Review: Gaucho
A vegetarian walks into an Argentine steakhouse on the day of Baroness Thatcher’s funeral. There has to be a joke in it. I am the vegetarian, and the steakhouse is the rather chic Gaucho on Piccadilly.
It is also World Malbec Day, and our evening begins at the wine boutique downstairs. Phil Crozier, director of wines, guides us through some limited-edition reds – each is a labour of love, with its own character and charming back-story.
The restaurant upstairs is dark and glittering, all polished black surfaces with silver and crystal accents. It is also a shrine to cattle: banquettes, chairs and even walls are covered in piebald cowhide. As we browse the menu, my carnivorous companions are beaming with anticipation. I am beaming with Malbec and memory. I grew up in Argentina – words like empanadas, dulce de leche and chimichurri conjure up barbeques and birthdays, summers on endless estancias, loss and longing. There is more at stake here than steak.
The cocktail list harks back to the twenties, Argentina’s short-lived golden age as leading agricultural exporter. My choice of Maldeamores (Spanish for 'lovesickness') is Malbec spiced-pear syrup and sparkling wine – faded red velvet and old diamonds, it reminds me of the opera house in Buenos Aires. My friend has a Gran Alvear, named after the grande dame of the city’s hotels: a fruity gin fizz, like a Latin lady-who-lunches in bright Chanel tweed. My husband loves his macho, spiced-up Bloody Mary: 'a man’s cocktail, at last'.
Bread rolls on a slate come with chimichurri, a traditional barbeque dip made with parsley, olive oil, chilli and garlic. The service is attentive, warm, sincere. Everyone, from the person taking your coat to the waiters, is passionately knowledgeable about the food.
And the menu is made flesh – a waitress brings a board with various cuts of raw beef, which she describes in forensic detail. This place is all about provenance – the beef comes from carefully chosen producers in Argentina, only grass-fed British breeds– a welcome antidote to the convoluted supply chains of the recent horsemeat scandals.
I let my husband choose the wine. With so many top-notch Malbecs, he can’t go wrong. Even after all the cocktails, the Finca Sophenia 2008 has a distinctive, dramatic flavour, like the notes of a tango accordion.
We start with empanadas – my Proustian madelaine moment. Delicate pastry parcels filled with cheese, onion and oregano, or spicy diced beef, or chicken and chilli. I remember making them with my granny – rolling the pastry, spooning in the fillings, sealing the edges with a different pattern for each: scoring stripes with the tines of a fork, making indentations with a fingertip. Musings aside, these achieve the impossible: they live up to the imagined country that is the past.
My husband’s churrasco de chorizo – a pleasingly alliterative mouthful of garlic-and-herb marinaded sirloin – is 'muscular but tender', like a Latino heartthrob. My friend has bife de lomo, a lean supermodel of a fillet. The side dishes are more than a supporting cast: humita (mashed sweetcorn served inside a corn’s husk), spinach laced with lemon and garlic. My freshly-made strozapretti pasta with wild mushrooms and red onion is not an afterthought, as is often the case with vegetarian dishes in meaty places. A colourful dance of flavours and textures, it’s a considered nod to Argentina’s Italian immigrant heritage.
Dessert has to involve dulce de leche, a divine concoction made by boiling milk and sugar. It is a national treasure, and as fraught a bone of contention in Anglo-Argentine relations as the Falklands or Maradona’s Hand of God. Because no, it is not the same as caramel or toffee. Here, it comes as a velvety ice cream or a salted cheesecake with macadamias. Even the others, with no nostalgic strings attached, agree that these are truly superior puddings.
A vegetarian walks into a steakhouse, and leaves surprisingly satisfied, a feast for the eyes and the taste buds.
www.gauchorestaurants.com
It is also World Malbec Day, and our evening begins at the wine boutique downstairs. Phil Crozier, director of wines, guides us through some limited-edition reds – each is a labour of love, with its own character and charming back-story.
The restaurant upstairs is dark and glittering, all polished black surfaces with silver and crystal accents. It is also a shrine to cattle: banquettes, chairs and even walls are covered in piebald cowhide. As we browse the menu, my carnivorous companions are beaming with anticipation. I am beaming with Malbec and memory. I grew up in Argentina – words like empanadas, dulce de leche and chimichurri conjure up barbeques and birthdays, summers on endless estancias, loss and longing. There is more at stake here than steak.
The cocktail list harks back to the twenties, Argentina’s short-lived golden age as leading agricultural exporter. My choice of Maldeamores (Spanish for 'lovesickness') is Malbec spiced-pear syrup and sparkling wine – faded red velvet and old diamonds, it reminds me of the opera house in Buenos Aires. My friend has a Gran Alvear, named after the grande dame of the city’s hotels: a fruity gin fizz, like a Latin lady-who-lunches in bright Chanel tweed. My husband loves his macho, spiced-up Bloody Mary: 'a man’s cocktail, at last'.
Bread rolls on a slate come with chimichurri, a traditional barbeque dip made with parsley, olive oil, chilli and garlic. The service is attentive, warm, sincere. Everyone, from the person taking your coat to the waiters, is passionately knowledgeable about the food.
And the menu is made flesh – a waitress brings a board with various cuts of raw beef, which she describes in forensic detail. This place is all about provenance – the beef comes from carefully chosen producers in Argentina, only grass-fed British breeds– a welcome antidote to the convoluted supply chains of the recent horsemeat scandals.
I let my husband choose the wine. With so many top-notch Malbecs, he can’t go wrong. Even after all the cocktails, the Finca Sophenia 2008 has a distinctive, dramatic flavour, like the notes of a tango accordion.
We start with empanadas – my Proustian madelaine moment. Delicate pastry parcels filled with cheese, onion and oregano, or spicy diced beef, or chicken and chilli. I remember making them with my granny – rolling the pastry, spooning in the fillings, sealing the edges with a different pattern for each: scoring stripes with the tines of a fork, making indentations with a fingertip. Musings aside, these achieve the impossible: they live up to the imagined country that is the past.
My husband’s churrasco de chorizo – a pleasingly alliterative mouthful of garlic-and-herb marinaded sirloin – is 'muscular but tender', like a Latino heartthrob. My friend has bife de lomo, a lean supermodel of a fillet. The side dishes are more than a supporting cast: humita (mashed sweetcorn served inside a corn’s husk), spinach laced with lemon and garlic. My freshly-made strozapretti pasta with wild mushrooms and red onion is not an afterthought, as is often the case with vegetarian dishes in meaty places. A colourful dance of flavours and textures, it’s a considered nod to Argentina’s Italian immigrant heritage.
Dessert has to involve dulce de leche, a divine concoction made by boiling milk and sugar. It is a national treasure, and as fraught a bone of contention in Anglo-Argentine relations as the Falklands or Maradona’s Hand of God. Because no, it is not the same as caramel or toffee. Here, it comes as a velvety ice cream or a salted cheesecake with macadamias. Even the others, with no nostalgic strings attached, agree that these are truly superior puddings.
A vegetarian walks into a steakhouse, and leaves surprisingly satisfied, a feast for the eyes and the taste buds.
www.gauchorestaurants.com