Monday is my dry day. By which I mean, I purposefully avoid alcohol. And by alcohol, I mean wine. Red. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t drink excessively, rather I just really enjoy a glass of red at the end of the day with dinner. But Mondays are different. Well, except this Monday.
It was one of those days: I fell back asleep after my alarm, nearly wore mismatched shoes in my haste to get out of the house, didn’t eat breakfast but grabbed a tub of Welsh rarebit topping out the fridge and a slice of Kingsmill for the office, and got bad feedback from a client. And it was Monday. Incidentally, I made Welsh rarebit on the weekend and saved the leftovers in a tub – I’m my own worst Welsh stereotype. The end of the day comes and… I really feel like glass of wine. I can switch my dry day to Tuesday right? Like a Slimming World member suddenly having a red day rather than a green one after eating a sausage roll at Julia-from-accounting’s maternity buffet.
In truth, I rarely drink without food, but luckily I have the perfect place to soothe my annoyance at client decisions and split rarebit topping. Did I mention, it split into an oily mess in the work kitchen micro? But, blissfully, I know just what to order to soothe my soul.
I stroll up Heddon Street with weary purpose knowing tiny spherical golden breadcrumbed pieces of heaven wait at the other end. I pull open the door and am greeted amiably (as ever) by the hostess with her beautifully Spanish accented English. “Just a drink and a snack at the bar if that’s okay?” I say to her. She gives me a number and I take a seat at the marble-top bar at the window overlooking the alley.
I already know what I want but take a cursory glance at the bar menu scrawled in white marker on the mirror to my left. A few new additions – bomba de sobrasada – that I’d try on any other day, yet thankfully some comforting staples appear, too. The waiter bounces over and greets me like an old friend. (Have I been here that many times before?!) I say a glass of red, and take his suggestion of a peppery medium-bodied number from Utiel Requena (wine from the Valencia region – I had to look it up too, and I call myself a Hispanophile). “And to eat?” he says. The words slip from my mouth as if finishing his sentence, “Croquetas de jamón.” I relax – well, as much as one can on a stool – with creamy béchamel on my mind.
The drinks menu is a carefully tucked under a metal paper-serviette dispenser. The kind you only see in Spain or France or Italy. Made of almost see-through paper, sort of smooth greaseproof-like on one side and emblazoned with a logo and a patterned blue border on the other. Square. Absorbent they’re not, yet when you’re picking at food, ever so handy.
Sixty seconds later and my wine is with me. The glass is tall and the rim is thin (it matters). He was right with the Pasión de Bobal. It’s peppery with just enough guts to feel medicinal. If I drank on Mondays then this tinto would be a regular. I take two more sips and soak it in, closing my eyes. I’m in Spain: the clatter of metal utensils against pans, an echoing level of constant chatter, the squeak of glasses being given a final shine to take off the dishwasher marks with a teatowel worn as soft as a hotel bedsheet from the boil wash. The sound of china against the marble brings me back to the task at hand. “Las croquetas” my jovial friend announces with a knowing nod, handing me a small (Is it a pastry fork?) fork in my hand. “Enjoy!”
Sitting on a slither of greaseproof are two beautifully round, perfectly golden spheres. I cut into one with the side of my fork and splay it, revealing its unctuous béchamel centre, flecked with generous chunks of jamón. I take a bite. It’s creamy, hot (but thankfully not Greggs sausage roll kind of scalding hot) with a depth of flavour that bewilders me. I think I taste nutmeg but it’s not strong and I can’t see it in the sauce. Sip after bite, my shoulders drop and I’m transported to carefree days as a student on my year aboard in Spain. (A pity the prices aren’t the same)
The bar is pleasantly full now, and the Counter, the downstairs part of the restaurant which serves both traditional tapas – think gooey-centred tortilla et al – and modern – brioche, ricotta and fig – is busy. The waiter asks me if I’m moving to the counter for dinner. I reluctantly explain not today, it’s the wrong side of payday, knowing full well that Saturday’s leftover biryani is awaiting me in the fridge at home. Were it payday, I’d be at the wide low-slung marble countertop in an instant, watching the open kitchen buzz like a balletic beehive. I’d order the ox tail, slow cooked in red wine, rolled in almonds and hazelnuts, seared, and then served back in a reduction of its cooking juices, with a dollop of creamy mash. It’d be my fourth time ordering it so I know what to expect. [*This dish has since changed]
That’s where co-owners Nieves (chef director) and José (bar and operations) have been so ruddy clever. I’m in Central London, it’s prime dinner hour, at a Michelin-starred restaurant, and they’re happy for me to stroll in and just have a copa and tapa without feeling guilty that I’m holding up a table or stool for the slew of bookings, and regardless of what I’m ordering. I struggle to think of another London restaurant of equal calibre where I’d feel this comfortable, and am made to feel so, too. It’s all just so… Spanish. But then that’s exactly what this winning team was aiming for with the rustic-chic decor, taste-of-Spain menu and the open kitchen. Yes, Sabor, was made for strolling in off the street, grabbing a space and devouring creamy croquetas and glugging all-too-gluggable wine by yourself or with friends, be it a drab Monday or a weekend-ready Friday. And I for one will raise a glass to that, “Here’s to dry Tuesdays!”.
This was originally written as my entry to the inaugural AA Gill Award for Emerging Food Critics, and I thought it deserved to see the light of day.
