Upstairs at the Gun

There is a saying, recently imported like other Chappell Roan-ims, that states you shouldn’t waste a Friday night on a date. This need not apply to long-term couples, over 30s, or those of us who don’t own a glittery one-piece. Sometimes all you want is dancing candles, white tented tablecloths, goo goo eyes, and an evening of pretty dishes, all balanced precariously on top of one of East London’s most boisterous pubs.

The Gun, Homerton’s beloved 1860’s pub/club has played host to newcomers Rake for 3 months now. Friday night sees its orange-lit and stylishly tattered downstairs patrons crush up against one another, gyrating to some undefinable form of dance music. Rather flushed and prissy-looking Adrian (my partner) and I hurried up the tight wooden staircase and breathed a long sigh of relief. Spartan sexy black leather banquets, a low-humming version of downstair’s bleeps and thumps, and a pleasing expanse of freshly fallen snow in linen form. We were safe.

 Rake is a cool date night spot if your potential paramour works in the music or fashion industry. It’s a “let’s order one of everything,” a “starters, mains, and dessert” sort of place, and it’s a “shall we have a bottle of something nice?” a “how much for a chicken?”. Settle for a mossy dill martini or a vegan Pisco sour (the amazingly named Aquafaba is made from chickpeas and replaces the egg white) and wait patiently to be romanced.

Strips of spiced sausage lardo, cured back fat ghostly white, so thin they are almost translucent, sleeves of salty flavour. Radishes as if just unearthed from your aunt Jane’s allotment, bare down with an ear-splitting crunch and dunk in a pound of orange cocktail sauce. Painfully simple, yes, but when you think of a ramekin of pickles, a perfectly acceptable starter elsewhere in the city we’ll let this unadorned dish through. Battered cockle skewers with sweet dipping sauce, a bright-eyed twist on the custom of serving cones of seafood as in pubs until the mid 80s. Clams are an edition that brings this fishy festival almost into dessert territory and wins my heart.

Beef tartare, with a spicy mustard inflection. One of our first hints at Rake’s interesting relationship to the idea of Britishness served with two pieces of St George’s toast:  hard enough to dislodge a filling, but providing a nice solidity amongst the raw meat, load and spread away. Sardines on toast, plain? No, a flashback to a bygone era of post-war Britain, as comforting as grandma’s hug, yet added ale and onion to deepen the experience. All that was left was two rather nibbled tails and an oceanic and inelegant burp from myself.

Twisted Caesar salad, summer tomatoes (how we ask?) and sprouting purple broccoli are also available. Order as many as you can afford, as they are neither large nor disappointing nor particularly affordable. But with a swiftly changing seasonal menu be ready to be surprised on every visit. Sunday brings the obligatory roast, although I would imagine with their own distinctive branding.

Main’s march out a little more substantially thankfully. Butterflied mackerel are not the long-chargrilled fishes we’ve all battled with on seaside holidays, more daggers of bone than flesh. These round disks, fanned out like a ballerina’s skirt, with all that tang and vinegary acid that has proved so popular and driven the swift decline of the species (sorry). Spring chicken, and you know it’s the fancy kind as it’s a delicate little bird, stuffed under the skin with everything good, in a pond of bread sauce, begging for you to lift the carcass and dribble the juices down your chin. I would advise not to though, your date might not approve. Thick chunks of chips have a curry sauce dip that again harkens back to an older England, another playful reinvention. There is a cod and smoked haddock chowder is perfect for the hateful winter nights closing in, or a kohlrabi tomato and saffron for the rather limited vegan diners.

Rice pudding with a healthy plonk of blackberry Jam delighted my partner although it is something I abhor, but trying it didn’t make me want to cut off my tongue, so that was nice. A tightrope walk of salt and orangey warmth, expertly trod. My dessert (the only other option) made me think of the 1940’s, Yorkshire tea brûlée; all the sweetness one would expect but with a caffeine sting at the end, another coquettish nod from the team.

Reinventing the idea of British cuisine that is normally reacted against, called drab and insular. Now bright, and bombastic, focusing in on the very features that made it so popular in the first place. If it’s current home of broken toilet lights and bustling party people isn’t your cup of Yorkshire tea (brûlée), keep an eye out for chefs Jay Claus, Peter Ward, and Syrus Pickhaver as the culinary boy band Rake, as I can foresee great things dancing forward in their future.

What are you lollygagging about? Book your table here NOW!