St. John
I left London last summer with several memorable restaurant experiences. St. John was one of them. I had begged my friend Eric—whose place I was staying at—to take me. A victim of theft, I was a financial dependent of my gracious friends during those final weeks in London. It is largely thanks to them that I enjoyed what should have been a stressful time.
From Farringdon station in North London, Eric and I walked eastward through busy Cowcross street—full of clothing retails and chain restaurants—before taking a left onto St John Street. Though not London’s prettiest neighborhood, the mix of angular brick buildings of more-or-less the same height is characteristic. Next, along a diagonal concrete walkway freckled with white spots, the occasional cigarette, and some dark puddles and watery stains, basking in shadier or deeper areas, we approached the street’s eponymous restaurant.
The façade of the first story was covered in ordinary white paint; on the forehead, “St. John Bar & Restaurant” printed in tidy black Times New Roman letters, and above, tall rectangular windows lined across three stories of sooted brick. Walk inside and be greeted by the restaurant logo: a reference sketch of a pig segmented into its various parts for butchery. It acknowledges the history of 26 St. John, which used to be a bacon smokehouse, and visualizes the restaurant’s culinary philosophy of “nose-to-tail” eating.
What is “nose to tail?” Fergus Henderson, chef and co-founder of St. John, describes it in a cookbook of his titled The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating: “This is a celebration of cuts of meat, innards, and extremities that are more often forgotten or discarded in today’s kitchen; it would seem disingenuous to the animal not to make the most of the whole beast: there is a set of delights, textural and flavorsome, which lie beyond the fillet.” (XIX)
Since its opening in 1994, St. John has inspired with this simple, unpretentious observation. Against a culinary landscape in which the wealthy dined French while most embraced the convenience of mass-produced modernity in tins and packages, St. John highlighted what some call traditional British cookery: simple, seasonal, hearty flavors.
It also encouraged chefs and eaters to cook and consume liver, kidney, and all those good bits. Those were not off-cuts for the needy; rather, with a little care and effort, they were prime delicacies! Little can rival my love for crisp maodu (“Beijing beef tripe”), stewed pig trotters (its texture more tender than a first kiss), and smoky, creamy yakitori chicken livers that slow dance in your mouth.
Eric and I walked inside to enter what the late Anthony Bourdain called a “bare, abattoir-like space.” * It is all white: white walls and white bricks, white crockery on white linen tablecloths, even the waiters are dressed in white tees or button-downs. The two other noticeable colors—gray steel kitchen counters and brownish wooden chairs—did little to jazz things up. There’s also no music—only cheery conversation and voices from the kitchen.
One felt as they were guests for a dinner party at someone’s home. Elizabeth David, a 20th century British food writer, said that the best British cooking occurs not in restaurants but family homes. (I wrote about her for the class The History of Food. Please take it if you have a credit to spare.) Fergus, as a child, saw his fair share of dinner parties. He reminisced about them in an interview:
They [his parents] used to throw dinner parties of the kind that people had in the 1970s – paisley tablecloths, lots of claret, creme caramel and going to bed without doing the washing up. I remember coming downstairs in the morning to find the debris of the night before, half-drunk glasses and ghostly wafts of cigar smoke, and longing to be a part of it all. (Guardian Interview)
My first encounter with St. John was years ago on an episode of No Reservations. In it, Bourdain declared their signature dish—Roasted Bone Marrow with Parsley Salad—as his hypothetical death-row meal. Last year, I was ready to write my death note after enjoying this dish.
Veal shank bones are roasted in large hunks until the marrow is sweet, sizzling and irresistibly unctuous. Its accompaniments—a charred and cratered slab of country sourdough, crunchy crystal grey salt, and a lightly dressed parsley salad—transform the primitive ingredient into a complete dish. I tore off a piece of toast, scooped onto it as much soft marrow as I liked, sprinkled salt, and pinched four fingers worth of parsley salad (making sure to trap a briny caper in between my fingers) to top off my construction.
St. John plays no music; its food is a jazz quartet playing on your palette. The bone marrow is the star saxophone solo, bursting beefy fat at high tempos. The piano plays through the parsley salad and swings between the chords of parsley, shallots, and capers, all cutting through the richness of marrow in their own way. The toast is the bass (base) of the band (dish). Salt delivers its satisfying crunch of percussion whenever you seem to need it.
St. John has become a modern classic, a jazz standard for chefs and restaurants to riff on, imitate, and reinterpret. At my favorite restaurant, Kiln, English customers inhaled intensely spicy Thai chicken liver curries between sips of ice-cold cocktails. At a London butchery, purplish calf livers and cheeky pink pig heads rested aside neat rounds of fillet and racks of lamb. I am craving a pig’s ear salad right now.
Eric, after reading a draft of this piece, rightfully pointed out that St John was not only a culinary institution, but a cultural one. For me, writing about St. John—the food, the interior, the people—was to relive the rose-colored memories of London and quirks of English culture.
*Anthony Bourdain was a chef, food writer, and the host of popular travelling food shows No Reservations and Parts Unknown.
For those who are curious, here is the St. John menu (which changes day-by-day) and the remainder of that fantastic meal Eric and I enjoyed.
