I’m a fan of second chances, as anyone who has dated me can wearily attest. I treat them as one of life’s necessities (see also: food, water, boat shoes), so had an inkling the Hero in Maida Vale might deserve another run at things as I prodded a pellet of yellow-coloured mayo attempting to pass for curry sauce. “Sorry,” I muttered to Twiggs, “I was told this was London’s hottest restaurant.”
But everywhere has its off days. And, as it happens, crap food is no barrier to somewhere being this city’s top ticket — the Wolseley got away with it for years. And the Hero has everything going for it. Owners Phil Winser, James Gummer and Olivier van Themsche are the well-connected kind, having found a hit with the Pelican in Notting Hill (door policy: eights and over, unless you’re royalty), and later the Bull in Charlbury (door policy: off the telly).
In Maida, head chef is Ed Baillieu, who worked under Tomos Parry in his career-making Kitty Fisher days, so he’s got pedigree. And while the site has failed before — Henry Harris, who arguably has the best restaurant in town with Bouchon Racine, couldn’t make it work — the area is short of good pubs. I know because I live up the road. Of which, just about everyone but me in this stucco-fronted wonderland has money to spend: a £7 pint won’t scare the horses; business should handle itself. Especially since it’s a pub with a dining room, decidedly the thing at the minute thanks to the Parakeet, Barnes’ Waterman’s Arms, and that boozer in Piccadilly, whatsitcalled. The Rev? Kev’s? Oh, the Dev... the Devonshire. Comparisons between there and here are perhaps inevitable.
As it stands, the food at the Devonshire comes out a distance ahead, but Christ, is the Hero a looker. It’s a Dezeen wet dream of stripped wood and plaster walls, of barley leg stools and candle-topped tables. Downstairs there’s a fireplace, a zinc-topped bar, chalk-boards of beer, a desilvered mirror with the daily specials. The main dining room, a floor up and due to open at the end of June with an entirely new menu, is a proper knockout — Sessions Arts Club but with, here’s hoping, better grub. This might just be the best-looking pub in the world.
Above that is a cocktail bar with vinyl-decks, and up again, a private dining room that’s very Cotswolds-comes-to-town. This is four storeys of ready-made social-media stardom; the Tube at Warwick Avenue is about to be trampled by food sorts armed with ring lights and cryptic incomes.
It’s a Dezeen wet dream of stripped wood and plaster walls, of barley leg stools and candle-topped tables
Perhaps there won’t be room for them, given the Notting Hill set have already Ubered over and filled it up. The ground floor pub is an upmarket, loud room full of upmarket, loud people, the sort who all have a son called Archie and a daughter with a drug problem. I heard (separate) conversations about the fees at Stowe and a night out at the Box. Perhaps you get the picture.
The food, then. The problem that first time around was not the indifference of the execution — claggy shepherd’s pie, a muddy offering of lamb ribs, sticky toffee pudding indistinguishable from that in Tesco (Finest, but still) — but the offering itself. Is somewhere where cod cheeks are the most interesting thing really worth trekking for?
Turns out, yes. It’s a pub, after all; bells and whistles can be left at home. That drew into crystal focus on visit two. If the first lunch suffered somewhat erratic service, round two had poise and precision. Those cod cheeks, that curry sauce? Immeasurably improved, the sauce now with punch and depth. A three cheese toastie (Ogleshield, Cheddar, Red Leicester) was a joy, the bread lathered on both sides with butter and beautifully crisped. Oysters came salty, perfect, with a homemade sherry vinegar that put the lemon and Tabasco on the bench. Chicken liver pâté was as it should be and made better thanks to the thick, sticky malt loaf it came with. And really, not everything was a such disaster on first call — the stuffed tomato worked, and having a whole quail as a bar snack is suitably novel.
Look, Guinness here might not be up to much, but who cares? This is Maida Vale; somewhere to be chic, not a nerd. Wine then. We were nudged towards El Pinto, £7 a glass, which was a blinder.
Which is all to say, thank God I went back. I didn’t really fancy being banned from my new local (unless they impose the 8/10 door policy, in which case I’m kippered). And now I love the place; it’s a vibe. Second chances. They’re necessary. Just ask my girlfriend.
