A cool but sunny Saturday afternoon in November found us exploring the East End, our rumbling bellies drawing us closer to Shoreditch for a 2pm reservation at Rochelle Canteen. I had seen the Reels and knew where the buzzer was. The impeccably dressed British couples standing outside even looked a bit like my former rommates waiting for the Fly, the Delphic, the Spee to fling its doors open, their Crimson sweatshirts popping through olive green heritage Barbour.
I felt just as out of place when the door did finally creep open and our hostess politely informed us that our table was not yet ready. We had arrived unfashionably 15 minutes early after all. The imposter syndrome of my college years began creeping in deep as I scolded myself wordlessly for being so awkward, yet again. A short walk around the block to kill time and we were back there, seated under a covered tent surrounded by a pretty, green garden.
The Rochelle Canteen opened in in the repurposed bicycle shed of an old school, which was originally built in The brains behind the operation? I have not met a single person or read a single article with anything negative to say about the Canteen.
My dad and brother both teach here after all⦠The menu definitely helped put me at ease as well, with British comfort food classics that maintain an unfussy, stick-to-your-ribs, almost retro cafeteria feel, but with a resolutely contemporary freshness and lift. Smoky, salty, fish oily and perfect, this was not our supermarket tarama.
It was deliriously creamy and smooth, sure, but was also emulsified into a feather-light consistency, spreading like a dream over the crunchy-here-chewy-there bread.
