Piece by Kate Antoni, FG Central Correspondent
There are decade old photos of my dad and my uncle that look a bit like they’re auditioning for a role in the 118 adverts. The beards, the black hair, the short shorts. It was the 70s they tell us. You wouldn’t understand. It’s true, I could never truly appreciate a time of flared trousers and man jewelry, of smoking inside the tube and not wearing seatbelts. The nostalgia that lends itself is lost on me but last Saturday I experienced something special. Bobby Fitzpatrick’s, a 1970’s themed rum bar in West Hampstead. On entering this time warp you are basically stepping inside my grandparent’s old house, the attention to detail is fabulous, almost as if my late grandmother helped design it. Right down to the horrendous bamboo furniture adorning my parents house, that I recently found out was not actually a set in its entirety but a merged set from their respective pre-marital homes. It took me thirty years to acquire this knowledge and it will take another thirty to get my head around it.
We sat at a table with high bar stools and the friendly waitress came and took our drinks orders. It was bottomless brunch and I, for one, would be drinking as if it were 1976. Before anyone knew it was bad for them and when day drinking was positively encouraged. Manfriend refused to indulge in this particular element of the brunch and had a Virgin Mary, for he is a millennial who likes yoga and overnight oats. I should have taken dad instead. I ordered a coconut and pineapple mimosa – a combination of prosecco, coconut cream and pineapple, which was everything I wanted and more. A sweet, fruity, bubbly, creamy concoction of delight. You really couldn’t just have one of these, which was just as well because I drank six.
The food then followed, seven small courses. Granted I didn’t expect a gastronomic delight from a 1970s themed rum bar, but the food was good. To start we had a rolled omelet, a trapping, of this hedonistic period I assume of. In which an omelet is stuffed and rolled up like a Yule log before being sliced. The smoked salmon, cream cheese and spinach complimented each other well. Though I wouldn’t necessarily have chosen a cold stuffed egg based situation – it was pretty great. Devilled eggs followed; tuna, anchovy and caper comprised these heinous little bites and they made their way straight into man friends’ mouth. I can’t recocile myself with tuna mayo, it’s not anyone’s fault, its mine. Actually, I’ll blame it on the seventies. Dad usually does. I ordered a daiquiri after this to forget about the tuna. Really nicely mixed and very fragrant.
The potato latke course came next. Now if you’re like me and grew up in north west London, you like a latke or ten. You wake up some mornings and think, today is a latke day. These crispy, greasy fried sensations of delight consist of grated potato and onion mixed with matzo meal and an egg to bind – they’re then shallow fried and induce severe indigestion. Bobby’s offer a micro latke which was quite tasty but not the full ticket – served on nugget of breaded fried chicken with horseradish and beet pickle. It was homely and full of flavour. On to the next. Our favourite course – the savoury crepe, stuffed with smoked crispy bacon, cream cheese and spinach and smothered in sour cream and chives. It was salty, creamy and mouth wateringly rich. We loved this course and thought it wouldn’t be out of place on anyone’s brunch menu. Really delicious.
The kedgeree scotch egg followed which could have easily been left off the menu – it was a bit stodgy and dense – the egg was runny, but the rice was dry and lackluster and the sauce was too cloying and tart. Lastly the Sicilian meatballs graced our plates. Whenever I make meatballs at home my dad mentions Mrs. Flora who, circa 19070, apparently looked a bit like Christina Hendrick’s in mad men and used to make meatballs. I have no idea why. These tasted homemade and full of flavour with lots of sweet garlicky tomato sauce, crunchy pine nuts and parsley. So good. I ordered another mimosa and man friend drank half.
The sweet then came and it was a little underwhelming, the meringue was a tad overcooked and the berries too acidic, bet it tasted authentic dad remarked. We finished off with a famous shot of infused chili rum and decided it was time to stumble out again into 2019. I texted all of my family on the way home telling them how much fun we’d had and asking when everyone was free to go back to 1970. Bonus points if you dress up. Though, as my cousin quipped “my dad won’t need to dress up, it’ll just be a day when his clothes are acceptable.”
273 West End Ln, West Hampstead, London NW6 1QS, United Kingdom
