Why would there ever be a Polish-Mexican bistro in London? But there is one, a postcard of a place in the dainty streets of Shepherd Market in Mayfair. Don’t let its location put you off – this is an inexpensive restaurant, one that would not feel out of place in a Richard Curtis film. Don’t let that put you off either.
The facade is white-edged in deep red, speckled by soft light and under a Parisian awning. The name is French, L’Autre, and the offering appears French too, with coloured chalkboards announcing specials, these around a bow-paned window that must have cost the earth. I suppose, yes, a little late-Proustian; full of winsome nostalgia in any case.
Inside and L’Autre is all anyone would wish it to be: a festival of green and red fairy lights, tasselled lamps and fading photographs on each section of each wall. A policeman’s hat hangs mournfully beside a crooked speaker – what happened here, who fell to the promise of debauchery? – and bottles of wine are found in the most random of nooks.
On the ground floor, space is hard to find; no-nonsense waitresses dance between busy tables while carrying plates piled high with mashed potatoes; behind the bar, a hunched man will be pouring scotch for someone in an unfortunate gilet. Downstairs, greater charms await.
Before we descend the little stairs – over which a neon sign, “Cash is king”, hangs brightly – know that L’Autre dates back to 1942, when it was set up as a sherry and wine lodge for the working people of Mayfair. And then in the 1970s, a Polish-Canadian took the place over, maintaining it as a drinking den with a lengthy wine list, a haven to the convivial, but adding Polish classics to eat. By chance, an incoming head chef was Mexican, and soon he added a few dishes of his own into the mix.
The result today is a mismatch by design. They don’t exactly complement one another, but imagine being the sort of person to dislike the idea of “Pol-Mex nachos”. There might be no better gauge of a person, no better stick with which to measure a man.
Polish nachos, I should say, are a simple fusion: corn tortilla chips, melted cheddar, tomato salsa and jalapeños, guacamole and sour cream (so far, so Mexican) before slices of Polish dried sausage are added, these placed generously throughout the Latin-inspired flavours. It hints of a meat feast pizza but comes good in the end.
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Elsewhere, the menu is more segmented. It would be fair to say the Polish side is strongest, gastronomically.
The borscht is served very hot in glass cups. It is aromatic and feels remedial. Pierogi are plump and filled with minced pork or cheese and potatoes, served as if a clockface around a pot of sour cream. You get eight of them for £22 and they come topped with sliced chives and crispy onions.
Slow-cooked pork knuckle, kielbasa sausage, or cabbage and mushroom stew arrive armed with mashed potatoes, whipped to become light, not so buttery as in France. A traditional goulash is served with grated beetroot, pickles and a mound of sour cream. There’s vodka, obviously.
Those who wish to dine in Mexico might be equally fortified, at least in terms of generosity. The beef enchiladas are huge, three tortilla wraps under a blanket of cheese, and there’s a serviceable chilli con carne with rice and all the other typical accoutrements.
Starters, by the way, don’t top £12 – this is Mayfair, remember – while main courses are a little over £20 for the most part. Service is exceptional.
Upstairs is a riot, but downstairs might be better still. It is brooding and dimly lit, which makes the candles and the sound of chatter more enchanting.
The basement walls are painted a deep racing green, big mirrors hang on each side and the smell of the kitchen is disarming. I sat next to a black and white portrait of George Michael, when he was young and his hair moved like liquid smoke.
The lamp next to my table was no doubt pillaged from some ramshackle shop on Portobello Road; perhaps salvaged from the home of a rich widow. Elsewhere are odd paintings, fluffy seats, red pillows and the faint hint of a brothel; certainly with the gilet-clad men who appear at their seats between trips to the bathroom. Anyway, in winter, there are few cosier locales.
And there is nowhere like it. In Britain, maybe even the world. It is these places, with their stumpy wine glasses and general warmth, that remind me just how good restaurants can be. And why in these hard times we must do all we can to frequent them.
Josh Barrie is a food and drink writer
