Lasdun

An enjoyable early evening dinner at Lasdun at the National Theatre. Some fantastic modern British food, great produce, well cooked. Loved the chicken and mushroom pie. Service was friendly and informative. The brutalist dining room was super cool too. So well lit. Three courses for £38. Bargain.

It's convenient for the National Theater. Unfortunately they open at 12h and I was going to a matinee at 13h30, so I had to order off the theatre menu. I would have liked to be more adventurous, but an asterisk by certain items indicated that they took 25 minutes to prepare. The crumbled pig face entrée was pressed and fried in little patties so you wouldn't have known what you were eating if you hadn't read the menu. The cod and haddock patty main dish meant I had two patties in a row. The creamed spinach was good, no egg in the sauce. The dessert was advertised as coming with "ice cream," but it was iced cream. What a delicious surprise!

Darling! Pre-curtain at the Lasdun Well, naturally one must dine before the theatre. And where else but Denys Lasdun’s brutalist temple on the South Bank, that concrete cathedral where culture and cuisine perform their nightly pas de deux? The setting: communal tables groaning under the weight of middle-class aspiration and excellent stemware. The lighting: that particular golden hour glow that makes everyone look like they’ve just closed a three-picture deal. The company: decidedly of a certain age, which is to say, people who remember when the National was still called the National. Enter Jordanne, our server, stage left. A complimentary vodka martini materialized like Banquo’s ghost - crisp, cold, necessary. One simply cannot face Synge without gin. Or vodka. The distinction becomes academic after the first sip. Then the Veuve Clicquot. Brut. Obviously brut. We’re not animals. But the star turn belonged to the Dover sole - a whole fish, darling, none of this filleted nonsense - glistening like Gielgud under the lights, adorned with brown shrimp like so many tiny character actors supporting the lead. The seaweed butter provided umami depths that would make Stanislavski weep. Accompanied by creamed spinach so verdant, so unctuous, it deserved its own curtain call. The sole itself? Perfectly timed, like Judi Dench’s delivery. Flaking at the merest suggestion of the fork, sweet flesh that sang of Dover, of grey seas, of everything English and eternal. And then: interval. Time for Playboy. Time for Christy Mahon’s lies and Ireland’s truth. But first: this perfect fish, this perfect moment, this perfect London evening. ★★★★★

I really enjoyed this restaurant. The selection of dishes was original, and the flavors were wonderful, especially the squid and the fish. The bread was delicious. The service was excellent, and they paid special attention to allergies. The cocktails were also very good. The atmosphere was nice, and so was the music.