Goodbye Horses, 21 Halliford St, London, N1 3HB
A Holy Trinity in a scene awash with monotonous preachers and sly-handed cults
Being forced-marched to church with the school as a kid wasn't the best way to get us to accept Christ into our lives. It meant muddied, echoing sermons razored with mic feedback, to be endured on pews that exemplified the importance of suffering. Two things would make it all worth it, though; food and the third repetition of ‘O Come, Let Us Adore Him’ where you could finally belt out the pent-up anguish.
Of course, the food offerings would vary wildly. The body of Christ resembled Flying Saucer sweets, sapped of colour and fun which, although an accurate way to depict a crucifixion, was no way to remember the victim. Whereas the Christingles were naval mines you’d swim towards; ribbon-bound, candle-bearing oranges riveted with cloves, pronged with stacks of Dolly Mix and charged with the promise of early-onset diabetes.
Increasingly, I’ve felt the same about the ‘wine bar and small plates’ trope. An infidel regarding wine, I typically defer matters to The Editor as I pore over the menu instead. Often you can tell where the kitchen is merely an add-on, producing dishes that somehow manage to be a homage to, and mockery of, pintxos. It reminds me of what Stewart Lee said about Ikea artwork; that “You should have liked the kind of thing that ought to have been there, but isn’t.”
Following a thorough refurb, Goodbye Horses has gone from a Wayfair-sponsored Crystal Maze puzzle to possessing a quietly monastic quality. Daylight pours in through newly fitted elongated windows, portioning the room with gently hazed beams. Modern sconces glow on the walls between, whilst the white paint has been left to drip-dry above the former fireplace, reminiscent of a communion candle.
All around is heavy-duty woodwork that would make Our Lord wince; the bar flaunting its curves and notches facing stout chairs woven with twine accompanying simple, sturdy tables. Descending the staircase into comparative darkness, the last steps are lit with the flicker of a single candle, as the Gregorian chant begins to earworm.
This is the realised vision of owners Alex Young, who has a background in tech, and George de Vos, previously of Brilliant Corners. During the day, it’s a coffee shop operating under the name Day Trip with an ice cream shop, ‘The Dreamery’, imminent. It’s all a commendably shrewd effort to maximise what can’t be a cheap space – and that’s to say nothing of the vintage Tannoy system and tube preamps among groaning shelves of vinyl requiring the floor to be reinforced.
Sending this clip to the staunchest audiophile I know, I’m hit with a rare, immediate response. “The people who do this want you to know that they care about music quality.” Some insist that Goodbye Horses is a listening bar but that's a bit of a misnomer, despite being kitted out accordingly. People come here to drink, eat and natter with high-fidelity audio cushioning the lulls.
Nathalie Nelles, previously of Noble Fine Liquor and Wright's Wines presides over the wines; championing producers with whom the relationships are personal and deeply cherished. Nelle’s stance on sulphites in wine is illustrative of her approach more widely—preferring to celebrate character over predictability.
Jack Coggins commands the kitchen, with sous and KP forming a Holy Trinity of skeleton crews, slinging plates from a kitchen that London estate agents would describe as “generous”. His tours of duty included the Nathan Barley fever dream Papi and culinary key-bump Hot4U, which for a fleeting summer, became a Hackney institution. Coggins also served at The Baring and the critically acclaimed Planque, which I would’ve loved more, had it not possessed all the atmosphere of a Soviet palliative care unit.
Because the body of Christ compels me, bread is a must. Served warm, the webbed, seeded crumb yawns apart exhaling steam that whispers to just shut up and butter it. Sure, it’s £5, but something has to pick up the tab for those Opinel knives.
Sardine sobrassada is served a la McRib® style on butter-burnished shokupan, adorned with sage leaves and fixed with an inscively bright lemon cream. It’s a witty riff on surf & turf that evokes memories of sardines in tomato sauce toast, mashed onto burnt toast straight from the tin, made all the more satisfying in the knowledge I’m no longer paying rent from my overdraft in my late twenties.
A plate of wet-look rubies, raw beef and smoked chilli is flecked with pickled fennel blossom, shallot and chives. It feels like a wry-smiled play on both a Virgin Bloody Mary and steak tartare; expertly judged levels of smoke carry the dish without trouncing it, whilst beef fat pangrattato stands in for the slivers of toast and egg yolk simultaneously.
Chubby cabbage leaf duffle bags of dolma are packed with pearly lobster meat, shaded with kohlrabi leaves. Sheened in a warm tartare sauce, the traditional capers and gherkins have been benched, replaced with a dice of pickled kohlrabi. The oxtail ragout rice is a putty of toothsome grains and fibrous shreds, forming the kind of spoonable stodge you end up with towards the final mouthfuls of oxtail stew.
Whether a stylistic choice or down to the fact they just need using, the chive flowers on such a brawny, rib-sticking dish amount to perching a tiara on Tyson Fury. You’re not going to say anything to his face, but it is cute.
Dessert is my sort of communion; the body of Christ reconstituted into a hazelnut affogato bread treacle ice cream, served in a frosty chalice that elicits a few Hail Marys. I can only imagine that this is what we’d be blessed with, if the same manacles of faith that push monks to brew medicinal-grade booze, had them convert to ice cream production instead.
Nelle’s heartfelt curations underscore dishes that splice the irreverence and dead-pan marksmanship which characterise Coggin’s career. Goodbye Horses embodies that youth pastor who doesn’t struggle to keep tradition engaging and relevant; who recites scripture, shreds Stairway to Heaven and addresses sermons sitting on chairs backwards, like an 80s football coach. With Young and de Vos taking equal pride in the audio experience, Goodbye Horses promises a true Holy Trinity in a scene awash with monotonous preachers and sly-handed cults.