Snuggly L’Autre, London

Whoo — a food post. You’ve missed it, haven’t you?

But we all know a food post on this blog is never really just about food… a pinch of digression here and there, generous chunks of storytelling, and aromatic pictures that speak for themselves.

All right, let’s go.

This was a Saturday.

I beat Nikitin by four minutes to Green Park station, garbed in my white turtleneck jumper (which I bought solely for the once-cute woollen tassels circling the hem. But now, this piece of — shall we say — art feels a little ridiculous, so I’ve let the turtleneck breathe while keeping the ring of tassels tucked neatly under my coat. ANYHOW.)

Nikitin, on the other hand, showed up in his ten-year-old navy coat that looked as though it had just stepped out of Carnaby Street. You bet we were strutting down Piccadilly making a fashion statement.

The plan for the day was lunch at Shepherd Market, followed by a sprint to the Royal Academy of Arts — “in case it rains”. Because, according to the forecasts, London always rains.

The front of L’Autre was precisely where Nikitin emerged from his Google Reviews, and something in my head went ding — yes.

It wasn’t even particularly enticing. Plain white window frames beneath a green canopy, damp tables and folded chairs — but the sign that read Polish and Mexican was enough to send us into a mild state of hypnosis.

Where else in the world do you find a restaurant like that? Polish and Mexican.

What does that say? It says that if you are truly one of a kind, no amount of penny-plain surroundings can dim your light.

We pushed open the creaky door and found ourselves in a small, slightly cramped space. It felt as though we had stepped out of an explosion of light into the dim, mellow sitting room of a septuagenarian. I’m quite certain that, had we looked closely enough, we might have found crumbs dating back to 1945.

There wasn’t a soul in sight.

A lean, courteous man in a white shirt rose from the corner, folded away his newspaper, and greeted us. He wasn’t rude, nor was he particularly enthused by our presence. And strangely, that hint of nonchalance made us feel comfortable — reassured, even. As though we hadn’t just wandered into an empty, confused restaurant whose owner might be plotting to overfeed us with dreadful food and leave us traumatised with lighter wallets.

Overthinking? Yes. Sorry — let’s resume.

L’Autre, as the name suggests, began as a French establishment. The owner at the time had a Polish cook, and as the cook cooked, Polish dishes quietly found their way onto the menu. (What a delightfully strategic, territory-claiming cook.) It wasn’t until 1977, when the Mexican consulate opened nearby, that L’Autre began serving burritos and nachos — simply, as the man put it, to “make people happy”.

“Take anywhere,” the man said, as I took out my camera. “Take as many pictures as you like. This place is a lot older than you.”

So I did.

A jumble of currency notes and hats left behind by past visitors. That elusive 1945 crumb might well be hiding somewhere amongst them — aren’t you intrigued?

For starters, we shared a plate of herring with rye bread. We decided to dodge the Mexican entirely because (1) I’m lactose intolerant and can’t have too much cheese, and (2) Nikitin is Slavic, so can never have too much… well, Polish.

For mains, I had mushroom and sauerkraut dumplings with beetroot soup. He had sausages — rather like bangers and mash, but Polish. (So much for refusing to eat in a pub…)

The beetroot soup was much better with spoonfuls of sour cream — a very novel flavour, and I absolutely loved it.

Dessert was traditional Polish cheesecake, sernik, followed by coffee.

It was far fluffier and lighter in flavour than the American cheesecakes we’re accustomed to.

We didn’t have to sprint to the Royal Academy of Arts afterwards, but did reroute to Burlington Arcade, where someone snapped up a pair of “casual leather shoes”.

Fancy.

Right — back to work.

With love,
x