“So, guys, will you have something to drink with your meal?”
A standard question for any waiter, but at the Yellow Bittern, a small 18-seat bistro recently opened on London’s Caledonian Road, it’s a direct challenge with only one correct answer.
It is an answer we are determined not to give.
“Just some water for us, thanks, it’s a little early for us.”
Hugh Corcoran, the chef, poet and communist owner of North London’s most controversial new restaurant, stiffens and shuffles back to his makeshift kingdom: the open kitchen where he serves plates of Irish delicacies to his intellectual clientele.
He never speaks to us again.
A man with an unrefined palate and a distinct lack of literary sense takes on a £20 Dublin mime
Hugh Corcoran, the communist chef, poet and owner of North London’s most controversial new restaurant: The Yellow Bittern
However, Corcoran has already upset his customers by claiming that some of them don’t understand the concept of lunch.
Corcoran’s new venture, which he co-owns with Frances Armstrong-Jones and Oisín Davies, is less than a month old
Corcoran’s new company, which he co-owns with Frances Armstrong-Jones and Oisín Davies, is less than a month old, but it has already hit the headlines for all the wrong reasons.
The restaurant is only open for lunch Monday through Friday, does not accept cards or walk-ins, and seats only 18 people, with prospective diners required to call or send a postcard to reserve a table.
In theory, the novel concept harkens back to the glory days of long, healthy lunches accompanied by good wine, good food and exciting company.
But Corcoran has already upset his customers by claiming that some of them don’t understand his bold lunch concept.
In a rant on Instagram, the chef said: “Small sharing plates have ruined dinner.” Or rather it has ruined the diners. Now apparently it is completely normal to book a table for 4 people and then order a starter and two seconds to share and a glass of tap water.
“There was a time in restaurant etiquette where if you booked a table somewhere nice, you had to at least order a main course (and possibly even a starter or dessert) and drink wine to make your table worth it. . service.
‘For example, we make an effort to dress the table, pick and arrange the flowers, polish the glasses, etc. and we reserve the table for 2 hours for someone to order a meal that ends up costing £25 per person. It’s not worth opening.
‘Place your order correctly, drink some wine and justify your presence in the room that afternoon. If you don’t drink because you have done so in such excess that it can no longer be allowed, then come hungry and eat your fair share.
“Restaurants are not public banks, you are there to spend some money.”
So Hugh accepted the challenge.
At first glance, the YB is a small bookish place full of obscure artwork and old Irish maps.
Hidden beneath the small restaurant is a second-hand bookstore, although you won’t find any Sally Rooneys on the shelves.
The £6 soda bread was washed down with half a bottle of Guinness each.
The £6 radishes and butter consisted of some radishes and some butter.
When we get to the Yellow Bittern, which I will henceforth abbreviate as YB for ease and because it sounds appropriately bookish (something Hugh loves), we are struck by how simple the place is.
To access the establishment you must first ring a bell that summons one of the three members of staff to allow you entry.
We are greeted by Hugh, who waves us in and directs us to a table still covered in the remains of the first lunch.
While the table is hastily cleaned, we stand awkwardly in the narrow hallway between the two banks of tables and assess the scene.
At first glance, the YB is a small bookish place filled with obscure works of art, old Irish maps and, perhaps strangely for a man who has made no secret of his desire to make money: a portrait of Lenin.
In order to sit down, one of the tables has to be removed, which causes my partner to be trapped against the wall throughout the meal.
If you want to use the bathroom or visit the second-hand bookstore on the ground floor, you will have to repeat the entire process.
However, you can at least read the menu, which is displayed on a single blackboard next to a large serving table piled high with the day’s offerings.
On the day MailOnline visited, YB serves delights such as £6 soda bread, £20 Dublin mimes and £9 apple pie.
These prices are expensive, but they’re not overtly ridiculous like other London restaurants are, so that’s a plus for YB.
YB is believed to make most of his money through his extensive wine list, which does not exist on any physical menu, as Hugh simply tells customers the selections as best he can.
We don’t give him the chance to do so and opt for some water.
When the diners to our left finally grant him the stage, he is clearly in his element, listing the different tasting notes and the origin of each bottle in the vein of a man who clearly wants you to know that he is a wine expert.
Wine prices at YB range from £40 to £100 per bottle, with individual glasses setting customers back around £10.
After stewing over our water for the best part of 20 minutes without ordering anything (although the restaurant only seats 18, the service is glacial), we decided to emulate the behavior of the other diners and order a £5 Guinness – to share.
The bottle is unceremoniously dumped on our table and we get to work tending to the stout.
Green salad is, for lack of a better description, a bunch of lettuce spread in a simple vinaigrette.
The mime is a disaster that consists of two ugly sausages that taste like they came out of a can floating in a sad broth
We moved on to the food and decided to order soda bread to share and the mystery £6 ‘butter radishes’ option.
Are they cooked in butter, we wonder? Is this a blatant play on words provoked by the intricate nature of the dish? No. They serve us a plate of radishes along with a drizzle of butter.
The radishes are fresh and tasty, but the butter doesn’t add much to the dish. As a combination it seems pretty useless, but maybe that’s the point.
We’re not sure, but we can’t worry too much as long as our £20 main course of Dublin mime and £6 green salad arrive quickly.
This is where things take an unpleasant turn. Green salad is, for lack of a better description, a bunch of lettuce spread in a simple vinaigrette. Harmless but hardly a salad.
But the mime is a disaster. Two ugly-looking, canned-tasting sausages floating in a sad broth next to some potatoes.
Between us we can only finish one of the sausages, leaving the other floating sadly in a puddle made by Hugh.
Our fellow diners are savoring a much heartier looking stew that had unfortunately run out halfway through the day’s second lunch.
This, of course, begs the question: why complain about how little your customers spend if your kitchen physically can’t handle the demands of 36 covers a day?
Postcards adorn the walls of YB in an effort to justify the restaurant’s absurd reservation policy.
By the end of the meal we have spent approximately £24 a head, which by Hugh’s own estimates means it wasn’t worth serving us.
Questions, questions, questions, the answers to which are presumably hidden on postcards posted around the restaurant to justify their ridiculous reservation policy.
Needing a bathroom break, my partner begins the herculean task of freeing himself from the wall.
We are forced to move the table completely into the hallway, spilling water and scraping our dining companions who are pressed against us like sardines.
During the process, a really irritated server asked us not to do that in the future, but to raise our hands and wait for help as if we were in school.
So the atmosphere is less that of a long, luxurious lunch and more that of raising your hand to go to the bathroom and being grateful for being allowed.
School dinners are at least cheaper.
After we’ve seen (and tasted) enough, we indicate that we’d like to pay, a process that drags on as we’ve conveniently forgotten to bring cash (Hugh feels “more pleasure” with physical money).
By the end of the meal we have spent approximately £24 a head, which by Hugh’s own estimates means it wasn’t worth serving us.
That’s fine with us, since by our own estimates, the experience wasn’t worth paying for.