Whole Beast at The Montpelier, 43 Choumert Rd, London SE15 4AR

Whole Beast at THe Montpelier: For the last time, Tim Hayward is not my Dad

It seems like only 910 days ago that I was reading Tim Hayward’s review of Marmo and his account of their wild boar ragu; “Never let anyone tell you that wild boar tastes like pork. It’s a big, muscly bastard, all bristle and tusks and fuelled by rage. And that’s how it tastes. It comes at you at speed and in no mood to compromise”. I practically snorted that line.

The realisation that food - especially in the context of restaurants - could be written about in such a way, was utterly transformative. I did think about writing to Tim, but always thought seeing ‘Bald Flavours’ in your inbox, completely unsolicited, as another bald man, was a warranted ‘delete-on-site’ offence.

So imagine how flummoxed I am to hear that Tim Hayward has agreed to mentor me. Whilst he’s clearly picked the short straw, at least I’ll finally get to thank the poor man.

Martinis aside, the promise of tallow appears to be a surefire way to coax Tim anywhere, so when charged with finding us a place to gorge, it was obvious. Drawing others into my vortex typically means a trip to my belovedSuuyaron Choumert Road — a billowing, yaji-wreathed smokestack forever betraying its position. Naturally, it’s not open.

But just a bit further up the street is The Montpelier; the latest refuge for the beanie-balancing, vape-quaffing, Guinness-sodden liberal elite. It’s also home to Whole Beast — one of my most cherished outfits in recent memory run by couple Sam and Alicja Bryant.

Frazzles: A Master Class

With the zeal of someone giving in to the idea of a Maccers floated on a slightly hungover Sunday, Tim issues a “Oh…yeah…” as every great taco should. An ooze of green chorizo as bright as its festooning of pink pickled onions all peeks out from under what must be half a pack of crushed Frazzles. This is a trademark Whole Beast move; most notable being the cheese and onion crisps on their smoked cauliflower cheese at Sunday lunch — borrowed from Sam's, apparently legendary, mother.

Dermatologists hate this one weird trick

Completing the double-tap of irreverence is the whipped cod’s roe topped with Scampi Fries. It’s the sort of thing Ursula would use as a skincare routine as she daydreams of fileting Ariel. Billed with hash browns, they’re more akin to the ubiquitous pressed potato; a crisp membrane barely containing the tender slips of potato within.

The deep-fried soft-shell crab sits as a casualty of Pompeii, had Vesuvius been packed with thoroughly seasoned batter — captured in its final moments attempting to shield a pool of tom yum sauce. Emulsified with pork fat, the tom yum draws sourness not from lime but rhubarb – a dice of which is strewn throughout.

I think it’s dead

I’ve witnessed Sam in the wild judging at the National Burger Awards and that man is built differently. He chewed as if finding errors in code; a Matrix data stream cascading down his retinas. I’ve been consequently fascinated with Whole Beast ever since — particularly when it comes to notions of burgers.

Yes, their cheeseburger is utterly remarkable and for me at least, completely bags and tags the increasingly luridly naff debate around London’s smash burger prowess. It used to be that such things were just something a pub ‘did’ to help mitigate the inevitable belligerence of alcoholics but behold — Exhibit A:

Peak Performance

From the cobbled chestnut Maillard doily that still manages to hem in succulence, the burger sauce packing some heat in the back, to the pickles made to Alicja’s Nans’ exacting Polish standards and the fine dice of raw onion, all of which welded together by American cheese — it’s the intellectual’s Big Mac. Particularly because they’ve 86’d the redundant lettuce and extra puck of carbs, a once high IQ fat-absorbing power move that’s since been reduced to a structural liability.

A testament to their visionary tendencies, Whole Beast had initially created their own potato roll but it wasn’t viable en masse*. Instead, they’ve entrusted the stewardship of their baby to St. John’s waxy-domed buns that offer similar structural integrity and inner-squidge. Remember; restraint and moderation are the enemies of joy, so order it as a double.

Flumps, but make it keto

Wherever Sam and Alicja are, the Big Green Egg follows — only deployed when the mission calls for it. The smoked pork rib is nothing short of a Keto Flump©; the striations of fat and flesh cooked into a wimp of their former selves – smoke subtly weaved between its layers. Fixed in place with a blitz of rayu, peanuts and kimchi it’s showered in tōgarashi; a slow wink to satay in a way that’s so distinctly theirs.

The future’s bright; the future’s wild garlic

A panko-ed orb the size of a cricket ball, the chicken Kyiv is made from an ex-breeding hen with all the offal mixed in, imbuing the depths of flavour with a profound muscularity. Inside is a swirling payload of wild garlic butter in all its chlorophyllic glory.

Whole Beast is a rare blood type, weaving influences together with a wit that thrives on hiding in plain sight. It’s Americana being reminded not to slouch, prodded into form by the heavy lifting of other cultures; each being called into service with a consideration as deep as the affection from which it spawns. I can’t shake the feeling that the inspiration taken from family matriarchs is indicative of how deep that well truly is.

Perhaps the most seductive aspect of their cooking is how it suffers no crisis of self-esteem; their playfulness only serves to underpin how serious they are about feeding you. They staunchly abide by the “If you cook it, they will come” philosophy and I intend to keep coming until they take out some sort of injunction.

*EDIT: True at time of writing. They’ve got potato rolls now.