The Bear, 296A Camberwell New Rd, London SE5 0RP

The Bear: Small plates giving it the big un'

With upcycled furniture pilfered from my sixth-form art class, a DJ ‘booth’, chipboard bogs and flooded with twenty-somethings cosplaying Tin Tin, The Bear is a Bingo of Hipsterisms. But weave your way to the back, through the clamour of WebDevs and you’ll come to a hushed pocket, where they’ve tucked the kitchen.

Gleaming with fresh steel, the prerequisite hibachi and a tight mise en place, I stood ogling like the silent, sweaty Poindexters at math rock gigs dissecting foot pedal setups in the front row, arms folded. A single stretch of countertop lined with lamps and stools are front-row seats to “watch the chefs in action”, the website purrs.

“The Bear is more than just a local boozer. We are a laid-back pub with a very friendly vibe, serving up some of the finest food in town…Well-sourced local ingredients are cooked on our open grill to create dishes that will not disappoint” it continues, with “You know where it’s at” as the final claim.

Despite sounding like a bit of copy rattled out by a PR intern distracted by an All Saints earworm, it could well be right. It’s not bragging if you can back it up, after all.

Taking our seats, no time is wasted in delivering The Schtick; “Ingredient-led, seasonal cooking, always evolving” followed by the bit that’s worse than menusplaining. That thinly veiled pitch designed to corral the diner into hitting the minimum spend, gussied up as ‘the recommended amount of dishes’ to ‘properly explore the menu’. Just say you need at least £50 from me before drinks to keep the lights on — it’s fine.

As always, bread is the litmus test and The Bear proudly make their focaccia in-house. The finishing move is to flip it, thoroughly caramelising the top to form a crackling-like crust. Liberally doused in grassy olive oil and blessed with Maldon, it’s a great bit of baking, right out of the oven.

Lovely stuff, Lynn

I know where it’s at — the other croquette

Croquettes that crack open like a pani puri reveal a satin bechamel, humming with Tunworth and punctuated with bits of Cumbrian ham. But owing to a haemorrhage, only one is properly filled and I begin to feel slightly goaded by their promise not to disappoint. But this is short-lived.

A discus of Devonshire crab dressed in brown meat mayonnaise sits on shredded pickled cabbage dripped with yuzu, topped with crushed peanuts and finished with nori. Suddenly my bitter little clogs come flying off – it’s a brilliant dish, every element distinct and harmonious.

Clogs incoming

And the clogs remain off with the smoked eel; my Achilles eel, if you will (unsubscribe here). A brawny fillet lays across a neat dice of Yorkshire rhubarb in a glow of its liquor, gently biting with ginger. But a badly cut piping bag in place of the usual squeezy bottle results in several Ghostbuster Moogli’s which, when you’re giving it the big ‘un with expectation management, is a bit cringe.

Haunting technique

A Bearbug

The XO linguini with soy-cured egg yolk is a similar theme. As the sauce comes up to temperature, the pasta is spooled around a carving fork and rested across the saucepan to keep it warm, causing it to clag together and take on a larval quality. Resorting to eating it in sections with a spoon is such a shame; especially given the exquisite depth of the sauce, bolstered by the yolk.

Out of the two cooks, I think I’ve identified the chef but am reticent to believe it’s the guy with a toothpick in his mouth, on his phone between plating with a very Top Gun-esque “I’m Tom Cruise — you’re Goose” sort of energy. I believe that they believe they’re crushing it and, whilst I’m all for dancing like nobody’s watching, you should probably cook as if at least somebody is – especially when that’s the whole point of your seating arrangement.

I sound like a nark, but whilst watching the chefs in action on their phones, I notice a piece of pork belly has been on a hibachi which is far too hot. Eventually realising this too, Goose attempts to move it before seeing that it’s now stuck to the mesh completely. A minute later he has another go and this time it comes away easily — because it’s fucked. I’m guessing the whole “Well-sourced local ingredients, cooked on our open grill to create dishes that will not disappoint” bit isn’t legally binding.

Cool

The cackhanded piping is back, this time in rhubarb – fixing pieces of halved gem lettuce in place to cradle the surviving belly to be adorned with spring onion, sesame and “Korean spices”. Rarely do I ever bring up costs unless particularly aggrieved but this is four bites of “Sorry, what did I just see?” for £18.

But another steep high scoops us from another trough. Crème caramels, like panna cop-outs, can feel like a bit of an afterthought – not this time. Set only with egg white, breaching the membrane gives the signal for the dessert to surrender entirely; it’s an exceptional texture that doesn’t necessarily need the scree of roasted white chocolate.

Exceptional

Although resplendent with butter, the sticky toffee pudding sticks in the throat. Pushing their ‘Well-sourced local ingredients’ ethos to its cynical limits, it’s finished with cream, still in its distinctive packaging. This time I know exactly where it’s at — namely Tesco Express just down the road. I realise this is sometimes the reality of kitchens in a pinch but if you hang your hat on sourcing, getting cucked by a Clubcard is a bit much – particularly with the level of dining The Bear thinks it’s delivering.

Every Little Helps, I guess. But I’ll ask my wife’s boyfriend just to be sure.

Grumblings in kitchens, like ingredient-led cooking, small plate concepts or numbers-led maths, are nothing new. However, Tom Cruise and Goose don’t just cook like nobody’s watching but talk like nobody’s listening; their open-plan stage means punters hear everything at point-blank range. It encapsulates my many frustrations about The Bear; while some of the cooking is good — very good, in fact — it’s all palpably undermined by superciliousness. I can’t help but feel that their ‘constantly evolving’ schtick doubles as a get-out; a sophomoric plea for mercy, all the while charging and behaving as if they’re fully-realised. Wherever it’s at, it’s currently not here.