The Midland Grand Dining Room Restaurant: a superb station restaurant — review

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This will be the third time I’ve been to The Midland Grand Dining Room. The last time it was Marcus Wareing’s The Gilbert Scott, a fine English interpretation of a French railway station brasserie. The first time, I confess, was an act of trespass.

First, some history. The story goes that the Midland Grand Hotel was the last hotel built in London where the plumbing was premised on there being sufficient servants to empty chamber pots and ferry jugs of hot shaving water. The business failed soon after it was built and then, after a long campaign led by Jane Fawcett, Nikolaus Pevsner and John Betjeman, was listed for preservation in 1967. This saved the place for us all, but condemned it to decades in collapsing limbo as no one could agree how it could be modernised and made economically viable. And so, the Midland Grand Hotel was derelict.

More than that, it was the shattered Gormenghast of St Pancras, the steampunk, brick-and-iron skeleton of a Lovecraftian behemoth. Back before the turn of the century, like many other architecture nerds, I went in through the bust door behind a hoarding on Midland Road, knuckles white round a big police flashlight. I crept past the rough sleepers and the drug-shooting galleries to stand, ankle-deep in dead pigeons, and stare dumbstruck at the double spiral staircase rising through three floors.

It’s a lot smarter now. A hotel, apartments, some spectacular bars — and the dining room, restored to its double height, built on the gentle curve of the western wing and lit by high ecclesiastical windows. Like that stunning old staircase, the restaurant interior elicits an involuntary gasp.

Taking the helm at this great Gothic ship-of-state is chef Patrick Powell, the brains behind Chiltern Firehouse and Allegra — and he’s getting even better. Front of house is led by Emma Underwood, most recently of The Pem, whose effect upon any room she works seems indistinguishable from magic.

First, let us address the vexed question of the pâté en croûte du jour. I have always maintained that the classic PEC is a French pork pie. Of course, purists will argue that the pastry is different and, yes, I’ll grant you that the classic hot water crust pastry is superior, but the interior (technically referred to as a farce) is identical, save possibly a scrape of garlic or mace here and there.

At least, that was the prejudice to which I had happily cleaved until today. On this particular jour, the croûte contained a light, jellied terrine of rabbit and chicken, quite outstanding and absolutely not the sort of thing you’d want to shove a hard-boiled egg through. What really set the whole thing up, though, was celeriac remoulade with fresh mayo, flavoured assertively with tarragon. I should also add, with a profoundly unmanly squeal of delight, that miniature cornichons are, like, so cute!

I’m obviously unreasonably fond of crab toast in its robust, gastropubby incarnation — all the iron and iodine of the dark meat, quietly minging and putting everyone else off their tea — but this was something entirely different. A crustless square of some fortified bread, possibly an airy brioche, fried like pain perdu, and then mounded with the purest white crabmeat. Chilled but obviously recently steamed and retaining all of its sweetness. Just in case you didn’t quite get the message, there was a pool of coral-pink cream sauce containing more delicate shellfish flavours and a whiff of elderflower. It’s a rare thing that a simple dish really challenges you to think. This one posits a thesis — that good shellfish can be about sweetness — shows its workings and argues to an incontrovertible conclusion.

I’ve done a bit of fly-fishing, mainly up American mountains rather than in the UK, where I couldn’t afford to get near one of the fashionable beats. I am, as a result, programmed to respond with joy when I see “chalk stream trout” on a menu. In my limited experience, the fish you pay to catch in chalk streams are tiny wild brown trout that taste, though you are rarely allowed to eat them, sublime.

It was, therefore, initially disappointing to receive a sizeable tranche of farmed rainbow trout on the plate, although it was a very well farmed, clean-tasting and all-round-delicious piece of fish. It turns out that “chalk stream” is now used to describe a fish farm fed with water from a chalk stream. Perhaps this sleight of hand was for the best, as I’m not sure I’d want to eat anything pulled from Britain’s horribly polluted rivers right now. It was cooked precisely and served with sorrel, a beurre blanc emulsion of vermouth for fragrance and smoked butter for a cheeky little whiff of a riverbank campfire. 

Finally, there came a soufflé. This was also du jour, a trend absent from London restaurants in recent years. I like du jour. I like the surprise. I like the feeling that some effort is being expended and I like the idea that if I come back tomorrow, there will be something new to try. I think I’ll definitely come back tomorrow. For now, though, I’m very happy to enjoy a deep mauve soufflé, impeccably risen and browned, flavoured with forest fruits and, alleluia, accompanied by a big scoop of vanilla ice cream to be spooned into it in the manner God intended.

I’ve spent happy times in some of the grand old restaurants near the Paris stations. They seem designed to welcome you to the city or to make you wish you didn’t have to leave. If the first example of British hospitality that French visitors hit is The Midland Grand Dining Room, I, for one, will rest easy, patriotic and proud.

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

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