SUSHISAMBA – Liverpool Street

As is becoming a-bit-of a theme with these writings, I was once again invited along by the dashing yet persistently illustrious Samphire and Salsify.

We met at the foot of the building so we could fly to the 39th floor of the Salesforce Tower in the space-age elevator together and in style, well, at least in our own opinions. On the menu that evening; a thoughtful collection of Peruvian rainforest inspired dishes by Chef Cláudio Cardoso for an evening that promised to raise awareness and funds for the charity, Cool Earth. Once seated, we opted not to look at the menu immediately, rather sip a negroni and admire the view (the cityscape wasn’t bad either). Eventually, hunger persisted and we requested some literature.

What fools we had been. Oblivious of our incompetence. We flicked open the menu to find not a charity dish in site. Perplexed, we franticly scoured the page hoping the words would rearrange in front of our very eyes – to no avail. Surely not? Two educated, grown men who, on the surface, have their shit together couldn’t possibly misread the date on an invite? Of course that is what had happened. Nevertheless, the menu at Sushi Samba has enough delightful offerings that we soon forgot our mistake and become distracted by the choice.

After much, close to painful, deliberation we eventually ordered a handful of small plates, sushi and meat dishes. First to arrive, and the most notable of the bunch, was the Wagyu Gyoza. Sprinkled in sesame snow and doused in kabocha puree, the soft parcels enveloped delightfully tasty slithers of tender beef – utterly opulent, thoroughly delicious. The sushi rolls were excellent. The fish fresh and the flavour combinations appetising. My only grievance with the whole meal was the meat served on hot stones. When the waitress asked how we would like our premium beef cooked, we of course responded (in unison) “rare!”. The steak arrived this way. Great quality meat cooked well, then presented on hot stones. Now, I am not a qualified scientist or chef, however hot stones equals more cooking and more cooking equals well done beef. Disaster. I do feel I am being a little petty on the matter but how else would we strive for perfection?

With dinner over and much fuel left in our respective tanks the night was not going to end there. We upped sticks and swiftly scuttled to The Devonshire, a discreet, luxury club hidden in the chaos of the square mile. I won’t divulge how many Old Fashions were dispatched but needless to say fun was had by all…

Until next time…

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