Why London needs its mediocre restaurants
Il Cucciolo Restaurant in Soho contains almost all of the things I love in an unflashy, utterly reliable central London eatery: a diverse clientele ranging from diminutive, vaguely glamorous septuagenarian Soho lifers, to wide-eyed tourists and sullen couples staring at their phones over bowls of steaming pasta. It has starched white tablecloths and well-worn hardback menus.
When it comes to food, my tastes are almost comically easy to satisfy. This isn’t a source of shame and, I’m happy to say, never will be.
This simplicity is nicely distilled when it comes to eating out in central London. Good company, unfussy surroundings and basic edibility are my key criteria, in that order of importance. When I think about happiness – true, muted, everyday happiness – my mind conjures up a series of images. Dauntingly overheaped plates of blood-red, tomatoey penne. Artery-nuking cheesy garlic bread. Post-solo-cinema-trip bowls of steaming, exquisitely average Chinatown noodles and broth. The good stuff, done to the ideal pitch of comforting predictability.
When it comes to food, my tastes are almost comically easy to satisfy
But this dependable everyday eating is getting harder to come by than it used to be. It’s no secret that the last few years have witnessed various nasty crises for the restaurant business in London and the rest of the UK. The bad-news carousel of lockdowns and absurdist energy bills, spiralling rents and chronic staff shortages. One doesn’t have to look far to fi