It feels like I often start these things with a confession. In fact, The Barbary Next Door gets two confessions. First up, the compact nature of the place means note-keeping and eating is a little tricky, so the former was sacrificed for the more important latter. Ordinarily that wouldn’t matter but, when you’re trying weeks later to make sense of items such as “carmelita merkado” or the specifics of “Essaouirian tomato salad”, notes would have been useful.
The second confession is that I initially hated The Barbary Next Door. On a dark, pre-BST evening, trying to spot the signage was a challenge. Even knowing that it is, quite literally, next door to The Barbary didn’t help.
When I had worked out which door I wanted, I went in, admittedly a little early, to see if I could get a drink. And I couldn’t. Well, I could, they offered to squeeze me in somewhere on the back shelf, emphasis on “squeeze”: this is a very tiny building, a very narrow building that, basically, is not built for a man of my width and “fancying a negroni” didn’t seem reason enough to, very likely, block the only vague corridor in the place. Instead I loitered outside for a while, tracked down my dinner guest – also looking lost somewhere in Neal’s Yard – and went back for the official time.
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We were pointed towards the two end seats on the counter, which necessitated running the gauntlet of the “thin and beautiful” people. Now, I don’t know what happens when you’re thin and beautiful – I’m unlikely to be either anytime soon – but apparently I become invisible and inaudible. I do, miraculously spring into view, however, after the third “excuse me” when my only remaining option is barging through to a chorus of indignant tuts. Look, I don’t want to press my backside or midriff against you but it’s people like me who actually eat in restaurants, so a little bit of respect, if you don’t mind…
But, obviously, that’s not The Barbary Next Door’s problem. That’s just me not playing well with others. Once seated – cosy, but not uncomfortably – the team rapidly charmed the bitterness from my very veins, plied me with excellent drinks – a non-alcoholic mint sharbat, glasses of assorted Spanish whites – and fed me a series of marvellous dishes inspired by “the fragrant spices and smoky flavours of Moorish Spain and North African cooking”. Za’atar crisps. Brilliant breads – Afghan khobz, pain d’epi according to the menu, crusty and absorbent according to my memory – impressed, particularly smeared through the remains of that tomato salad, tirshi (a spiced pumpkin salad – thank you, Google), and za’aluk (a warming dish of grilled aubergine and tomato).
The menu is compact, split into “snacks”, “bread and dips”, “raw and fresh”, “slow cooked” and “sweet”. From the slow cooked section of the menu, the lamb mechoui was a sticky, melting, rich, fatty thing of insulating beauty. Remarkably, it was trumped by the harissa jazara, a dish of carrots, chermoula and harissa that was bright, fresh, earthy and sweet.
Sweets are particularly memorable, particularly the hash cake, a slice of honeyed, pistachio’d wonder that’s a Moorish take (and improvement) on the momofuku crack pie. It’s become something of a London dessert landmark and, if anything, it’s underrated. What a thing it is.
It becomes the major reason – on a list of several reasons and just edging out the charming team – why I’m planning an imminent return to The Barbary Next Door.
Neil Davey was a guest of The Barbary Next Door. 16a Neal’s Yard, Covent Garden, London WC2H 9DP; thebarbarynextdoor.co.uk
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