Paradise: heavenly flavours in still-seedy Soho

Paradise is a small bistro full of dark promise in one of the remaining scummy strips of Soho. It’s on Rupert Street and it is possible to sit on a high stool, look along the metal bar, through the black-framed windows and straight down the pedestrian passage of Tisbury Court, the last tenacious outpost of Soho’s sex industry. The room is entirely clad in smooth cement and the austere appurtenances permit perching rather than encouraging languor. Here you sit up straight or lean in to the food.

Kokis is a Sri-Lankan pastry, made by dipping a hot metal die into a batter of coconut milk and rice flour. These decorative little crisps are usually sweet, but here they’re made savoury and filled with a tall mound of hand-chopped, raw, aged beef, mixed to a loose tartare with green chilli and chives and topped with cured egg yolk — a polarising ingredient bringing, it is true, great crashing waves of umami, but also a lingering guff of hydrogen sulphide which, like a fart in a lift, will hang around a little longer than you might enjoy.

The mince was stunning, but like Sister Ruth in ‘Black Narcissus’, it would have been better for everyone if it had never taken the veil

Two grilled Ceylonese-spiced prawns with seaweed butter are served in a puddle of freshly made mango chutney and present something of a problem. The flavourings are delicious, but the tight, firm meat of the very fresh prawns has taken up little of the marinade. I handle the first delicately, removing the head and shell and mopping around with the fleshy nugget of the tail, but this was a mistake. I recommend ripping off the head, sucking out the brains so noisily that the two Australian lawyers sitting to your left stop boring their dates with tales of past rugby triumphs and instead stare in something between disgust and admiration. Remove the legs so you don’t actually go into a full choke that requires them to interrupt their droning to administer the Heimlich, and then eat everything else in two bites. The shell too. It requires some work, but you’ll get every last morsel of flesh out and not miss a microgramme of the superb seasoning.

Wild sea bream crudo with coconut, calamansi, lime leaf, orange, red chilli has much in common with a lightly pickled ceviche. Light flavours and citrus brightness. A neat little oil of curry leaves creates a fragrant backnote and a generous strewing of trout roe (has anyone “strewed” yet this century? It feels strangely retro) adds popping excitement for those of jaded palate.

Slow-braised Middlewhite pig’s head cutlet is a sort of rissole, with all the unguent greasiness that implies. It has a crisp outer coat of breadcrumbs, a heavy spicing of cardamom and a cloak of tamarind and apple sauce, all of which combines to be not unpleasant for about 12 seconds. Then feels like you’re sucking on the afterburner of a Lockheed Martin F-22. I am not unused to hot food; in fact I really enjoy it. I’ve also been pepper sprayed a couple of times. This tended towards the latter.

The Australians were, frankly, unsupportive: “A bit hot for ya, mate?”

“Fuh . . . !” I breathed like Drogon dispersing the Lannister army.

To be fair, this was probably an unforced error by the kitchen. The authentic tiny green chillies pack an enormous amount of capsaicin into each thin slice. One or two extras in my portion of the mix would have been enough to take things over the edge. In the absence of a class B firefighting foam, Oniric Blanc Xarel-lo, 2021, a crisp, low intervention number from Cataluña, was an unexpectedly effective and extremely palatable suppressant.

I’ve always felt that mince on toast was underrated. When you concentrate enough on the flavours of the liquids, the essential minciness is subsumed in the totality. It’s like textured gravy. Deep-fried red-style minced chicken is very much in that vein but with a massive and complex palette of spices, roasted to add depth, and then fresh green peppercorns for a surprise high note. The coconut “veil” was an intriguing and vaguely off-putting disc of set coconut milk, about 2mm thick and draped over the mince like rubber sheeting. It did not, to be truthful, add much. The mince was stunning, but like Sister Ruth in Black Narcissus, it would have been better for everyone if it had never taken the veil.

It would have been a tragedy of colossal proportion, though, not to have the roti. It is never, ever the wrong time to order hand-fettled, laminated bread. But offering a choice between lamb fat and “grass-fed ghee” (really? No cow involvement?) was little short of genius. I’m totally there for this sort of thing. Yay! I say. More curated fats. Hey ho for badger lard and yak butter.

Pulling gently into the last station, I order some seared Scottish king scallops to clear the palate. There are three of them in a muscular scrum and a pool of kiri-hodi coconut gravy, topped with a fruity pickle of rambutan. All is sweetness and light and perfectly set off by another certifiable strange-o from the wine list, Tenuta Terraviva Trebbiano d’Abruzzo (2020). In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m taking advantage of a complete lack of cultural synergy between the food and traditional wines to try something off-piste, and it was indeed lovely. Though I’d have to say that the mango Negroni was an equally appropriate “pairing”. 

Outside of the napalm rissole, the meal was challenging only in the very best respects. Novel flavours and new combinations, locally sourced where possible and delivered with charm and wit. The days are long gone when I felt the need to test myself in the spice fire, but I don’t think that’s what Paradise is trying to do. I’m going back for the flavours, not the heat, but I’ll pack a small fire extinguisher, just in case.

Tim Hayward is the winner of best food writer at the Fortnum & Mason Food & Drink Awards 2022

Follow Tim on Twitter @TimHayward and email him at [email protected]

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