The Marquee Moon, Dalston, food review: ‘The British night out has never been more dynamic’
A selection of the food on offer. Photograph: James Moyle
The Marquis of Landsdowne is utterly transformed.
Teal surrounds us, from the matching ’70s tables and banquets to tiles (a nod to Victoriana) walls and backsplashes.
Part club, part pub, the crowd is spirited, the drinks are strong and the music is loud, coursing through your epidermis as you try to spoon a fragment of sea bream into your mouth.
If party be your name, I christen thee Marquee Moon, although the reference to the band Television’s breakthrough 1977 album of the same name eludes me.
I am very kindly offered a drinks menu and the filthy martini catches my demonic little eye. Chinese rice wine deepens the supermodel of cocktails, but it’s the mysterious house brine that sets this monstrous creation apart. I am in love, fishy, almost foul, utterly filthy.
I am unsurprised, though. Emmanuel Ferris-Hue’s (formally of The Ned) libations are always a perfect middle ground: neither gimmicky nor pedestrian.
A hot Alfonso spicy marg is the best my companion has ever tried, and the girl knows her margaritas.
A rice-washed negroni has a touch of distinction and a cucumber cooler is the soft kiss of summer slowly slipping through our fingers.
A natural wine section is of course on hand, but we avoid it.
‘Neither gimmicky nor pedestrian’: Some of the cocktails. Photograph: James Moyle
Chef Huri Rapana Neil has crafted a menu better travelled than your hippy friend who grew dreadlocks and moved to Costa Rica.
Referencing the glorious tradition of Thai food in British pubs, along with Indian, Chinese and European influences, we get belt-testing portions of sharing plates in a roaring setting.
A large ammonite of rich brown shiitake mushroom parfait, adorned with pink pickled onion strings and pomegranate seeds, is silky smooth. Spoon it onto crackers, and preemptively order more, as you will need it. All I want to do is smother myself in this heavenly semi-liquid.
Next up are sea bream pieces, resting in the circular indentation of your nan’s best rose-patterned crockery and topped with little golden beads of caviar. But the sauce: miso milk, pickled fennel and sour plum – lick that pretty platter while your dinner date pops to the toilet.
An Ortizo tuna dish, served in their distinctive branded red tins, is fancy-fied with a black caviar “lid” on one side and soda bread chunks. Daikon, the ever-present onion pickles, and a slice of lemon give it a splash of acid. It’s a filling and delightful island of complementary flavours and balanced textures.
The cod cheeks (perplexingly spelt ‘cheecks’) are like deep, fat-fried clouds, with a mustard-coloured chive mayo making these a floaty and forceful mouthful.
Take a break from this trawl with a pickled watermelon and tomato salad, a jolt of South American sun, all pink fruit and sweet vinegar.
Lastly, a revolution in cooking, and no, I’m not being dramatic—a beef rendang pie. Now I love the thick, stern Malaysian curry, and deeply respect the British pub staple, but to encase one in the other makes this a tall top hat totem that cracks open like an ancient fossil to unearth a vein of steaming beef within, protruding from a brim of boozy gravy. Thankfully, my pal is an old-school 1980s pescatarian so I didn’t have to share.
The Marquee Moon team. Photograph: courtesy The Marquee Moon
Dishes for those more partial to land meat are chicken drums, masala bhaji and pork belly skewers, all served with the same imaginative attitude to flavour and a keen eye for presentation.
To our utter surprise, five dishes in and we are flagging. Has the tiny curled hand of small plates finally loosened its grip on our fair city?
Furthermore, my friend’s “selfish” morals mean that the only main we can share is the Dan Dan noodles (more about them later).
Those of you not so constrained can order the famous crispy short ribs, a soy half chicken and sui ua (Thai pork) sausage.
The Dan Dan arrives, a massive sea of wormy flat noodles, worryingly expansive, so much so that we needed to take some away in a doggy bag. Given the starters’ electrifying flavours, it was not show-stopping, and even the addition of crispy pork on mine did not make the dish stick in my memory.
We were too stuffed for dessert, and I think that’s the first time I’ve ever typed those sad, sad words. Pudding pocket be damned. I am sorry, dear reader, I have let myself down.
Bread pudding, matcha ice cream, or chocolate and ginger (whatever that entails) are available for those more dedicated. At least you’ve been warned and can plan accordingly.
Eating at 8pm meant that by the time we had finished, one of the guest DJs was spinning his big CDs. We were effectively eating on a dance floor, and the experience was a little over-stimulating. But that is what the buzzing vampires of Dalston want.
Emerging unsteadily from the green-tiled temple, the swelling life all around us astounded me. Soho and Shoreditch? Dead and buried. Here is where the beautiful people go to get down.
Now they have another eat-and-drink venue. Nibble on a tower of Malaysian curry entrapped in pastry, down a drink that tastes like chum and gin, and shout at your friend over funk fusion.
The British night out has never been so dynamic and has never tasted so good.