Socca, Mayfair: a French-Med bistro of overwhelming excellence

In many ways, Socca in Mayfair is an exceptional restaurant, and I’m still trying to work out whether that’s a problem, so we’re going to have to get unusually forensic here and work through it. It’s a French-Mediterranean bistro brought to us by the considerable talents of Sanyukta Nair, who already has Koyn, MiMi Mei Fair, Jamavar and Bombay Bustle in her empire, and Claude Bosi, unquestioned star of quality French cooking in London. Part of me wants to add “together, at last” but, well . . . let’s get the body on the slab and take a look.

I’d ordinarily try to sum up “the room” in a restaurant review in the briefest possible shorthand, but that would be to do Socca a phenomenal disservice. Some restaurants have decor, some have themes, but this one has mise-en-scène. Though the exterior couldn’t be more London — the sort of 19th-century brick, “Pont Street Dutch” that would have choked Pevsner — the interior is something very different. As you walk in, you’re silently mouthing “INT. BOURGEOIS BISTRO SMALL FRENCH COASTAL TOWN — DAY”. The sun arcs beautifully through muslin half-curtains on brass rails. There’s pristine dark wood everywhere and whitewash walls picked out in delicate little hand-painted swashes of Delft blue. For something that speaks so fluently of timeless, effortless simplicity, they’ve spent a hell of a lot of time and effort. This is a very smart set.

It would be wilful not to mention a £26 Niçoise salad. It was brilliant. It was worth it. But it was a £26 Niçoise salad

The presence of Bosi means that the food is superb. He’s got the chops. So his rendition of the traditional, simple bistro menu is anything but. I took a plate of the eponymous socca, chickpea-based crepes. They were cut into elegant squares and served with a dolly-little set of tongs so you could dip them in their own sublime aubergine tartinade. Then there was a tarama of Cornish crab made with cured egg yolks, an exploration of the umami in crabmeat, delivered in a smooth paste. This stuff fits the brief. Delivers on the promise. It’s exactly what “French-Mediterranean bistro” would be, executed by a world class chef.

When reviewing for the FT, I’ve long had the policy of not discussing money in the body of the piece. It’s not something I imagine we’d discuss much if we were eating together. The FT reader in my mind (ie you) either wouldn’t consider expense or could explain, chapter and verse, precisely how the price of a plate of food, made by an elite chef and seated in Mayfair real estate, might be justified. That said, it would be wilful not to mention a £26 Niçoise salad. It was brilliant. It was worth it. But it was a £26 Niçoise salad and that feels somehow climacteric. I can’t easily forget it. In fact, I can imagine telling my grandchildren that “once, back in the day . . . ”

Within the brilliance of the main menu is a section called “Claude’s Favourites” that you might describe as the Ür-Bosi. It’s basically rustic filth. There’s a rabbit leg à l’ail with confit pink garlic that’s merely brilliant, a hint of gaminess and a proper breath-altering sauce. Then there’s pied paquets Marseillaise, Bosi’s legendary tripe and squid stew, and andouillette sausage. I suppose you could say that the idea of taking the comfort food of the poor and elevating it to luxury has been one of the theoretical pillars of the restaurant industry throughout its entire history, but this is some of the most challenging stuff. And it’s irresistible.

There’s a woman sitting between me and the window, perfectly channelling a young Isabelle Huppert. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so immaculately turned out and so utterly insubstantial. I’m transfixed by her complete ease in an environment of purest international luxe. Meanwhile, I’m chewing on pied paquets. It smells like a yard of sheep’s intestine because that’s precisely what it is, stewed with sheep feet and tasting as good as corruption feels. I’m not going to lie, the cognitive dissonance here is giving me a brain-bleed.

I dip my spoon into the “soft polenta” with parmesan, and my mind flies off the scale in yet another direction. There’s no grainy texture to this stuff, no grits, just the purest, smoothest purée. Parmesan for most of us has become an undifferentiated condiment that brings salt, glutamates and an intriguing cheesy undercurrent whenever it’s applied. Bosi honours it like a Frenchman. You can taste that he’s chosen it for an insanely specific provenance and age. No muddying of flavours, no hedging or hiding: an absolutely pure expression. It’s incredibly elegantly cheffy. I’m not sure anyone but Bosi could have pulled off something so simultaneously effortless and studied.

Dessert was lemon ice cream, frozen in its peel like the years between 1980 and 2021 had never happened. There were madeleines, hot and fresh from the oven, scented with citrus and served with olive oil ice cream, which honestly couldn’t have been more redolent of the Mediterranean if it had a superyacht floating in it. And a sweet chard tart that was a triumph of French national culture over internationally ratified rules of dessert.

A stunning room, a stratospheric price point. One menu that’s weirdly unchallenging but elegantly done, one that’s so authentically rustic it’s going to send half the brittle, loaded lunchers screaming for the hills. A relaxed room with service so close to a Swiss hotel school manual that it borders on parodic, and madeleines I’ll remember ’til I die.

I am honestly in turmoil. I think I might love everything about Socca. I’m equally sure I can’t take it all at once.

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

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