I have never considered London anything close to home, comfortable or comforting, warm or friendly. In times of distress or heartbreak, usually caused by London itself, the friendliest place I could find was Heathrow, because it meant I could leave.
3 years after officialising my relationship with Eurostar, my longterm boyfriend, I spot some places in London that make the city brighter, cosier; you know how "things are strange when you're a stranger"? Well, digging a tunnel under the sea to facilitate transnational relations have changed a lot, including a perfect partner, a less than perfect job, and you know, Brexit. But there are some restaurants, and because food is the element of life most easily associated with love, friendship, and happiness, I am back here, writing about Perilla.
First Perilla teaches you patience. We started with sourdough bread served at the perfect temperature, the one at which the accompanying brown butter sensually melts; seaweed gave it an unexpected texture. It is a starter you may not want to share. Sometimes the best way you can show your dinner partner you care is by insisting on your boundaries. The onion soup dissolves under your tongue in a way that is probably unlawful in some countries and is served in a burnt large onion, includes bits of walnuts, and for once, the overall experience is not a failed experiment on beauty versus quality. It is a balance I have not easily found elsewhere. Either we are entering comfort food territory, where the plate is meant to be cleaned by eager fingers, or the sophistication of deliverance of nutrition in world capital cities requires an education I did not receive. At Perilla, a fork, a knife, and an acclimated palate can take you everywhere.
Then Perilla brings love. Three guests at a table including two lawyers is extremely demanding on the waitstaff, so one must understand that Perilla must have worked them through intense training. A long time friend and a newfound one were meeting over a wooden table by a window, dimming lights and flowers in vases. There were exclamations, the wagging of the occasional finger, and handclaps. The food, however extraordinary, came with impeccable timing; the delivery, warm but respectful; the need for a second bottle out of that sophisticated wine menu, difficult to negotiate. We settled for a carafe. It was a mature choice we do not regret, however, a bottle would have done. It would have meant staying in the area until close, something we however could not impose.
But Perilla can also bring pain. My dinner companion had a poached pear with basil sorbet for dessert, while I chose a juniper creme caramel. Disgraced comedian Louis CK (*) famously said "the meal isn't over when the plate is empty, the meal is over when you hate yourself" referring to compulsive eaters. The meal was over at Perilla the second my eyes welled up because it was time to let some wine swirl at the bottom of my glass and pretend I had to be other places that evening, engage in that hands-and-eyes dance of asking for the check, put on a coat, and leave. So we extended the tango: two of us went outside for a smoke (I don't even smoke), and I started chatting to this well-behaved french chap who had recently broken his foot. He asked us about Perilla and our dining experience: he had recently submitted a CV to work there and was curious to know how the newly opened place was doing. I told him that recently life in Britain dealt us cards that made everything taste like salt, but Perilla had come like the sweetener necessary to bring the bitter taste to a halt. It however had to end; the clock was nearing ten, and we had brought enough disruption to the restaurant where everything else was so evidently on a date.
It's okay to bring yourself on a date, treat your friends or family, and order that sweet Lebanese Syrah. It's also okay to come back, something I fully intend to do. Nothing in Britain can be attributed to domestic palates; their restaurants are the result of achieved colonialism and entrepreneurial spirit. Perilla proudly labels itself European, transnationalism at the heart of the source of the products it uses seasonally and carefully. Keep breathing, you're in the right place.
(*) dont @ me read more
