Rose Matafeo: ‘When I do eat meat, I want to do it right’

I grew up eating meat, and have fond memories of my family skimping on weekdays to blow the budget on a Sunday roast lamb (that Dad would only sometimes overcook). But like many other anxious 30-somethings who can now afford to, I’m becoming a little more discerning with the quality of meat I consume. Also, I watched Okja once. So, actually, when I say, “I’m trying to eat less meat” what I mean is that when I do eat it, I want to do it right, which is why I invite Alice, my best friend/co-worker/longtime adversary, to the Quality Chop House in London’s Farringdon with a simple text earlier in the week. “I want to take you to a meat restaurant.”

She replies immediately: “This is the best text I’ve ever received.” I take note of how many of my unanswered texts preceded this invitation and consider whether or not to bring it up over lunch.

Alice and I love to eat. When we eat we argue less and laugh more. I strongly believe that shared meals are vital to sustaining any friendship. We’re both in love with people who do not eat meat, which means these days a steak date is tantamount to a full-blown affair.

The night before our visit, I indulge in my routine 1am bedtime phone scroll to ensure a heinous night of low-quality sleep. The algorithm serves me up a video of a cute lamb and a tiny kitten hanging out, and my sleepy brain registers this as some sort of attack on my restaurant choice. “I don’t even think they serve lamb!” I petulantly exclaim, out loud in the dark.

The next morning, I wake up late (legend). As I speed through craggy bike lanes, I have to talk myself down: “You must not die from irresponsible cycling because you were late to eat a steak.” I arrive sweaty and dishevelled for a 12.15pm power lunch and am seated at a table in the back room, having been ushered past the sexy (and empty) wooden booths out front. I gaze longingly at them, before I’m taken to join Alice.

I immediately start with a cocktail on an empty stomach. It’s a worryingly warm day, and the New Cuban is recommended by our waiter, Rabaka. The drink is fruity and delicious, finished with the most perfect blackberry. As we’re talked through the menu, I nod lots but take little in. Everything sounds amazing when it’s theoretical. At one point I mutter “grum”, an accidental mixture of “great” and “yum”. After not much deliberation, we order almost everything on the menu.

First to arrive are the Mangalitza shoulder croquettes, a sumptuous, salty filling of pulled pork served with a Morita chilli mayonnaise, which remind me of the deep-fried lasagne slices sold at my school tuck shop. The smoked cod roe and crudité is cold and crisp. I often find the ratio of cod to crudité unbalanced when I order this type of dish (“Oh, do you always find that, Rose? You are so brave to speak your truth.”) We get our ratios wrong and end up with one radish to half a plate dip.

Thick stems of Norfolk asparagus quickly follow, as well as the coronation crab crumpet I had obsessively eyed up on the website menu earlier in the week. The crumpet is petite and the flavours subtle, not as wonderful as my imagination had built it up to be. My unsophisticated palate would prefer a 70s helping of curry powder, mayonnaise and raisins. Elsewhere, the asparagus is cooked to the desired level of crunch, seasoned with snowy shavings of Graceburn cheese. It’s our favourite dish so far.

We order another drink as we wait for the steak. I nurse a whisky cocktail strong enough that it tastes slightly like Dettol (ideal), as Alice tells me how her girlfriend has recently bought a cap embroidered with the words: “Women Love Me, Fish Fear Me.” She’s worried because her ex also had a hat like this and she doesn’t want people to think it’s some sort of kink, like how Jimmy Stewart kept putting Kim Novak in that grey skirt suit in Vertigo. “Can I put this in the review?” I wonder. “Yeah, whatever,” she mutters. I imagine she’s regretting that now.

The main event arrives: a glistening 800g Hereford bone-in ribeye to share, cooked medium-rare. It’s gleaming. We gasp as it’s set down on the table; it’s fun to be a little dramatic. Alice is in heaven. “This… is my perfect steak.” I have heard her say this about at least four different steaks, but this time I think she means it. Soft, buttery, expertly salted. And fat! Mouth-watering bits of meaty fat! I’ll never understand those people who cut the fat off the steak. ‘Where there’s fat, there’s flavour,” my Croatian aunties would say – now there’s a catchphrase to embroider.

We order every accompanying sauce available, because life is short; a classic Béarnaise, tangy bone marrow chimichurri and creamy peppercorn. Delivered, too, is a side of confit potatoes; layers and layers of thin potatoes stacked atop one another, compressed and deep fried. It’s delectable and decadent.

Stuffed and satisfied, I gather the strength to order one last dish for both of us. The rest of the dessert menu becomes a blur as I hone in on pudding: strawberry and lemon thyme tart. Crisp but robust pastry shell holds its creamy filling, topped with just-acidic-enough strawberries and pungent lemon thyme.

“If that was my last ever steak, I’d be happy!” I later exclaim, almost believing myself. Alice nods. She knows it won’t be, but what is a best friend if not a person you can continually announce your impending vegetarianism to without ever having to follow through. The truth is I haven’t eaten a steak since, but when I do, I know where I’ll be going. Maybe I’ll even ask for a booth.

The Quality Chop House, 92-94 Farringdon Road, London EC1R 3EA (020 7278 1452). Starters from £15, Mains from £28, desserts from £12, wine from £40

Photographs by Sophia Evans