126 Crawford St
Tel: 020 7486 8037
Date of Last Visit: Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The Victims: Rutton, Richard, Jose
The Damage: I forget. £30ish? I really should keep better track of this. I’m sorry.
The Background: So way back when we went to Coco Momo, I was trying to remember the name of the new restaurant in Marylebone that started with a B. It was either The Botanist or The Beehive and I was–peversely–nowhere near an Internet connection so Coco Momo it was.
And then when I went to The Duke of Wellington, I thought again of this mysterious restaurant that started with a B. And there it was as I walked down Crawford Street.
So when Rutton suggested a dinner in town, The Beehive it was. Plus, we need to be sensitve to transport costs and our unemployed friend and Marylebone-ite, Richard. We’ve been seeing a lot of Richard since he and his employer parted ways. In just a few weeks, he’s also lost five+ years from his outward appearance. It’s truly amazing.
The Entrance: I am (surprise!) early. About 10 minutes so. I’ve brought Time Out to keep me occupied. But as I enter The Beehive, who do I see but Richard AND Rutton. Drinking Sancerre. Eating hummous. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought them a couple. Jose is not so very late. It’s a very rare moment, me, not sitting around, not playing with my phone.
So then I think about myself, sitting at a nice table in a nice pub with nice food, surrounded by three very nice and very handsome men, and I think to myself, life is good. (None are single or romantically uncomplicated if you’re wondering.)
The Food: The boys split the côte de bœuf, three-ways. I opt for a chicken dish with a mysterious name that basically means it’s served in tomato sauce. And with chips. An odd and slightly pedestrian combination, but I go for it anyhow. Richard admires the river of blood swimming around the côte de bœuf while I dig into my dish, which looks bland and uninteresting in comparison to the massacre (in a good way) of meat next to me.
But surprise, surprise. The chicken is nice. Crispy on the outside, tender on the inside. Almost like it’s been boiled in a bag and then pan-friend? I should have asked. The tomato sauce packs a nice and juicy punch. The chips are just chips. But that doesn’t stop any of us from eating them.
The Loos: Decently clean. I’ve seen far, far worse. This was above average.
The Service: Excellent. Good tips, good info on the menu. Knew the wine list. Rutton blew my cover at the end though. (Rutton, you MUST stop doing that.)
The Verdict: Richard said he’d go back. This says a lot. He has pretty excellent taste. For an unemployed guy.
Some Other Thoughts: As I was titling this post, I couldn’t decide to call The Beehive a Gastropub or not. It just doesn’t feel right, calling it a gastropub. It seems more like a pub with food, but pricier than a regular pub with food. The Guardian’s Word of Mouth Blog had a post along these lines last week. I don’t know. You tell me.
Oh yes, and here’s a shameless plug, you can read this little profile of me over at Delicious Magazine Online…