London,

The Crabtree

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Cuisine: Gastropub
A meal for two with wine, about £76 including 12.5 per cent service

4 Rainville Road, W6

Nearest Tube: Hammersmith

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Phone: 020 7385 3929

Open: Open Mon-Fri for lunch and dinner, noon-4pm & 6-10pm. Sat & Sun (barbecue menu) noon-10pm (9.30pm Sun)

 

 

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No better spot for a barbie than The Crabtree

 

Monkeying about: head chef Brian Gibbons in the willow tree that overlooks the terrace

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Meteorologists, or as I prefer to call them The Weathermen, since they seem to be literally an underground organisation, can breathe a small sigh of relief. Last Sunday was barbecue weather. As luck would have it, I was reviewing The Crabtree in Hammersmith, recently acquired by Realpubs Ltd.

Realpubs, run by Nick Pring and Malcolm Heap, who met not in a Martin Amis novel but on the Bass graduate programme, aims to renovate large Victorian boozers, usually corner sites, to create what they refer to as “urban locals”, a home from home for those living in the capital. The Crabtree, with its spectacular position downstream from The River Café, has a huge sprawling garden, a glazed colonnade and frontage on to the Thames shaded by a graceful weeping willow.

Our first visit was on a Friday evening and we sat inside in the dining area at the rear of the premises to benefit from waiter service. Anyone sitting in the garden must arm themselves with a table number and order at the bar. Our waiter, who satisfactorily fleshed out the company’s stated hiring policy that “experience will always play second fiddle to a great attitude and a willingness to get stuck in”, said that he liked serving in the dining room as he could develop a relationship with customers rather than just ferrying food out.

We sat at a bare wooden table, one from the customary mishmash favoured by gastropubs, under a framed black and white photograph of The Crabtree of old, when there was a lifebelt on the exterior front wall and a uniformed guard at the door. Maybe Rainville Road was a more dangerous thoroughfare then. Potential villains in undershirts — so River Café. Not! — those we could see sitting smoking in the garden looked like pussycats.

Having just read that frogs’ legs, or anyway frogs, are becoming an endangered species due to their popularity, I quickly ordered them, breaded and served with aioli, before they ran out. Reg chose prawns with chilli and tomato oil that came with confit tomato bread. What was inside the hefty coating of fried crumbs could have been frogs’ legs or anything with a faintly fishy flavour and pin-thin bones. So maybe we should let the frogs croak forth and multiply. The aioli lacked the distinguishing sting of garlic. The prawns in chilli hot oil and the toast spread with tomatoes and onions were good, so much so that Reg ordered them again when we returned for Sunday lunch.

I’ve long been of the opinion that vegetarian assemblies could make better use of the flavours of what you might call heirloom potatoes. Pink fir apple, a variety more than a century old, could probably scrape into this category. Pink firs sautéed in a spicy mixture of mustard seed and curry leaf served with wilted watercress and a poached egg was an excellent main course that capitalised on the nutty taste and waxy texture of the tuber. I am not able to give a verdict on the chips as, in a rare gesture towards calorie counting, Reg asked for beer-battered haddock and mushy peas to be served with new potatoes.

A long wait between courses resulted in our request for another bottle of water being met with: “No worries, and that will be on the house.” If only other managements realised how little gestures like that can repair yawning gaps in service. A dessert of British strawberries and cream also took an unconscionably long time to arrive but tables both inside and out are, I suppose, tricky to co-ordinate.

Because on Friday evening there had been a low tide with an accompanying silty frogs’ leggy whiff, I had expected that at Sunday lunch the water would be high, but I am not a meteorologist nor, surprisingly, have I coxed for Oxford or Cambridge during the boat race — The Crabtree is apparently a famously good vantage point for watching. The tide was out again. The barbecue, however, was going great guns with burgers, steaks, veal T-bones and various vegetables sizzling on grills and chickens revolving on a rotisserie. The chaps in control looked like they knew exactly what they were doing.

Sunday roasts with “all the trimmings” — we tried beef and pork — had everything a Sunday roast should have, including parsnips and crunchy roast potatoes. The beef was notable and served exactly as rare as ordered, but the pork was sliced too thin for comfort. We sat inside again but right next to an open window to get the best of both worlds (and waiter service) and hedge our bets on whether this really was the advent of barbecue summer.

Of course it wasn’t — as I write it is grey and miserable — but now you know somewhere rather spiffing to go when the sun does put his hat on.

Details are correct at the time of publication - please check with venue before booking.

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