Upon arrival at London’s newest, coolest City hangout I was struck almost immediately by the fact I am in the heart of London. The entrance hall is grand (as you’d expect) and there’s a team of people greeting and taking coats. We are given a walk through the bar to the restaurant and told about the drinks concept – it’s pretty simple really; quality drinks handmade to order. No gimmicks, no fancy messing around like some poncy bars – just chunks of ice and booze.
Being seated with clear view of the open plan kitchen massively appeals to my inner cave man – I CAN SEE FLAMES. These guys don’t f*ck around. There are big stainless steel contraptions which wouldn’t look out of place in a torture chamber! That’s the Pit and Spit I’m told by my server. As I’m handed menu’s and I suddenly realize I may have dribble on my chin (not actually dribbling, this is a classy establishment and I have manners most of the time). Now to order; I’m very tempted to just get every meat dish on the menu and unleash the fat kid inside, but no again, we’re in the city and the wolves are not out to play yet (we have to return on a Wednesday for that!) I resist the urge to beat my chest…
I already know what I’m having as a main and my guest is going to share it with me whether she likes it or not, knowing she’ll order something girly like the Mackerel salad for a starter (which I’d quite like to try but I’m here for meat – ‘Forged from the furnace’ rings in my ears). I go all out and get the Jacobs ladder. Beef short ribs that when they arrive cause me to discard my cutlery… such a dish deserves the respect ones fingers can give it. The meat is so tender it practically falls off the bone, juicy, meaty melt in the mouth goodness. I crave more; I suck on the bone trying to get as much of that flavour as possible. I notice a disapproving look from across the table. Damn it, forgot we were out for dinner – ‘date night’! Oh and before I forget to mention, the salad is pretty damn good! I’ll skip the details of the small talk between courses and the fact I’m not hugely paying attention to the conversation as I stare at the chefs all sweaty, turning chickens on the spit and flaming various cuts of meat… I don’t care what they are I want them! OK back in the room, away from those semi homoerotic thoughts and back to my woman! Woman, man wants meat. Man still like woman, but man WANTS MEAT. It’s time to get all primal as the 20 ounce Tomahawk steak is ceremonially brought to the table. I see other diners looking over with envy. I look at the other half and pity her as we both know I only have eyes for this bad boy sat in front of me. Sorry, I mean us – I forgot we’re sharing. I notice I get the same look from her and realise this steak has stirred something within her. I now know I have a fight on my hands, but I also love this side of her. She’s tricked me, going light to start she has an advantage but I’m confident I can man up.
For those amongst you not knowing what a Tomahawk is, it’s prime beef rib still on the bone. Cuts like this deserve respect, they need to be loved, hand selected and most importantly cooked over flames. Well that’s my opinion anyway. The boys in the Forge kitchen may be slaving away in a furnace of a kitchen (Furnace being in their tagline) but my God they know how to handle meat.
Safe to say that by the end of the meal we’re both stuffed, both have meat juice on our faces, although she hasn’t had to loosen the belt and doesn’t have the meat sweats… she’s still a lady after all! It’s time for a taxi home and I’m doing that manly thing and in my mind I’m convincing myself that she wants some when we get home.