Zuma’s younger sibling in Fitzrovia gets top marks for glitz and glamour, for the theatre of watching chefs at the robata grill, and for impeccable cooking.
Zuma’s younger sibling gets top marks for glitz and glamour. Much of the action takes place on full show at the central robata grill, where a repertoire (similar to Zuma’s) of contemporary izakaya-inspired food is created. The knotted wooden counter, framed by glass cases displaying the day’s produce, is filled with expectant punters enjoying the show.
Incidentally, Britain should drink more Fig Manhattans. They are the right combination of post-work sharpener and health-giving, gum-numbing potion. It certainly numbed my conscience towards the ridiculously dear cutlets. But, alas, these were only the most wonderful, succulent chops (prettily arranged on a plate beside sesame-drizzled peeled cucumber art) in the world. And what about that meagre £14.30 serving of rock shrimp tempura? If only, dear reader, I could tell you that Roka royally ripped me off. Instead, my dining companion and I warred with chopsticks over every last fresh, chubby, crisply battered morsel, little better than savages. We inhaled pleasantly stodgy beef and ginger dumplings, then quickly made one portion of perfect blackened chicken yakitori vanish, before ordering a second round and demolishing that, too. ‘Can I take the menu, madam?’ asked a waiter. ‘No,’ I said, tucking it safely under one bum cheek. ‘We’ll order more as we go.’
A thick, sweet, perfect leaf-wrapped fillet of salmon teriyaki has been added to my list of potential death-row dinner requests. This was £12.60 a plate. Perhaps I should stop naming prices, because the ease with which two Roka diners can whizz through £150 of small plates is quite exhilarating.
The tasting menu is popular with first-time diners, taking them on a spin of the best that Roka has to offer. Ours started with a spicy spiral of own-made kimchi. Next came a sashimi platter elegantly presented over crushed ice, and including flavoursome minced tuna with spring onions to be scooped on to crisp, black bread. Sticky skewers of tebasaki (chicken wings) were succulent, while charred salmon served with pickled onion and a tare sauce was crisp-skinned and soft-centred. Another highlight was a showy trio of desserts, which featured Pocky-style chocolate and sesame biscuit sticks.
The tasting menu isn’t cheap, but each dish was impeccable. At such prices, though, service has to be spot on, and ours faltered towards the end. It took an age to get the bill, and we were made to wait further by the chilly door as attempts to retrieve our coats and bags were ignored.
Even the most dedicated Yule-basher couldn’t help but find pre-Christmas Covent Garden vaguely magical. There’s a man-size, 70,000-brick Lego Santa’s sleigh on the piazza right now, with reindeer-size reindeer. And only 19 more days until throttling someone in the Apple Store over the last neon-pink Nano seems a wholly festive act. But for those feeling less ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’, I’ve found a brilliant hiding place. A fourth branch of Roka — the Japanese robatayaki restaurant — has sprung up on Aldwych. Darkness, elegance, not a jingly antler headband in sight. Instead one will find intensely good, wickedly expensive plates of robata meats and fish, maki, sashimi and notably brilliant cocktails. Think The Wolf of Wall Street meets Wagamama. I mean, £23.30 for four lamb cutlets — well, I ask you.
Oh, and hardly any female diners. I counted seven women on the night I dined, including myself — the rest were all ruddy great blokes enjoying a night out on the company account. Do girls not do robatayaki? Are they not allowed to? Have I found a fresh foodie territory to heap my feminist ire upon? Probably not, but the girl drought, combined with the open, male chef-only kitchen, who ‘Oi!’ in unison each time an order is placed, does make Roka Aldwych a little macho. This was nothing a good strong Fig Manhattan — one of my favourite cocktails and on offer here as a signature drink — wouldn’t take the edge off.
Incidentally, Britain should drink more Fig Manhattans. They are the right combination of post-work sharpener and health-giving, gum-numbing potion. It certainly numbed my conscience towards the ridiculously dear cutlets. But, alas, these were only the most wonderful, succulent chops (prettily arranged on a plate beside sesame-drizzled peeled cucumber art) in the world. And what about that meagre £14.30 serving of rock shrimp tempura? If only, dear reader, I could tell you that Roka royally ripped me off. Instead, my dining companion and I warred with chopsticks over every last fresh, chubby, crisply battered morsel, little better than savages. We inhaled pleasantly stodgy beef and ginger dumplings, then quickly made one portion of perfect blackened chicken yakitori vanish, before ordering a second round and demolishing that, too. ‘Can I take the menu, madam?’ asked a waiter. ‘No,’ I said, tucking it safely under one bum cheek. ‘We’ll order more as we go.’
A thick, sweet, perfect leaf-wrapped fillet of salmon teriyaki has been added to my list of potential death-row dinner requests. This was £12.60 a plate. Perhaps I should stop naming prices, because the ease with which two Roka diners can whizz through £150 of small plates is quite exhilarating.
The service is so damn efficient, one might hardly notice the financial damage until it’s too late. The staff at Roka are legion. I greeted at least 15 different front-of-house people before I’d so much as nibbled my first spicy edamame (£4.60 per bowl; steep for a pile of pods, the occasional pea and a splash of sauce).
Dinner put to rest, we ordered two Twinkles — another of my favourite cocktails — and perused the puddings. Do not skimp here, even if one is at the point where offering to work in the kitchen to clear the bill is necessary. The raspberry and Ivoire chocolate usugiri with rose-petal custard is a work of art. Each spoonful unveiled another level of sugar-spun, rose-scented, chocolatey joy. God damn you, Roka Aldwych. We blew £183 in under 90 minutes. I’m not sure how you say this in Japanese but je ne regrette rien.
