Excuses. I suspect how easy they are to accept rather depends on how serious the crime. I remember my sister’s godfather once refusing to head into a wedding until the taxi delivering his cigarettes turned up — “but it’s three packs,” he kept protesting — which might have been fine, if my sister hadn’t already been waiting 15 minutes to walk down the aisle.
We all have our lines; few friends of mine believe it’s a call-the-firemen situation when I’m late and text to say I’m trapped in the pub. But the Coach & Horses did offer decent grounds on which to review Chung’dam; the two sit opposite each other on the crossroads of Greek and Romilly. Who wouldn’t want to discover an absolute corker of a Korean barbecue a mere 11 paces from their favourite pub? It usually takes me at least 18 to get to Café Boheme, and they don’t barbecue anything at all, amateurs.
Chung’dam’s site was for 35 years Christine Yau’s missed Yming, Soho’s oldest Chinese restaurant, notable for both its northern Beijing cooking and its happy welcome. Perhaps that’s why Colin Firth went.
But while Yming was all carpet and tablecloths and comfort, Chung’dam is decidedly different: white walls, greyish floors, smart bentwood chairs tucked under tables topped with jade-coloured marble. On the backlit bar is a piece of startled driftwood. It all feels porcelain — white, bright, clean and hard — and not entirely elegant; it wouldn’t be a total surprise to see a dental hygienist come from out the back, say, or to discover beside the menu a stack of thumbed magazines with names like Country and Outhouse.
There is a counterpoint in the staff, who offer not just charm but also counsel, which is handy as the menu roots around in different toy boxes. The meats for the tabletop barbecues are the thing, but there are also three-tiered treasure chests of seafood and steaks called Pyeonbaek boxes too, and it’s the sort of place where every other table seems piled high with plates of things that have no obvious name. The waiters divine this.
And so, after some reassuring nods, came japchae, a happy mess of soy-and-garlic marinated beef with glistening glass noodles, both reduced to softness; crunching carrots were a foil. Success was harder to land with the boiled squid, slices pale and piled like candles. A good smear of rich red chilli gochujang got it going, which also tamed the bitter radicchio. As did the Jinro Ilpoom soju, a bottled lake of troubled waters.
I suspect even the illiterate might intuit that the 1++ steak was perhaps rather good, and tempting too, given the wagyu came in at £65 and this was £30.50. Ours was a map of beef with fat running as rivers and tributaries. With staff hands on — only the insistent will barbecue themselves — it was cooked beautifully but, if not quite dreary, was certainly dull. Though it fared better than a ghoulish pork rib. Should a soybean stew have more about it than both?
I’ve heard Chung’dam praised over and again, so it may well have been an off-night; we took a late sitting. But while we’re hardly in rip-off land, it’s not cheap, and Korean can often be so much more exciting than this; there are various pochas that, while different, offer far more that stands out (Kangnam Pocha in Drury Lane, for instance). Set on barbecue? I’ve had a couple of great nights at Koba, in Fitzrovia, while Hannah, who I eat with, recommends K-Town BBQ in New Malden.Clearly, Chung’dam is trying to do something separate and more upscale, but the meal was… lifeless. Perhaps I simply didn’t get it. It’s been known.
But here’s something I did get. “Would you like to include service?” we were asked. “Oh, I think it’s there,” I said, eyes pointing to the listed 12.5 per cent charge. No, it was explained, this is for the kitchen, not front of house. Which means, that were you to take the bill as it’s presented, and add your own tip for the waiters — of say, 12.5 per cent — you can’t depart without leaving 25 per cent. This is not a system where the initial listed percentage is split between everyone in the building, as can happen elsewhere. I know because I checked. Twice. Two staff confirmed it. If you don’t add your own, the waiters don’t get a penny. And look, this place didn’t thrill me, but it would have earned three stars, not two. I killed one as this outrageous policy is offensive to diners and staff alike.
“It’s just how it works,” I was told. I don’t think so, I said. There’s no excuse.
