or at the very least, the trotters.
Here in Bangkok – where you only have to go to your nearest kuai tiao stall for proof that eating organs never even went away – leading the nose-to-tail charge is Ian Kittichai’s Smith, which opened a couple of months ago on Sukhumvit Soi 49. In Bangkok dining circles, Kittichai’s name has serious currency. The guy could open a two-dish joint serving shark fin soup and puppy steaks (“Jaws and Paws”) and it would be full every night. His other outlets, Hyde & Seek and Issaya Siamese Club, are more appealing than that – and much beloved by local trendsters.
And so, with some inevitability, reports suggest it’s already nigh-on impossible to get a table at Smith without booking a day in advance. In this city, that’s rare. As with Hyde & Seek, Smith doesn’t even bother with anything so crass as a sign at the threshold. This is no doubt intended to help those in the know feel that much more satisfied with themselves. I struggled to find the place.
Smith is spacious, with the unstuffy bar vibe most new openings mercifully seem to go for these days. It has a moody, industrial feel reminiscent of Brooklyn, complete with de-rigueur exposed concrete and an elevator cage. There are racks of tools on the walls, too: pliers, tongs, chisels. Those of a morbid imagination might be minded of torture porn flicks like Hostel and Saw, particularly since this is a restaurant that serves unusual body parts. But those of a morbid imagination should probably keep quiet.
So is Smith any good? Or just a load of old tripe served to a trendy ‘80s soundtrack? If you ask me – and I know you didn’t, but here it is anyway – it’s promising but flawed. The menu is intriguing in a “I’ve never seen that in Bangkok before” sort of way. And, for the type of cuisine, there are surprisingly big flavors. Unfortunately, that’s often accomplished through excessive salt and sweetness. Smith also suffers from a syndrome afflicting many of Bangkok’s Western restaurants. I call it “nice starters, shame about the mains.”
One of those nice starters was the haggis. Haggis is either a Scots classic made with the heart, liver and lungs of a sheep or, as English comedian Simon Munnery would have it, “a means of selling offal to tourists.” The three sausage-like morsels we were served were at some remove from the genuine article, seemingly lacking oats or that fluffy texture that’s typical. But they were enjoyable, meaty morsels that sat on top of a culinary joke: a bed of “sweet potato,” actually sweetened potato mash, rather than the tuber that bears the name.
The tuna, braised pig’s tail and foie gras torchon was great, though very salty. The creamy torchon and soft raw fish complemented each other well, while flowers, radishes, peas and crunchy pig’s tail brought contrasting texture and color. Unfortunately, a side order of honey-glazed vegetables – daikon, carrot, radish – failed on two counts. First, it inexplicably showed up with our appetizers, rather than mains. Second, it was a bowl of sweet, slightly overcooked root vegetables. That is all.
And the mains – well, they weren’t bad, but I won’t be writing to mother about them. The fries that came with the Black Label Burger were eerily reminiscent of those served at McDonald’s – though lamentably dry and sprinkled with rosemary, which finds its way into several dishes here. We got through a quarter of them. The burger itself was served in a bun stained black with squid ink. But the Australian wagyu patty itself was like the bogan who no doubt reared the beast: large, meaty but dull and lacking in taste.
The pork belly was visually striking, the skin a bright pink from a verjus glaze. With its layers of fat and flesh, it resembled a fruity French pastry slice. And it was well cooked; a knife slid gratifyingly through the fat like it was warm margarine. The pickled stone fruit provided some sour contrast but while the lentils added texture, a crunchier element wouldn’t have gone amiss. And with a pool of creamed cauliflower, this was heavy fare indeed. But that’s what you expect from pork belly.
We finished with an Eton Mess, the English version of Pavlova but, well, messier. Here the meringue had been miniaturized and replaced in the main by a sweet praline crunch. The cream and fruit were balanced and there was a novel finish supplied by sprigs of mint. A lovely dish.
Despite Smith’s culinary failings – it’s early days, so they may well improve – there’s no doubt the place makes a decent spot to get drunk in. The mixed Thai and foreign crowd didn’t look afraid to have fun, while the inventive drinks list with sangrias, beer cocktails, new concoctions and classics would make doing just that a cinch. The “Garden With Good and Evil,” Hoegaarden with lychee and ginger, and the “Percy Smith,” with vodka, orange liqueur, Italian bitters, passion fruit and vanilla, were particularly fine. Less happily, the “Fiona Smith,” with vodka, pear liqueur, orange blossom and snow pear, tasted strangely cheesy. Yes, cheesy.
So it’s a middling verdict for Smith. Neither bollocks, nor the dog’s bollocks. Neither tripe, nor a prime cut. (Though in the midst of this nose-to-tail “revolution,” what does that even mean? I don’t know any more.)
Smith
1/8 Sukhumvit Soi 49
02 261 0515
http://www.smith-restaurant.com/
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Coconut’s Critic’s Table reviews are written based on unannounced visits by our writers and paid for by Coconuts Bangkok. No freebies here.
Follow Dan Waites on Twitter: @DanWaites
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