I visited London’s grumpiest new restaurant, where customers are embarrassed because they didn’t order enough

“Do you have anything to drink with dinner?”

A standard question that every waiter must ask, but at the Yellow Bittern, a small 18-seat bistro that recently opened on London’s Caledonian Road, it’s a sharp challenge with only one correct answer.

It is an answer we are determined not to give.

“Just some water for us, thanks, it’s still a bit early for us.”

Hugh Corcoran, the chef-cum-poet and communist owner of north London’s most controversial new restaurant, freezes and shuffles back to his makeshift kingdom: the open kitchen where he serves up bowls of Irish delicacies for his wealthy clientele.

He never speaks to us again.

A man with an unrefined palate and distinct lack of literary talent struggles with a £20 Dublin treat

Hugh Corcoran, the chef, poet and communist owner of North London’s most controversial new restaurant: The Yellow Bittern

However, Corcoran has already upset his customers by claiming that some of them do not understand the concept of lunch

Corcoran’s new venture, which he co-owns with Frances Armstrong-Jones and Oisín Davies, is less than a month old

Corcoran’s new venture, which he co-owns with Frances Armstrong-Jones and Oisín Davies, is less than a month old but has already made headlines for all the wrong reasons.

The eatery is only open for lunch during the week, does not accept cards or walk-ins and seats only 18 people. Potential guests must call or send a postcard to reserve a table.

The new concept theoretically harkens back to the glory days of long, healthy lunches, fueled by good wine, tasty food and stimulating company.

But Corcoran has already upset his customers by claiming some of them don’t understand his bold lunch concept.

In a rant on Instagram, the chef said: ‘Small sharing plates ruined the food. Or rather, it has ruined dinner parties. Apparently it is now completely normal to reserve a table for, for example, 4 people and then order one starter and two main courses to share and a glass of tap water.

‘There was at one time an etiquette in restaurants that if you reserved a table in a nice place, you had to at least order a main course (and possibly even a starter or dessert) and drink wine to make your table worthwhile to make. portion.

‘For example, we go to the trouble of setting the table, picking and arranging the flowers, cleaning the glasses etc. and booking the table for two hours so that someone can order a meal that ends up costing £25 per person. It’s not worth us opening.

“Order correctly, drink some wine and justify your presence in the room that afternoon. If you don’t drink because you’ve done it so much that it can no longer be allowed, then come hungry and eat your fair share.

‘Restaurants are not public benches, you are there to spend some money.’

Challenge accepted then Hugh.

At first glance the YB is a small, bookish place full of obscure works of art and old Irish maps

Beneath the small restaurant lies a second-hand bookshop, although you won’t find Sally Rooney on the shelves

The £6 soda bread was washed down with half a bottle of Guinness each

The 6 radishes and butter consisted of some radishes and some butter

When we arrive at the Yellow Bittern, which from now on I will abbreviate to YB for convenience and because it sounds suitably bookish (something Hugh loves), we are struck by how modest the place is.

To enter the establishment, you must first ring the bell, which will summon one of the three members of staff to grant you access.

We are met by Hugh who beckons us in and leads us to a table still covered in the rubbish from the first lunch.

As the table is hastily cleared, we stand awkwardly in the cramped aisle between the two rows of tables and assess the scene.

At first glance the YB is a small, bookish place full of obscure works of art, old Irish maps and perhaps bizarrely for a man who has made no secret of his desire to make money: a portrait of Lenin.

To take a seat, one of the tables has to be pulled out, leaving my companion stuck against the wall for the entire meal.

If you want to go to the toilet or check out the second-hand bookstore downstairs, the whole process has to be repeated.

At least you can read the menu, which is on a single chalkboard next to a large serving table, piled high with the day’s offerings.

On the day MailOnline visited, the YB is serving treats such as £6 soda bread, £20 Dublin treat and £9 apple pie.

These prices are on the expensive side, but they’re not overtly ridiculous like some other restaurants in London, so that’s a plus for the YB.

Where you think the YB makes the most money is through their extensive wine list, which doesn’t exist on any physical menu as Hugh simply sends the selections to customers from memory.

We don’t give him the opportunity to do that and opt for some water.

When he is finally given the podium by the guests on our left, he is clearly in his element, listing the various tasting notes and provenance of each bottle in the vein of a man who clearly wants you to know that he is an expert on the area of ​​wine.

Prices for the wine in the YB range from £40 to £100 per bottle with single glasses, which puts customers at around £10.

After stewing over our water for almost 20 minutes without ordering (even though the restaurant only has 18 seats, the service is ice cold) we decide to imitate the behavior of the other guests and order a £5 Guinness: to to share.

The bottle is unceremoniously dumped on our table and we get to work tending to the stout.

The green salad is, for lack of a better description, a pile of gem lettuce slathered in a simple vinaigrette

The pampering is a disaster and consists of two ugly looking sausages that taste like they came out of a can and float in a sad broth

Then on to the food, and we decide to order some soda bread to share and the mysterious £6 ‘radish and butter’ option.

Are they cooked in butter, we wonder? Is this a cheeky pun teasing the complicated nature of the dish? No. We are served a plate of radishes with a dollop of butter.

The radishes are fresh and tasty, but the butter doesn’t really add much to the dish. As a combination it seems pretty pointless, but maybe that’s the point.

We’re not sure, but can’t think about it for too long as our main course of £20 Dublin pampering and £6 green salad arrives promptly.

This is where things take an unsavory turn. The green salad is, for lack of a better description, a pile of gem lettuce slathered in a simple vinaigrette. Harmless but hardly a salad.

However, the coddling is a disaster. Two ugly looking sausages that taste like they came from a can, floating in a sad broth next to some potatoes.

Together we can eat just one of the sausages and leave the other floating abandoned in a puddle Hugh has made.

Our fellow diners feasted on a much heartier looking stew, which unfortunately was already half way through the second lunch of the day.

Of course, this begs the question: why complain about how little your customers spend if your kitchen can’t physically meet the demands of 36 place settings per day?

Postcards adorn the walls of the YB in an attempt to justify the restaurant’s absurd booking policy

At the end of the meal we spent around £24 per head, which by Hugh’s own estimates means we weren’t worth serving

Questions, questions, questions – the answers to which are presumably filed away on the postcards hung around the restaurant to justify their ridiculous booking policy.

My companion needs a bathroom break and begins the monumental task of freeing himself from the wall.

We are forced to move the table completely to the aisle, spilling our water and encountering our fellow diners packed into us like sardines.

During the process, a genuinely annoyed server asked us not to do that in the future, but rather raise our hands and wait for help as if we were in school.

So the atmosphere is less of a long luxurious lunch and more of raising a hand to go to the toilet and being grateful that you are allowed.

At least school dinners are cheaper.

After we’ve seen (and tasted) enough, we indicate that we want to pay, a process that takes longer because we conveniently forgot to bring cash (Hugh gets ‘more pleasure’ from physical money).

At the end of the meal we spent around £24 per head, which by Hugh’s own estimates means we weren’t worth serving.

That’s fine with us, because by our own assessments the experience wasn’t worth paying for.