It’s not a new concept. Similar establishments exist all around the world, although they occupy very different places on the gastronomic scale. In Cuba privately owned restaurants that are basically in people’s front rooms are called paladares. They serve fairly simple food and were illegal until fairly recently. I’ve heard about a mystery chef in Australia who serves near-Michelin standard food in a different secret location every week and the “supper club” phenomenon has been a big hit with well-heeled New Yorkers for a few years now.
The Underground Restaurant falls somewhere in the middle. It is held every Saturday in MsMarmiteLover’s front room (you’re given the location of her Kilburn flat when you book) and isn’t, strictly speaking, legal (hence her use of the pseudonym). It’s kind of like the dining equivalent of a squat party. But with fewer crusties, no trance music and nice food instead of class A drugs. I’ve never been a natural risk taker so I liked it for providing illicit thrills from the comfort of a pleasantly furnished and fairylit front room. I suppose legally, if the council did ever get involved, MsMarmiteLover could always claim that she was just having twenty people round to dinner and had asked them to contribute £25 each towards the costs. The licencing laws are cleverly circumvented with a wheeze whereby you buy a raffle ticket for £10 and then, by happy chance, “win” a bottle of wine in your chosen colour.
We went on the 7th March when the culinary theme (different every week) was Indian. James hadn’t been that keen on the idea of dining in a stranger’s house and I admit that it’s the sort of thing I might not have had the oomph to do if I hadn’t been writing about it for the paper. The place wasn’t too difficult to find and when we did the door was opened by a lovely lady called Sandrine - apparently she plays with our hostess in an “anarchist samba band” - who gave us a gin and tonic and told us to sit anywhere we wanted to. There were several small tables seating four or so and one with three places. We sat there, ate homemade Bombay mix and speculated about who might join us. The idea of eating with strangers was something that my inner shy person was dreading, but I was also kind of looking forward to it as part of the whole “home restaurant” experience. I needn’t have worried since Caroline, who filled the empty place, turned out to be very nice. She worked for a Methodist newspaper, but wasn’t at all Methodist-y. She didn’t laugh at one of James’ risque jokes but I think it was because she didn’t understand it, rather than because it offended her Wesleyan sensibilities. Afterwards I wished I’d made the time to chat to the other guests who included a chef from LA and the owners of the lovely-sounding Lavender Bakery.
The Bombay mix was followed by freshly made poppadoms (MML admitted that the accompanying mango chutney and lime pickle were two things on the menu she hadn’t cooked herself) and a sweet potato, butternut squash and pine nut samosa. Made with puff pastry and baked in the Aga instead of deep-fried, it might not have been totally authentic but it was delicious so I have no quibbles at all. Main was three different curries with rice, carrot salad and a naan bread each. All vegetarian and plenty of seconds if you could fit them in. Dessert was saffron kulfi and we rounded the meal off with coffee and cognac. Some of it wasn’t perfect (MML herself admitted that she wasn’t totally happy with the naans and her brinjal bhaji which she thought turned out “Italian”), but all of it was tasty and at £25 for five courses and a unique experience, good value for money. I’d definitely go back anyway.
Speaking to MsMarmiteLover the week after she revealed that her motivation isn’t just culinary and social, but a little bit political too. I thought it very interesting that she said she was partly trying to bring “mothers’ cooking” back into the spotlight. Celebrity chefs are generally men. People serving up crazy foams and geleés are generally men. If you looked at the TV schedules and the restaurant reviews you might think people without penises hardly ever ventured into a kitchen. But obviously it’s women (and most particularly mothers) who are responsible for feeding their families day in, day out. My thoughts on this are still a little unformed, but I think eating in someone’s home is particularly interesting because it makes the link obvious between food and hospitality, food and love. Restaurants might be part of the “hospitality industry” but there’s surely an oxymoron there? People who run restaurants might do it for love, but it’s love of food more than anything else. The people who eat the food aren’t really guests, they’re customers. The love doesn’t extend to them. Not personally anyway. Food has always been symbolic of love - a kind of edible affection - so being in someone’s home (even if you were paying) felt much more as if a real warmth had been extended. Does that make sense? I hope so.
A chap called Horton Jupiter runs another restaurant called The Secret Ingredient which is on Wednesdays, somewhere in Hackney. Some lazy googling also revealed this which looks fun.
