Rambutan, London: ‘Ignore the siren song of the small plate’ – restaurant review

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Rambutan serves Sri Lankan diaspora cuisine at Borough Market. Its opening in March was highly anticipated, widely reported and has been unanimously praised by everyone in the food world with an opinion and access to a keyboard. By comparison, I was late to the party, and to be completely honest, that’s a problem in and of itself. It’s almost impossible for any place to live up to that kind of reputation, and it tends to put a reviewer in a hypercritical mode, so while every dish I ate was well thought out and beautifully executed, I was left with that feeling of that every writer desperately hates – “good but not stellar”. Let me tell you about this, then try to explain why.

The stuffed cashews and plantain chips are hands down the most interesting shrapnel dish I’ve had in a long time. They lined me up for the first course, buttermilk fried chicken served with grilled white bread and pol sambol, a kind of drizzled dried coconut. It was a substantial little sandwich and might have been a reasonable lunch for one less man. Luckily I am older so it was also necessary to try gundu dosas. These use the urad dal ferment and rice flour quite differently to the standard pancake, forming it into small fried balls that puff up to a light sponge. There’s a dip (naturally) on the green and minty end of the spectrum, all of which conspired in an interval of what I can only describe as embarrassing gluttony.

Where to start with a fruit curry? I think I was one of that first generation of food-loving white Brits who despised our parents’ curry with its banana slices, shredded coconut, sultanas and half a jar of mango chutney that stripped the enamel off your teeth. . Imagine then, the devastating cognitive dissonance of not just biting into a big chunk of fresh pineapple in a sweet and sour sauce, but actually enjoying every cell of it. My parents, who were also big fans of pineapple served on a stick with good sharp cheddar, would probably have approved.

Like most westerners, I initially thought of turmeric primarily as a colorant, and later as a broad-spectrum panacea that was drank in high concentrations by superfood evangelicals and yoga geeks. Indeed, there is awe in the way Rambutan uses it, for woody, earthy base notes, haunted by the evanescent ghost of ginger. This added character to the turmeric-warm potatoes with pandan and, separately, made a skillful base for the Cornish mussels in a white curry broth, which incorporated all the juices from the shellfish and put them to good use.

One of Nigella’s first contributions to a grateful world was a chicken risotto that used the whole carcass of a rotisserie chicken as broth and all the collected scraps of fat as protein. It was, for a generation desperately hungry for the comforts of such things, a transformative mix. Rambutan Chicken Pongal Sticky Rice is made even better by the addition of spectacular copious amounts of coconut milk. The rice breaks down, stopping just short of the porridge, coalesces, and takes on whatever remains of the chicken and coconut. The pieces of chicken poached and confit in their own filth. “The ointment is mine, says the Lord” (Romans 12:19). He would honestly prescribe this liquid for anything from a tickling cough to a gunshot wound.

Coconut, lemongrass, and pandan dal achieve a similar textural effect: smooth, comforting, “optional teeth” pulses that hum quietly with sharper spices that counteract the pandan’s almost vanilla-floral fragrance.

Roti is not my area of ​​specialty and the ones served here were closer to what I know as parotta or paratha. It is not a simple flatbread, but a transparent roll, oiled and infinitely delicately pleated when baked. One of the great laminated breads of world cuisine and much more interesting as a daily bread than an average croissant. Break them into pieces and dunk them in anything, even vaguely liquid, on the table like it’s open season for carbs.

finally there was milo. Largely unknown in the UK, it’s a comforting, soporific mix of malt and chocolate – the Horlicks of the rest of the world. It is also completely wasted as a drink. All stocks, globally, should be seized and immediately made into soft serve ice cream like they do in Rambutan.

You will see? Everything is alright. Really good.

So what’s my problem? Strangely, it’s the design of the menu.

It is presented as a sharing concept, but each individual dish is generously proportioned, enough, particularly at lunch, to present itself as a more traditional starter or main course. If you order on that basis, there is enough variety; but once you share what is actually a fairly concise menu, there’s suddenly an inevitable repetition. Turmeric, though transformative, follows turmeric. Pandan, while exciting new, follows pandan. The porridge texture, while wonderfully comforting, follows the porridge texture. In fact, it has the feel of a very well planned set of individual signature dishes. In the act of sharing, it becomes less exciting. Is it possible for something to be less than the sum of its parts? It certainly strikes me as a critical point of failure in the unstoppable advance of sharing small plates.

Definitely go for Rambutan. It’s a major new opening, and the food is very good. But choose your food carefully. Plan your own narrative arc. Be brave and ignore the siren song of the small plate and focus more closely instead. That way you’ll have a great meal and, better yet, you’ll have to come back again for anything you left out.

Follow Tim on Twitter @TimHaywardOn Instagram @timhayward and send an email to tim.hayward@ft.com

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