For me, this meant a sumptuous piece of banana leaf baked sea bream, deeply permeated by pimento, and orbited by green banana gratin, maple and lime glazed fried plantain, coconut-flecked rice and peas, and an alluring, brightly acidic okra and fennel slaw. True, the layer of sorrel jelly on a stout punch panna cotta had the unfortunate sense-memory of undiluted cordial. But looking around as the room started to fill — with young couples on dates, dressed-up Caribbean aunties picking approvingly at curry goat, and rapt African-American tourists who had watched Taylor on Netflix — it was hard to not be touched by the significance of what this chef, and, despite the conditional nature of the agreement, this hotel, have brought to a storied old space.
ncG1vNJzZmivp6x7tMDAp5uaqpRjsLB61KRmoKeZo7Ruu9StZqudo6mutr7Ap6usZ5ekvKV5xaump6xdp7ywuYylmKefmJa6brjOp5uopl2nsrTAwK6pmqakYr%2BmwsiermaaYWWGeX2XcWWhrJ2h