The River Cafe

Thames Wharf, Rainville Road, London W6 9HA

It is not often you find yourself in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey on a Friday for evensong, especially when you are of the ilk whose skin bubbles up in boils upon entry to any consecrated space. However, there I was, sat in between a priest and a political consultant, listening to little boys singing about Jesus while counting down the minutes to my next destination: the River Cafe.

I had booked this reservation months ago, while procrastinating half a million deadlines and unchecked to-do lists, and I was looking forward to it. The River Cafe has always been on the edge of my culinary periphery, looming slightly too south and too west. A name that was too big, a reputation that was too hard to swallow. I had avoided it for many years as I feared disappointment, but with the priest on my right and the consultant opposite me in the cab, we flew to Fulham, bellies rumbling.

We arrived slightly early, but were led straight to our table. I almost kissed the waitress for giving us a table by the roaring kitchen fire, proclaiming (too loudly) that it was the best table in the restaurant. The other patrons were not best pleased by my assertion, indeed the new HRH the Duke of Edinburgh, who was entertaining at the table next to us, seemed a bit put out. But we move…

The space was not what I expected; it felt like stepping into a very busy marquee at a middle-class wedding, or a hospitality area at the Henley Regatta. Regardless, there was an atmosphere of something that was palpable. It could have been the endlessly long open kitchen, the choreography of the staff, or the flames licking at my goosepimpled skin from afar – but as soon as I sat down at the table I was excited to be in the middle of the hubbub. So excited that at first I did not notice the paper tablecloths, or the garden furniture I was sitting on. Two elements that made themselves quickly apparent when the initial dazzle of the space wore off.

Of course, the real draw of the River Cafe is allegedly the food. Having almost starved myself for the day, I decided my usually small appetite would allow for a starter and a main. As such, I started my evening with a glass of champagne and a bagna cauda (green asparagus with anchovy and Barolo sauce. My fellow diners mocked me for my hubristic choice of British asparagus so early in the season, but is that not the greatest test of a good restaurant?

My plate arrived and I was struck by how thick, long, and juicy (steady…) the asparagus spears were. And oh did I have the last laugh! I am usually very keen to share my food (I am a taster not an eater, alas) but I reluctantly doled out my asparagus if only just to prove a point! And I have rarely felt the need to applaud a sauce, but the runny yet rich anchovy and Barolo had the perfect amount of sharpness and umami to lift the sweetness of the asparagus.

Soon came the time to talk to the sommelier. As usual, I was initially greeted with a level of dismissiveness that is reserved for women who think they can order wine when there are real men at the table. Regardless, after having to prove myself (no I do not want a New Zealand Sauvingnon Blanc. And no I do not want a £450 Ornellaia – however deliciously moreish it is) we settled on a reasonably priced 2021 Tenuta di Castellaro Bianco Pomice, which was quite nice and minerally, with an almost salty finish to the palate which I thought would go well with our fish.

Now, here is where I can really be accused of hubris, because buoyed by the buzzing atmosphere, the wonderful company, and the stunning aftertaste of my asparagus I thought I could handle a secondi of monkfish. That thick, meaty fish that looks like your least favourite uncle but tastes divine when roasted or barbecued. The dish arrived: corda di rospo e vongole, or roasted Cornish monkfish and clams with wild garlic (another early season entry!), and I swallowed my anxiety first before swallowing my first bite of monkfish.

It is important to note here that I am very particular about how fish is cooked. I understand that chefs have different measurements of what constitutes as under- or overcooked fish. My monkfish was cooked perfectly. I have only ever barbecued it, but roasted it almost has a delicate flakiness to it. The wild garlic sauce was, of course, divine but that could be because mentally wild garlic heralds the beginning of spring to me. The clams were okay, their flavour was needed in the sauce, but the wee ones were a bit shrivelled and sad in the shell. I had to give away a lot of my dish to my eager companions, and thankfully there was none of it left at the end.

By then I was groaning, head spinning from a fun evening and delicious food, and eager for a digestif. My comrades, however, being of a stronger constitution than myself, barrelled on and ordered some sort of chocolatey pudding and a sweet wine each. At that point I had lost all interest in their food and was too preoccupied with my espresso martini and the fact that the great Ruthie herself was sat at the table that HRH had vacated.

After a long dinner, some drinks, lots of gossip, laughs, and teasing, the staff kindly ordered us a cab home. While waiting for our ride, we ruminated by the Thames and came to the conclusion that life was good and we were happy. Now if that is not the greatest way to leave a restaurant, I don’t know what is.

Mosob