Burn baby burn: Acme’s courtyard
(Picture: Daniel Hambury/Stella Pictures Ltd)Ask someone to sketch out their hazy idea of east London dining and it might well look like Acme Fire Cult on a sunny day. Girded by repurposed shipping containers, this new, mostly outdoor barbecue spot is a little black-daubed, industrial oasis. A place of wafting woodsmoke, banked tables and leather-aproned, full-bearded men tending intently to a vast, multi-tiered grill.
But looks, in this instance, are a little deceiving. Because, though it presents as rustic, butch and familiar, Acme — which is a partnership between former St Leonards chefs Andrew Clarke and Daniel Watkins, plus 40ft Brewery co-founder Steve Ryan (who I should declare I know a bit) — is actually attempting something quite novel.
It has the spirit, soul and craft of a serious restaurant, coupled with a vibrant, veg-heavy menu that feels like pyromaniacal Ottolenghi. There are some wrinkles to be ironed out. But this is a venture that blazes with inventiveness and perhaps reframes what can be achieved gastronomically in a requisitioned patch of concrete.
We should deal with that name first; a kind of verbal devil-horns salute that invites you to wonder how sincerely it should be taken. But if the word acme also puts you in mind of Wile E Coyote winching a giant cartoon anvil into position, then that is also sort of fitting. This is a world of almost comically huge, umami-forward flavour, lent even more gutsiness by its conscious interplay with elements of the brewing process at 40ft’s adjacent headquarters.
Asian-style devilled eggs, beneath a carpeted scattering of crispy onions, and lamb skewers that are plump, heat-blistered vehicles for a tingly chilli oil get things going nicely. However, if there is a recurrent theme here then it is sturdy vegetables, skilfully grilled and extravagantly dressed. Leeks came collapsed into a creamy, smoky heap, and dancing to the castanets of a coarse pistachio romesco. Sharply crisped pyramids of coal-roast celeriac brought to mind the fragrant sweetness of fried plantain. And even grilled hispi cabbage, by now an old stager, was enlivened by sunflower seed pistou.
As advertised, meat and fish — which is perhaps most memorably deployed in the whole butterfly mackerel, set in a zippy green tomato gribiche — really does play more of a supporting role. “This is amazing,” said my wife, pushing a snapped length of mutton merguez through a puddle of wild garlic salsa verde. “And a bit… intense.”
It was this (alongside some of the punchy meat prices that are a consequence of using rare, native breeds) that was one of the few things I struggled with. Acme’s dish formula, enthralling as it is, generally doesn’t deviate from a creamy thing and a charred thing dribbled with some outré condiment. Though practically everything we tried was strikingly flavoursome, I found that, collectively, I craved the disturbance of an undressed carb. And it doesn’t feel like an accident that one of the undoubted breakout dishes — a musky, sweet mix of Dorset brown crab and bone marrow heaped on griddled sourdough with cabbage and a jalapeño verde — essentially benefits from the balancing influence of being served on toast.
Still, there is enthralling punctuation to be found on both the drinks list (which features a new 40ft Acme dark lager, spiked with smoky ancho chillis) and with the lone pudding: a terrifically rich chocolate ganache, dripped with sticky beer molasses, scattered with hazelnuts and leavened by a scoop of crème fraîche. This last little tweak (not evident during my first visit) is a clear sign that Watkins and Clarke are evolving and refining, finding their rhythm, and above all cultivating the sort of fun, creative environment where spent beer grains are turned into handcrafted dog biscuits. This car park cult has got itself at least one new disciple.
