A review of Angus Steakhouse in London
Perhaps it's working. Under the jazz club red of its frontage, the man on the door was pursing his lips. "A table for two?" he said, looking inside dubiously. "We're full..." A low point, being turned away from an Angus Steakhouse. "I don't suppose Jay Rayner has to put up with this," smirked my pal.
But one table freed up, so in we went. A restaurant of faded fortunes, not ugly but unloved. A room police-raid bright, of red and black and mirrors, of velour banquettes worn thin by a thousand ample American backsides. Beside us a couple, adults, spend the evening building Lego. What must life be like at home? The room smelt of pubs in the Nineties (one of which presumably donated the carpet), of heavy red wine and despair.
The menus continue the Nineties pub thing, being plastered in pictures. Who, really, can this be for? Are people going out for steak without knowing what one is? Not that the menu was especially reliable, given much of what we wanted was unavailable, including various steaks. This on a Monday night. How can a restaurant, operating since the Sixties, run out of its raison d'etre at the very beginning of the week? The feeling wasn't hatred but despair. This was a run of calamities, of mixed-up orders and mistakes. Staff were sweet and attentive, but the other word is overworked. Still, we ate. Sadly. Corn ribs weren't repellent; flavourless but not offensive. The soggy lumps of calamari, on the other hand, were little bullies. I chewed slowly, looking into the middle distance, haunted.
The steaks, then. There is a choice: do not, on any grounds whatsoever, f*** this up. For very similar money, they offer meat from Britain and Ireland, from South America, and from Jack's Creek, an Australian producer said to rear the world's best steak and with prizes to prove it. The Jack's Creek sirloin — they'd run out of ribeye — impressed: well seasoned; strong, iron-y flavour; tender. All the good stuff. It offered promise, a hint of change. Did some restaurant consultant get involved and then leave halfway through the job? Because my overcooked British monstrosity was a hellish, tough, teeth-testing beast, and with two distinct halves parted by fat. "Moses," I said woefully, "has been reincarnated as gristle." This made it almost impossible to eat: you should not have to approach a steak with a plan of attack. The Diane sauce alongside arrived with the bubbled consistency of a mousse.
How long had it been sitting under the heat lamp? Since before the millennium seemed a safe bet. But the chips were decently crisp, and mossy-looking side of creamed spinach a respectable effort. Our waiter sensed all was not well. He offered pudding on the house with a shrugging, sad sort of smile. There seemed to be rather a lot of that sort of thing going on.
So. Low-hanging fruit. Actually, I wish there had been some — we might have eaten better. But Angus Steakhouses is not a small, failing group; it is owned by Noble, which also runs Alley Cats, Chotto Matte and Ochre. It should know better. London has so much to offer; that someone might visit it once and eat here, then leave thinking this is how we Brits eat? Christ, the place almost feels unpatriotic in its crapness.
Small changes would fix things quickly: tablecloths, lower lights, worn woodwork revarnished. Fewer steaks but from better farms; fewer covers to relieve overburdened waiters. A rethink on the prices, which insult; the very cheapest steak is £22, but most linger somewhere near £40. Sauces are £3.50, sides about a fiver. Cocktails are £15 and up. We crept past £150 with two large glasses of dreadful wine.
"At least the Diet Coke's all right?" I said to my pal, with the same small, apologetic smile the waiter had given us. "Sure," she said. "Though it's flat." And with that we headed out in search of somewhere better, and found a little known trat called the Spaghetti House. Best Italian in town. Just ask Reddit.
