If you know anything about Israeli restaurateur Eyal Shani, the buccaneering force behind pita chain Miznon, then you will know that there are many things about the conventional dining experience that he apparently disdains. He does not go in for classic napery, preferring to adorn tables with butcher’s paper and a tomato. The freeform jazz of his dish descriptions (“six spicy instruments that will swirl your soul”) signal how he feels about menus that prioritise being decipherable. His habit of serving food in paper bags hints at a war on crockery, washing up, or both. All this was part of the blazing, madcap charm of the first London Miznon; it was the eccentric price of admission that you gratefully paid to access Shani’s astonishing, homestyle Jewish flavours.
But more than once during my meal at Lilienblum — an ostensibly more formal, follow-up to Miznon near Shoreditch — I had the sense that some of the perplexing choices and weird flourishes were crowding out my enjoyment. Yes, the dishes were still cooked with unexpected flair, potency and restraint. Yet now I was asking why something billed as a focaccia instead arrived as a puffy, oven-blistered flatbread. I was querying the wisdom of presenting dishes on what appeared to be the slippy, reflective pieces of card used to seal foil takeaway containers. I was wondering whether the looseness of Lilienblum’s concept was blunting the impact of Shani’s undeniable genius.
None of this is helped by a dining room with a doomed enormousness to it. Set a short walk from Old Street roundabout, Lilienblum sits next-door to Daffodil Mulligan in a vast, echoing barn of a new-build space. The aesthetic is vibrant industrial-chic — candy-coloured seats and exposed ductwork, floor-to-ceiling glass that leads out to a sizeable terrace — but most of the character comes from the Miznon-ish heaps of vegetables and decorative bushels of herbs ornamenting the open kitchen. I went along for a solo, early dinner and found, concerningly, the only other people in there were lovely, somewhat rictus-grinned staff.
Thankfully the first dishes, presumably conceived by Shani but also head chef Oren King, provided welcome company. Beetroot carpaccio with “horseradish snow” keyed right into different gradations of earthy, delicate sweetness. That focaccia, wonderfully bulbous, oily and light, was roused by slices of tomatoes and a jolting chilli-strewn sour cream on the side. Eggplant melazana had delicacy and attitude: a steaming cast iron dish of layered aubergine parmigiana with a soft-steamed, textural creaminess, a hidden layer of bubbled mozzarella and a puddle of garlicked tomato sauce.
The problems tended to be matters of variety and menu construction. Quite apart from the wearying zaniness of its descriptions, Lilienblum’s decision to split its menu by ingredients means it can be hard to orient yourself. Is the £45 “best Branzino I ever ate” to share? Does it make sense that the only side is “asparagus exemplarily arranged in a paper envelope”? Who knows. All I can say is that the serviceable shavings of minute steak and tahini that I eventually settled on came with a side order of slightly cloying disappointment.
But, look, if I am being harsh then it is purely because the thrill of some of Lilienblum’s cooking deserves a better experience. I finished the dregs of a cardamom margarita, polished off an enjoyable, bitter-edged cloud of chocolate mousse and made my way out through a room of unoccupied tables. This is Shani’s third UK launch in less than a year; he has more than 40 restaurants globally. The company policy is clearly to move fast. Lilienblum, to me, proves that slowing down a little might be the best way to move forward.
