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Stoke House markets itself as a ‘modern take on the great British carvery’. Which, when you consider what the average suburban carvery is like, may not sound that appealing. But thank God, this cavernous, noisy Nova restaurant is better than expected.
First, the good stuff: a burrata starter was cleanly, creamily delicious, slicked with good oil. Thick slivers of smoked salmon were similarly decent, grease-free and not overbearingly fishy (though, again, not made in-house – this was from London Fields’ Secret Smokehouse).
Luckily, for a restaurant that talks a big game about its flesh, the meaty main plates were excellent. A massive slice of beef rump came perfectly cooked, butter-soft and juicily pink throughout (even if the grated horseradish was sparse to the point of pointlessness). A pile of lamb belly, too, was killer: the fatty seam and skin just crisp, the rose-coloured meat intensely full-flavoured (excellent salsa verde to boot).
But the sundries and sides were a letdown. The beef dripping focaccia was absolutely lacking any meaty, oily moisture. An iron ramekin of ‘smoked’ cauliflower cheese was tepid and watery. Garlic and thyme roast new potatoes weren’t particularly herbaceous, and only half the portion seemed properly roasted. These details count. And while I couldn’t fault the concept behind or taste of a Mr Whippy baked Alaska sundae, it was pretty scruffily presented. Stoke House isn’t a bad place to eat, by any means, but the overall execution smacks of ‘it’ll do’ a bit too much for comfort. One for the local office workers.