According to the bookings site Resy, Whyte’s in Hackney isn’t a restaurant at all, but rather “an experimental and adaptive open kitchen space”. That is the first shot fired, warning you that the River Cafe this is not.
Down an alley off Mare Street, and tucked into the side of an office block, Whyte’s is little more than some roaring hobs, a few tables and a bit of strategically daubed graffiti. I’ve sat in plusher minicab office waiting rooms. Not one tablecloth was troubled in creating the Whyte’s vibe, nor one napkin folded, origami-style, into a replica orchid.
Instead, a dramatic plate of tempura octopus tentacle was delivered to the bar where we were perched watching chef Whyte Rushen at work. The tentacle was in a puddle of chip shop-style curry sauce. “Here you go,” said the server. “We call this the battered sausage of the sea.” That came shortly after a round of pickled onion Monster Munch-topped oyster and snail rockefeller and before a whopping great platter of tandoori john dory, a whole fish with a name like a Britpop B-side, served on the bone, skin rubbed with spice mix, all fragrant, crisp and with perfect flakes; it came with hot bowls of good homemade chips.
Rushen’s restaurant, eating spot, dining hangout or whatever the hell he’s calling it is a judicious mix of chaos, misrule and careful, focused dining. This is his first solo bricks-and-mortar venture, having formerly worked at Brat, Scully and Kerridge’s, followed by several much-lauded, sell-out supper clubs. At those pop-ups, he made a name for himself by serving delicious things with off-the-wall names such as Stamford Hill Estate wagyu meatballs with burger sauce, brioche and duck-fat fries, and a dessert called “Off Licence” in which flambeed Basque cheesecake met poached fruit and Crunchie bars.
Rushen’s food errs towards comfort-food classics – burgers, spag bol, fish and chips – but quickly pivots into postmodernism. Familiar recipes are broken down, reimagined and paired with popular 20th-century food icons. Why is there a slice of grilled Dairylea on top of my black cherry gateau? Why is this delicious cheese plate served with Hobnobs? Does the steak tartare really need the addition of Rice Krispies?
Dishes are served with oceans of sauce and moppable jus; vanilla-braised endive comes in a blue cheese dressing, while salt and pepper frog’s legs turn up in a multilayered parsley sauce in various shades of green. Everything needs a spoon to scoop it up with, or at least some brioche or baguette to smear through puddles of mayo or gherkin ketchup.
In the wrong hands, Whyte’s could be quite wearisomely wacky, but it isn’t; it is completely charming. This is an extremely talented chef clearly having some “mad scientist” time, not least because there’s no one to tell him not to. And, yes, obviously those Monster Munch-encrusted oysters will not be to everyone’s taste, particularly not to bivalve snobs, who consider even a little shallot vinaigrette a bit déclassé.
Personally, though, I’m all for Rushen’s vision. Oysters, for instance, are often an anticlimax. I love the ceremony of ordering them, and hearing those dramatic, Shipping Forecast names such as Maldon rock, Carlingford, West Mersea, Porlock Pacific … I love the platter arriving, too, all the oohs and ahhs, the teensy forks, the lemon wedges, the dramatic swallowing. But all that buildup and fuss for two seconds of slightly bland, chewy snot? Whyte Rushen is right: coat those blighters in a maze of crunched-up pickled onion snacks, because oysters need all the help they can get.
The menu at Whyte’s changes frequently, and as I write this he is going through a French period, offering confit trout with brown shrimp butter and braised rabbit with chocolate sauce and buttered cabbage. That last dish might sound a bit odd, but I can’t help but trust Rushen implicitly. Most evenings, there’s an enormous hunk of some fresh, whiffy, top-quality cheese such as bleu des Causses or bouyguette, submerged in honey and perhaps served with a few plump blueberries and maybe some toasted baguette.
All this can and will change quickly. The best way to enjoy the place is to take a friend, arrive hungry and not remotely “on a diet”, wear something spongeable, sit up at the counter, and prepare to eat, laugh and at times be slightly startled. I’m not sure what Michelin would make of it all, but Whyte’s is already in my little black book under “weird but still pretty wonderful”.
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Whyte’s Unit 3, 143 Mare Street, London E8 (no phone). Open Wed-Sun, 5pm-11pm (10pm Sun). From about £50 a head, plus drinks and service
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Grace’s Comfort Eating podcast is back for its sixth season – listen to new episodes every Tuesday here