The Plimsoll, 52 St Thomas's Rd, Finsbury Park, London N4 2QQ
Shove it, Žižek: Fantasies can and should be achieved
Wrapped in woodwork with the patina of an early American sitcom set and a dining room laid out as if biased to one camera angle, The Plimsoll doesn’t seem real. Sure, it’s got a load of vintage stuff in sepia tones scattered on the walls, and dishes come served on Grandma’s china just like at The Quality Chop House, which, on the face of it, could be several places around London. But the thing is, Ed McIlroy and Jamie Allan are adept at serving fantasies.
Formerly the Auld Triangle, owners McIlroy and Allan took over the flatiron building in 2021, having forged a name through residencies under the Four Legs moniker. Their love for the Mediterranean shone through, often subtly showcasing their fermentation skills in the process.
The Plimsoll, as with their second site, Tollington’s, predicates itself on being a love letter to these countries of influence, which they execute with aplomb rather than toe-curling cringe. McIlroy and Allan seem able to imbue their restaurants with the kind of elusory energy that typically prompts us to board a flight instead.
Many foods inspire fantasy, but few are as twisted as that of the UK tomato — if you’ve ever had a ‘salad tomato’, you’ll know what I mean. While the Isle of Wight provides us with some, they’re priced in a way that makes us treat them like an endangered species. It’s why, when British people go to the Mediterranean, they can’t believe their luck. You look at the confused look on the locals’ faces as they watch us gorge and begin to understand how the Aztecs must’ve felt when the Spanish lost their minds over all the gold.
That said, tomatoes can still be a scratch card in any country. Irrespective of the odds or past experience, you buy them anyway. Just like at Tollington’s, The Plimsoll has stacks of plump Vesuvios on top of their counters to be simply sliced, salted, and lavished with olive oil. Even with all the positive indicators, it’s another loss.
It’s roughly 1,000°C today; a riff on cacio e pepe is a bold thing to put on a menu, feeling more like a flex than a working part. Regardless, it’s expertly made — silk pocket squares of fazzoletti ooze with emulsified Parmesan and tickle with black pepper.
A slablette of topside has been properly cared for, developing a mahogany bark with a blush beneath. Broad beans, with their Edwardian prophylactic skins, are piled over the top, clinging with fresh mint and bound in a luminous fermented chilli sauce typically reserved for the Tomme de Chèvre salad.
It’s the standout dish not simply because it strikes one fat, resounding chord for flavour, texture, and heat, but because the chilli sauce is an improvised addition. Imparting a heat that could be divisive for many, it’s a commendable move that’s paid off in spades. There’s nothing quite like reality surpassing what’s in your mind’s eye.
Bloodied with tandoori marinade, capped with textbook-rendered fat and just shy of a little more rest is the lamb rump. Billed as coming with yoghurt, it’s more a raita — stained a light pink from a little extra of the marinade — all helping to hold a nest of fresh mint. While lacking that smoky, wreathed-in-spiced flavour you anticipate, truly missing was a naan.
The idea of going to war over a fantasy is practically part of the human condition, with the Platonic ideal of a burger being the most curious example. Like many great dishes being charged full whack for, the Smashburger was a product of abject poverty that divided the country into the most boring civil war since our own. Smashburger lovers are the Parliamentarians, while lovers of thicker ones — the Royalists — yearn for the days of old.
On the menu since their Four Legs days, the Dexter cheeseburger has earned the affection of both sides by splicing their key characteristics. A thoroughly developed crust contrasts with a glistening pink interior on a toasted demi-brioche bun, pickled cucumber, fresh and crispy onions — all welded together with American cheese and arguably the most unifying element of all: a Big Mac-like sauce.
Such is this burger’s reputation that it causes you to wonder if the chefs consider it a necessary evil, having become victims of their own success. This must be how Deep Purple felt hearing people yell Smoke on the Water.
A strawberry jam tart with custard is of a post-war purity. The properly buttered pastry. Strawberries captured moments before disintegration, with just enough sugar and lemon juice to play a supporting role. The vanilla-flecked custard and Chantilly orb. All served mercifully chilled, it’s the kind of thing that kept our boys going among the trench foot, tinned beef, and 360° threat of death, presumably.
The Plimsoll’s chocolate mousse goes beyond achieving the fantasy. It’s a direct line to the limbic system of the first time you were allowed to lick the spoon during the brownie-making process. Barely set, it’s more an aerated batter — its bubbles slowly collapsing on contact with the air — and spiked with flaked salt, as it should be. Combined with the caramel ice cream perched on another blob of Chantilly, the whole thing plays out like an expertly retextured Mars ice cream, seemingly based on when they were good (1989–1999).
The cultural influences notwithstanding, The Plimsoll and Tollington’s thrive on an arguably more important quality as part of the wider Four Legs philosophy: colossal talent underpinned by a playful irreverence. While their menus do their utmost to offer vignettes that play out in the mental Rolodex like holidays, they can also bring you straight back home in a way that doesn’t conjure the post-holiday blues.
The prevailing characterisation of The Plimsoll as a frenetic pit of hipster chaos might have some validity — itself a type of fantasy — but to focus on that does the whole thing a disservice. McIlroy and Allan have found their niche: a knack for curating a menu of fantasy that generally succeeds in taking us away from the vapes, the G-splitting zealots, and a fashion aesthetic resembling a raid on a ’90s school lost property — all while being smack-bang among them. It’s hard to put a price on that.