The Princess of Shoreditch

Why do we love to hate gastropubs? Is it because this breed of gourmet pubs has a tendency to take over old fashioned, unassuming boozers and replace hearty fish and chips with hummingbird-sized servings of foie gras? Is it the inevitable price hike, coupled with the fact that they are symptomatic of London’s never-ending gentrification? Or perhaps it’s because in the case of many newly transformed gastropubs little has changed in the kitchen? Maligned they may be, but that’s not to say they are all bad. The Princess of Shoreditch has a laidback room downstairs with punters who mostly work in the meedja spilling out onto the pavement of an evening, and a formal dining area upstairs serving things like venison loin and lobster risotto (beware the deathly spiral staircase which is made of punctured metal, how is a girl in stilettoes meant to get up there?). Most importantly, the food is great. A slab of mellow-tasting chicken and duck confit terrine is daintily wrapped in a leek ribbon and given extra flavour with a sprinkling of salt flakes and a side of beetroot in a balsamic reduction. Thickly cut fried black pudding sits in a mound with a huge creamy duck egg tentatively atop it. Juicy slices of lamb are paired with fig crisps and pancetta, smothered in a sharpish juniper jus and served with a root vegetable puree (read mash). The Jerusalem artichoke gratin is apparently “quite small”, and arrives neatly piled over crispy herby polenta chips and spinach, with a soft poached egg and a separate bowl of buttery blue cheese hollandaise sauce – it’s a good job it’s cautious in size as it’s sinfully rich, plus the accompanying hand cut chips are the size of small aubergines. Expect upmarket gastropub prices, as a three course meal for two with wine is roughly £100.