Pophams Restaurant, 197 Richmond Rd, London E8 3NJ

Pophams goes beyond the day shift, creating something that serves its neighbourhood in depth. The lucky gits.

The nucleus of communities for literally ages, bakeries are no stranger to going above and beyond to serve their locals and even creating new dishes in the process. Centuries ago in France, once bakeries had finished with their oven for the day, the peasantry would already be waiting with trays of raw potato and onion, sloshing in stock.

Using the residual heat of the ovens, these would slowly cook into what we know as pommes boulangère; something which must’ve been a total salve to life when you’re sharing one room with five generations, all busy dying of their teeth, papercuts or haunted blood.

During the day, Pophams, like all its locations, is a certified White Woman’s Instagram honeytrap. Silhouettes in plant-adorned corners are surrounded by Scandinavian decor, all set against exposed ventilation under which hangs a vivid painting of people in their pants, revelling in a spread of pasta, tomato salad, and anchovies with a bottle of red.

Moonlighting as a restaurant, Pophams then switches off its bread ovens before promptly firing up its kitchens’ to run a, no doubt astutely conceived, pasta-centric evening menu. Just like the ovens of Medieval French bakeries, Pophams’ lights die down to the ember glows of candlelight, as a queue begins to form, eager to take advantage of the warmth.

Although mainly pasta-focused, the menu is also interspersed with dishes that ensure as little of the day’s dough goes to waste. Croissant cracker tartlets mounded with a glacial ooze of Taleggio, topped with blood orange marmalade evoke the belt ‘n’ braces approach of Wealthy Auntcore. Order them in triplicate.

Starting sweet with edges roasted to a gnarl, crescents of pumpkin are heaped with toasty granola, drizzled with maple syrup and affixed with sheep’s milk labneh. “It’s a take on a deconstructed pumpkin spiced latte!” I squeak; my sweater suddenly transforming into a thickly knitted number several sizes too big, as I begin curating a list of protests I’ll be attending, ranked solely on aesthetic potential.

Chunks and ribbons of beetroot hem in a quarry of smoked cod’s roe, rough-hewn enough to be mistaken for taramasalata, with a pit lake of dill oil. Pickled mustard seed gives zips of acidity that, had I not hoovered the bread, make it the sort of thing ripe for an Intrameal Sarnie©.

Because Jack Frost is in the throes of unfurling his cloak and determined to get to second base with me, pasta is the only recourse. Here, Pophams manages to wrangle the Mediterranean sun into a tomato broth in which gnochetti Sardi and supple mussels closely bob, all drifted with bottarga that thaws the bastard to death.

Lasagne. If like me, your eyes just flared, before squinting as the corners of your mouth rose, your lips pursed, knowing full well what it means. Striations of generosity that only stop because there is no pan deep enough to dictate the limits. How, even when you know it should rest, you’d rather risk a skin graft than wait. It’s a dish that encapsulates the Nonna spirit because it only wants to know one thing: Are you hungry for a second helping already?

Well, at Pophams, they serve you the kind of portion a Nonna might if she were concerned about your weight. Don’t get it twisted; it’s a beautiful piece of pork ragù coursing with fennel and is beautifully set, but if there’s one dish that should never be sacrificed on the altar of the Small Plate Gods. It’s lasagne. I don’t care how many cutesie peppers adorn it. The only heft is found in the £18.50 price tag.

But this disappointment triggers my coping mechanism to eat, which is handy. The cappellacci. I want it. Having seen these plates of yolked origami twirling about, it would be remiss and Lord, it is al dente redemption. Bulging with mushrooms and chunklets of gorgonzola, it speaks with an elote lilt; each piece sporting a shard of Parmesan crisp in a halo of green chilli, strewn with pieces of fresh sweetcorn.

A puck of croissant flaunts its laminated rings like a fine piece of varnished lumber. Inside is a lemon posset that tastes how putting ‘The Big Light’ on initially feels. Piped with scorched meringue flecked with poppyseed and lazing in lemon cream, it’s again managed to bundle the sun from a black market source into a Fiat Panda, fling open the door and throw it at your feet without stopping before screeching away.

An oblong of gianduja crémeux verges on indecent; holding itself together in the public eye before spread-eagling the moment you close your mouth. A base of hazelnut praline is righteously bitter with cocoa that it reminds you of your first proper hit of tiffin – the ends of which have been folded through a quenelle of cream on the side. Slips of pear stickily slicked in cider caramel lay on and around the crémeux, as if in a post-coital snooze.

A shrewd business move that, at its core, is pure of heart, Pophams decision to make a go of the restaurant life is truly commendable. The kitchen is a pleasure to watch – at least what you can make out, given the height of the pass. But on your trip to the loo which is, and I mean this, completely mental, get a peep at it. It’s a beautifully oiled machine.

Head chef Rae Arends keeps the gate, wielding a Sharpie in one hand and warmly waving to others, whilst liaising with the waiting staff. Behind her is a team that moves with purpose but has a giggle while they’re at it, in a way that tells you everybody knows exactly what they’re meant to be doing.

Once again, I’ve been given a reason to put up with Hackney. This time next year I’ll be vaping tobacco flavour vapes unironically and wearing a beanie that resembles a clueless attempt at safe sex. What could easily be a cash grab attaché is anything but (save for the lasagne) and, just like the bakeries of yore, Pophams goes beyond the day shift, creating something that serves its neighbourhood in depth. The lucky gits.