Smiths of Smithfield

Clerkenwell

Back in the Middle Ages, before the brutalism of the Barbican or the buzzy heyday of Fabric nightclub, the area on which Smiths of Smithfield now stands was broad and grassy. With easy access to grazing and water, it quickly became the most famous livestock market in the country. While contemporary grazing opportunities in this part of London abound – French, Italian, Mexican, Japanese, Thai – it is Smiths of Smithfield, opened in 2000 by John Torrode, to which we return when craving a serious bit of beef.

Spread over four floors, SOS’s 800-capacity venue has been renovated by Harrison Design under instruction of new owner Young’s. Our table in The Grill, on the second floor, overlooks the Grade II-listed, Sir Horace Jones-designed marketplace opposite, glowing in the golden-hour light. Decor is clean and functional with exposed brick and pipework and leather booths, allowing the pinkly glowing meat cabinet to take centre stage. A 12-seater chef’s table offers hardcore carnivores a front-row seat to the theatre of butchery in the Liam Walsh-led kitchen. Choice starters of shallot and nettle tarte tatin with goat’s cheese and charred squid with Nutbourne tomatoes and spring onions both prove that this kitchen far surpasses that of simply a steakhouse. Perfectly pickled walnuts and crimped, forest-green nettle leaves add a vinegary crunch to the charred, melt-in-the-mouth shallots and velvety Tor cheese, while smoked chilli gives the squid a warming kick.

Our steak, selected from the cabinet with some welcome help from our knowledgeable waiter (also bang-on with his suggestions for wine pairings) is a 28-day-aged Scotch sirloin, which offers no resistance whatsoever when confronted with one of the restaurant’s Anton Black Laguiole steak knives. The stout and treacle-cured pork collar, equally tender and expertly salty-sweet, comes punctuated by a zingy mound of apple and radish ’slaw. The fries are skinny, there are lots of them and, crucially, they are salted all the way to the bottom of the pot. As much as a bowl of Cambridge burnt cream appeals, we are too happily full for anything beyond a palate-cleansing Mojito on the rooftop terrace upstairs, where, we decide, we could quite happily remain until the cows come home.