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The Freak Scene first reared its appallingly monikered head back in 2017. My foodie oracle pal Rocky (a kind of compos mentis Danny from Withnail & I but with a honed palate and better hair) would occasionally drift into town for a restaurant binge, and then regale us with granular run-throughs of the bangers. These were always effusive, but one was positively rapturous: a Farringdon pop-up, helmed by expat Aussie, former Nobu head chef and Kurobuta founder Scott Hallsworth, knocking out blinding pan-Asian bits on camp stoves in a hurriedly furnished Cowcross Street unit. He was almost vibrating; always a plum sign.
The Freak Scene (Dinosaur Jr homage notwithstanding, a terrible name then and a terrible name now, even without the clunky definite article) was a sleeper hit, taking up proper in the old Frith Street Barrafina site in 2018, getting tip-top press before being nobbled by Covid and rent hikes, and shuttering for good in 2020. I didn’t make it to either; ships seemingly passed. But zip forward three years, chuck in some seed capital from omnipresent Australian TV comedian Adam Hills and lo: Freak Scene v.3 arrives, segued from central to the pinstriped, braying Fulham outpost of Parsons Green.
The space is, at first, incongruous: a mish-mash of pink-purple lighting, ersatz-midcentury brass lamps and spurious Made.com-style seating. But peer closer and, like mice on the tube tracks, the Hallsworth traits – soundtrack of Dookie-era Green Day; a profusion of skate decks and a dinky robata grill on the bar; the man himself, clad for the beach, drifting around pre-service – reveal themselves.
A defacto signature of chicken-fried chicken was one gargantuan leg, shredded into a mess of flesh and decorated with a sweet/spicy pineapple sambal the colour of blitzed Cheetos.
Neither, it seems, has he dropped a beat with the food. With zero exceptions, it’s all wildly successful: thwacking maximalist flavours, beautifully presented with no concessions to the cost-of-living debacle. A beer snack of Krong Krang Grop cookies – more M&S tortilla rolls than biscuit – were made irresistible by a slathering of fish sauce caramel. Singapore chilli crab bombs saw two greaselessly fried wonton shells crammed with avocado and honking brown meat, flecked with peanut dust, crispy onion sheaves and microherbs; blissful, textural two-biters that were as good as anything else I’ve eaten this season.
So it went on. A defacto signature of ‘chicken-fried chicken’ was one gargantuan leg, shredded into a mess of flesh and burnished, papery skin, then scooped up in lettuce leaves and decorated with peanut soy sauce, pickled cucumber and a sweet/spicy pineapple sambal the colour of blitzed Cheetos. Salmon sashimi ‘pizza’ – another Hallsworth go-to – paired top-grade fish with truffled ponzu mayo and ikura caviar, on a base of what I think was fried mochi dough. Miniature croissants were topped with slabs of foie gras, peanuts and chilli, then doused in a lip-sticking star anise jus. All totally ripper.
Libation-wise, the cocktails are trough-sized and lethal; the ‘Freaktini’ (a slosh of grape liquor giving it a regal hue) and the ‘Journey to the West’ (sake, two rums, Drambuie, ginseng, spiced pineapple) particularly head-razing.
You’ll pay for it – hoo boy will you pay; the two crab bombs were a glorified snack size, and still a relative bargain at £13 – but it’s rare to find this kind of fusion done with such genuine pizzazz and power-flavoured chutzpah. Praise be, then, that Hallsworth’s years in the wilderness are over.
The vibe A buzzing amalgam of suburban 'chic' and low-key slacker cool (with extra whooping Sloanes).
The food Maximalist, painterly, face-punchingly flavourful pan-southeast-Asian small plates that go heavy on the luxe ingredients.
The drink Crisp house lagers, a well-curated wine list, and a killer carte of mega-ABV and gargantuan cocktails.
Time Out tip Swerve the crab bombs at your peril, but drag a posse for maximum ordering potential – I'm as bereft for what I couldn't try as cock-a-hoop for what we did.