The Great British Al Fresco Mandate

It was back during a balmy, late spring that the phrase al fresco was on everyone’s lips. A dining phenomenon mainly the preserve of Europe’s grand piazzas, we were now being asked to apply the same continental flair to our humble, windswept isle. To jog your memory, our government decreed that while popping to your Granny’s house for a cup of tea was murderous, turning the UK’s restaurant scene into an outdoor dining oasis was adaptive and admirable.

I would hazard a guess that when Public Health England pictured a return to Great British outdoor dining, the images were of quaint little Enid Blyton families, huddled in their coats and scarfs, tentatively reuniting over a humble cheese ploughman’s. Instead, for many restaurants, al fresco meant swathes of freezing cold, Tinder-swiping singletons, pouring over low-intervention organic wine lists on plastic chairs.

My own experience of the Great British Picnic-a-thon fell somewhere between the two – part bizarre and part brilliant.

Undoubtedly there are some venues that lend themselves naturally to al fresco dining. One of those venues is The Tresanton, in St Mawes, which happened to be the location for my first dip into post lockdown grub. It was an almost dreamlike experience, likely down to the lethal combination of four espresso martinis and a dose of sun stroke. And it meant that by the time we walked up the stairs to the pristine collection of whitewashed buildings, it was starting to feel more Nicki Beach Ibiza than South Cornwall. Maybe they’re on to something with this al fresco lark, I pondered.

The Tresanton lived up to its promise. The sun-drenched terrace offered uninterrupted views of the Roseland Penninsula, while the crisp white plates paired with herringbone blankets gave the restaurant an upmarket, if breezy feel. The food was timeless and exquisite, with the first drool-inducing bite of perfectly cooked steak making all those months indoors worth it – even if we were forced to toy with the idea of selling one of my friend’s kidneys on the black market to cover the bill.

Elsewhere, despite the obvious challenges, British stoicism and adaptability was out in full force.

Up and down the country, we bore witness to towns and cities diving headfirst into European cafe culture. Most memorably, London’s Soho was to be transformed into the UK’s answer to the Piazza Del Duomo thanks to one millennial council member who convinced the City of Westminster to line the square mile with dining tables, the placement of which had no discernible rhyme or reason. Less Duomo and more severe trip hazard.

There was a particular boldness in this vision of an al fresco utopia. Get it right, and you’ve managed to create a year-long Government-sanctioned street party. Get it wrong and you’ve got a sex commune straight out of the hit 70s musical HAIR.

After the sublime experience at The Tresanton, it was back to hard reality with a visit to Bermondsey Larder where I was wedged in between a busy cycle lane and an even busier building site. While I relished my role as part diner, part lollipop lady, the ability to melt into their ultra-British farm-to-table menu was made a little challenging due to a tense standoff with a pigeon, and the persistent hum of industrial drilling.

Then there was an unforgettable lunch at Yauatcha where, when struggling to pinpoint the exact vibe of their new“terrace”, we witnessed the reality of Britain’s never ending Diamond Jubilee street party.

While nothing quite says delicious, but overpriced prawn cheung ‘fun’ like being seated on a drain next to a Michelin-starred heat lamp, the eau de sewage feel of the lunch was fully cemented once we’d witnessed a Tuk Tuk driver hop off his bike and piss in a pop-up urinal.

And some experiences descended into the downright bizarre. Sensing a strong pull to the much-discussed Soho trestle tables one Tuesday evening, I visited Cafe Boheme on Old Compton Street – a seemingly natural fit due to its nominal connection to the open-air foodie culture found on the streets of Paris. Right?

Wrong.

Forget the rule of six, Soho was one tequila shot away from a Hamilton flashmob. In fact, the mood was so jubilant that I was convinced I would find myself on the front page of the following morning’s Daily Mail, staggering around after one too many glasses of Pinot Grigio.

Once seated, the service was chaotic, with waiters struggling to decipher who was a patron and who was settling in for a big night at one of the many gay bars peppered along the cobbled streets. Yes, I acknowledge that sitting in the gutter, a stone's throw away from a jaeger bomb downing hen do doesn’t exactly scream ambience but peeking across the rope barrier to a gaggle of Drag Queens and their Pina Coladas I knew instantly where I’d rather be.

And much like the state of UK-French diplomatic relations, the rest of the meal deteriorated at pace. This included the consumption of an impressively dry spatchcock chicken which tasted precisely like a packet of Walkers roast chicken crisps. That might be OK for some, but if my French step mother had been there it would have created a ‘scandale’ big enough to deliver  another damaging blow to the aforementioned fragile entente cordiale.

As we find ourselves facing the prospect of another al fresco mandate, I remember that with a few layers and a bottle of good wine, outdoor dining can (kind of) work anywhere – regardless of the number of pigeons, or how much the pavement smells of urine. Yes, while it may not be quite the Beatrix Potter fantasy envisioned in Whitehall, there is something quintessentially British in the brilliant absurdity of it all. If our foray into outdoor dining reflects a collective appetite for good food, then Brits should feel heartened that in the eternal pursuit of eating out, we are more resolute than ever.