‘London’s Tigermilk builds to a performance it doesn’t deliver’

Photography by Sophia Evans

But at Tigermilk, the first UK outpost of a hit, French-owned and South American-inspired chain, freshly plopped near the tourist-swarmed intersection of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street, it is not immediately obvious what the “tableside guacamole” is hoping to achieve. Having asked our server specially for this version of the dish, we looked on as a laden tray was set beside our two-top. On it were an arrayed mass of accompaniments – bottles of oil, hot sauce, lime juice; little pots of fresh coriander, salt, dried chillies and lime wedges – surrounding a large metal bowl. Within this, rather than the whole avocados one might expect there was a blob of pre-made guacamole, already spiked with chopped red onion. We sat there, smiling wanly, as our waiter gamely tried to make the stirring in of superfluous condiments (“Let’s sprinkle more chilli to make her pretty”) vaguely interesting. There was no transformational magic, no culinary skill, no appreciable customisation. In tableside-theatre terms it was not so much an engrossing West End transfer as an interminable one-man show in a windowless, Edinburgh Fringe basement. It was also, on reflection, probably the moment that I fully appreciated the kind of meal we were in for.

Tigermilk – named for the punchy, residual liquor that is a key component of Peruvian ceviche – has commendable ambition, high aesthetic impact and the kind of disarming irreverence that occasions a seafood tostado dish called “Tuna Turner”. But it also feels a bit like the blockbuster restaurant recast as recession indicator; a place where everything from the decor to the taqueria-coded cooking is prone to both brazen corner-cutting and a kind of befuddling haplessness. Why does every other table spin and wobble like a malfunctioning lazy susan? Why does the menu describe an anonymous piece of (presumably farmed) salmon as “the catch of the day”? Why is the featureless Spotifycore on the stereo so low that it is occasionally drowned out by the deafening angle-grinder whir of a stick blender in the open kitchen? No answers were ever forthcoming. As with the guacamole, we simply had to look on awkwardly and wait for the bewildering spectacle to conclude.

I can honestly say I hadn’t expected something quite so calamitous. Founded in Paris in 2019, the Tigermilk brand has grown in popularity to the point it now has nine outposts across France and one in Brussels. Here in London, capacious, mustard-hued sofa booths squat on marble chequerboard flooring; regiments of potted cacti jostle with bechintzed, patterned walls; a mirrored ceiling gives the sense that a circular waterbed and bowl of quaaludes may be lurking just out of frame. N estled there, n ursing our housemade iced teas in the midst of a thin Friday afternoon crowd, we let it wash over us pleasantly.

Any positive feeling did not last. That guacamole, actually nicely rough-hewn and creamily moreish when scooped up with crisped triangles of tortilla chip, was followed by the “coco loco” ceviche: a supposed signature dish that yielded, not an elegant plate of raw fish, but a sloshing great foot spa of coconut milk sauce, mango, extraneous pomegranate and enormous cubes of scantly cured pollock. Possessed of a gopping sweetness and confronting size, it felt a little like someone had upended a tray of supermarket fish pie mix into a vat of cold custard. “Grilled greens” had no discernible char and, confusingly, mostly comprised peppers, onions and broccoli florets cooked down to a brown softness, more Toby Carvery than Tijuanan cantina.

A barbacoa taco was primed with a stringy wodge of beef so void of succulence I couldn’t actually bite through it. Pipián verde, meanwhile, featured nothingy shredded chicken, an apologetic carpeting of coriander and more of that institutional broccoli. My mate Joe, an electrician’s son who has always had a usefully straightforward attitude to restaurants, had begun the meal excited but now he frowned. “It’s sort of reminding me of when I brought a girlfriend home and my mum made Old El Paso fajitas with frozen veg,” he said, setting his fork down sadly.

This is not to say that there were not stray moments of competence: a legitimately enjoyable tempura pollock taco, with a thwacking hit of aji amarillo hot sauce. Fudgy, heat-wrinkled potatoes dusted in chipotle salt and parmesan. A wincingly sweet but effective dulce de leche cheesecake, drowned in speculoos biscuit crumb. What’s more, Tigermilk’s keen pricing (tacos start at £6.50 a pair) is bound to prove popular, particularly among a value-conscious younger demographic.

I do not love having to buzz-kill at a time when restaurants of all sizes are contending with a n acutely brutal trading environment. But it cannot be helped. To want a piece of taco meat that you can actually penetrate with your molars is not, I don’t think, an act of tedious boomer nitpicking. And in the context of a British-Mexican food landscape that has never been more legitimately exciting or considered – as evidenced by not just the likes of Edinburgh’s Chorrito and Peckham’s Guacamoles but Mexa in Arcade Food Hall, which literally lies 50 paces away from here – this level of culturally mangled ineptitude, no matter how well intentioned, feels fairly indefensible.

As we left, a trio of 20-something women were conducting a long, larky photo shoot in the empty half of the restaurant. Outside, giant flatscreens pulsed, and a street artist commenced drawing a chalk circle on the pavement near Foyles. This part of the capital’s theatreland seemingly exists to confound. And yet, somehow, Tigermilk might just be its most baffling new production.

Tigermilk, 127 Charing Cross Road, London, WC2H 0EW (07405956486; tigermilkrestaurants.com). Starters from £6.50, mains from £15.90, desserts from £6.50, wines from £27