I arrive at the familiar exterior to Shoreditch’s much-missed Leroy and take a small moment to mourn. Thankfully I’m wearing black for the occasion. Then I remember that culinary miracles occur: two of Leroy’s previous team are behind serving me my water and the outstanding selection of wine at the newly opened Duchy restaurant tonight.
Duchy isn’t named after some posh Scottish biscuit brand by the way. Duchy refers to a country, territory, or domain ruled by a duke or duchess, a ruler hierarchically second to the king or queen. In a Duchy, the land is an offspring of a more regimented structure, there’s freedom to express themselves in their own ways within the broader monarchy.
Much like pastures of the past, the composite monarchy of many distinct territories are united in a personal union in this restaurant. The decor is a ménage à trois between minimalist London wine bar, classic Italian restaurant, and sexy French bistro – and their menu is satisfyingly much the same.
I often spend my summers eating vitello tonnato on terraces in Northern Italy but here, its tartare manifestation has me jumping to a cafe in Paris watching the world go by somewhere near the Jardin du Palais Royal. As I crunch the crispy potatoes on the top and glance over at the vinyl collection, I am reminded that Find my Friends will currently register me in Shoreditch.
Don’t leave without ordering the brown butter arancini by the way; it’s rich, fluffy filling is and the perfect match to its crispy outer shell decorated with a tiny beret of the chicest aioli I’ve ever seen. Sublime.
The menu is so seasonal that the dish I have been told to order by everyone I know (zucchini flowers) is no longer on the menu when I arrive. However, I am lucky to make it during asparagus season where the spears of verdigris are perfectly tender, unctuously fresh, and sprinkled with a toasted crumb atop a swirl of herby sauce which leave me celestial-bound en route to an undetermined divine place on the continent.
The mains are heartier and less share-friendly, but that doesn’t stop us from trying. Bold in colour and minimalist in presentation we opt for green spätzle pasta with cured trout and Diot sausage on a bed of puréed mash. The simplistic vision on the table is complementary to the low key yet luxurious feel of the place.
You’d imagine a composite state menu struggles when it comes to dessert. Is it a punch up between tiramisu and sticky toffee? Or mille-feuille and panna cotta? The outcome is better, actually.
The charred strawberry and Campari sorbet is everything I adore in a sweet treat. Fresh, light, but so deep it almost feels philosophical. Even though it’s a cold, there’s warmth to it: smoky strawberries and a bitter amaro coming through under the fresh, sweet ice. On my first mouthful, I am watching Wimbledon in a Venice harbour with a sexy French man by my side.
So, I’m not sure where Duchy’s menu would land in supporting Six Nations or the World Cup. Most likely it would lean to the British Isles but would secretly cheer when France scored a try, and harbour a soft spot for Italy. Regardless, for the purposes of this dinner, I’m really glad that somewhere in the past there were European power struggles. Long live any Duke with confused patriotism, I say.
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18 Phipp St, London EC2A 4NU; Duchy Restaurant
