Jeanette Winterson: ‘It feels good to be here. The food, the place, the story’

Photographs by Sophia Evans

“We both love French wine and proper British cooking – game, roasts, pies, seafood from our coasts, vegetables in season and old-fashioned puddings. We wanted a big building we could make our own. And it was so cheap in the early 1990s,” owner Kay Sinden reminds me.

Yes, it was cheap. And challenging. I bought my own house in Spitalfields soon afterwards. It had a Dangerous Structure Notice pasted on the front door. At the time we looked like fools, camping in a portal to the past – the dirty and broken romance of old buildings, here since before the French Revolution in 1789.

So, my disclaimer, or confession, before I tell you about this restaurant, is also my good fortune. I have known owners Peter and Kay Sinden for more than 30 years. I am still at one end of the street and they are still at the other. What they have done, and go on doing every day, may look like running a restaurant, but it is a labour of love. They nearly sold up during Covid. Since Brexit, importing their French wine from the small producers they know by name makes red tape sound like festive wrapping. The day I ate here, Peter was at the port, in person, wrangling his consignment through customs.

The wine is the star of the bar. Nothing generic – even though some of it comes in boxes, because Peter wants affordable, simple, good-quality wine, for anyone who just wants a glass, at the modest price of £4.40, perhaps to match a plate of rarebit made with London Black cheddar and plenty of Worcester sauce. The house wine is Marcillac, by the glass, or £40 a bottle. No additives and a low ABV make this a perfect all-day wine.

I began my dinner with scallops and sundried tomato pesto. Kay recommended a glass of Authenticus, a Chardonnay from the Loire, made by Plou et Fils. This wine has just a hint of an oaked Burgundy, but the cooler temperatures of the Loire Valley leave it clean enough to cut through the powerful flavours of the dish.

Head chef Theo Stokes makes the pesto himself, with cashews, not pinenuts, and without cheese. I admit I was not sure about either the pesto recipe, or the combination. That’s why I wanted to try it.

The small, perfectly fresh scallops arrived glistening with self-confidence. The deep green, red-flecked pesto chaperoning them turned out to be exactly what was needed to show off, but not smother, the delicacy of the scallops. At £16 a plate, it’s not cheap, but it’s worth it. My friend ate my usual favourite, the crab toast (£14) with a serving of beetroot and butterbean hummus (£9).

Fish and shellfish are part of the pride of the restaurant and, as Kay tells me, if you want the freshest seafood, you have to pay the money. For those who love oysters, it’s £4 an oyster, or £21 for six.

When I eat dinner here alone, I often have steak, homemade chips and a house salad, but this time I decided to go for a second small plate. I chose fresh sardines and lentils at £14.50. The lentils are soaked overnight and cooked with herbs and red wine. The sardines lay like slim bars of silver, heads and tails on, as shiny as the lentils are muted. It’s a beautiful and filling combination – sourdough can be added, toasted or not.

My friend went for hake with salsa verde, Jerusalem artichoke and purple sprouting broccoli. At £28, it’s the fish and the chef-skill that costs the money. The salsa verde is plentiful and pretty, sitting nicely with the other colours on the plate. They do care about presentation here – not in a frightening, overfussy way, but with respect for the food, the cooking and you, the diner.

We were sitting in a panelled booth of polished wood and leather, tucked away from the bar area, but never neglected by the staff. The decor is part rural French bistro, part Georgian coffee house. No designer has been near it. Hooray. Chairs don’t match, Kay buys crockery from brocantes, there’s a piano waiting for the monthly jazz nights and blackboards, a bit wonky on the walls, offering specials of food and wine. By now, we’re both well down the decanter of Les Roches de Yon-Figeac, 2019, which at £58 is excellent value.

Too full for pudding, I managed a few spoons of a small and zesty lemon posset (£8). My friend can never resist apple crumble, this one served in a tin dish with a jug of proper custard. At £10 there is easily enough for two. By now, it’s late, but a couple of women roll in for the famous hot chocolate, thickly made with coarse chocolate flakes. Add a splash of brandy if you need it.

The staff are laughing and chatting as they clear up. It feels good to be here. The food, the place, the story. I can’t put a price on that.