Spiritland, London N1C, restaurant review: 'is it groovy – or is it just a bit weird?'

Spiritland, 9-10 Stable Street, London, N1C 4AB
020 3319 0050; spiritland.com

A few years back, just before the old goods yards were razed to the ground and the area rebuilt groovily and shinily enough for the likes of Google to call it home, King’s Cross was famously synonymous with (a) sleaze and (b), more coolly (in my era, at least), warehouse raves: down back streets, under arches – destinations where even unlicensed minicabs feared for their treads. 

Of all the many recently revamped and regenerated areas of central-ish London, then, this chunk of N1 is arguably the most Hello-Doctor-where-am-I?- inducing. On a fetid Tuesday evening, even Google Maps was giving me the runaround so my 11-year-old son briskly relieved me of my phone: “No, Mum – I’ll navigate!”

I felt about this far away from my bath-chair, craving a cold beer and a plate or two of something that wasn’t going to ask any more questions of me than I was going to ask of it. And maybe a nice tune in the background, too. And probably another beer. Blinded by the sun sinking over the cranes, we arrived at our destination not a moment too soon, and I could instantly tell that all was going to be both mellow and, quite literally, groovy. “But is it groovy – or is it just a bit weird?” asked my son, quite the pop-philosopher.

Spiritland is, indeed, a bit weird. It doubles as a recording studio (you can see the booths from your table) and has its own radio station. In the bar, it sells vinyl, along with spirits and headphones. It is also a showcase – via a selection of guest DJs – for very sexy-looking, state-of-the-proverbial, hi-fidelity hardware.

In addition, it hosts talks and there’s a quiz night, and while I’m not partial to quoting venues’ self-descriptions, in this case I’ll make an exception: “It’s all about the music, the artist and the listening experience. It’s a place to experience music of all genres and eras, encouraging creativity and exploration.”

So, obviously, I didn’t expect much from the food, because what with the people-watching (neither alienatingly youthful nor self-consciously hipster, refreshingly), the hi-fi inspecting (“Mum, what is that thing over there with, like, the giant light bulbs. It’s called a triode?” “Er, some sort of valve-y thing, maybe?”), the soaking up of the sounds – well, eating was pretty much by-the-by. Also, the menu was “small plates”, and because I remain accustomed to a singular large plate, I tend both to over-order and still to miss that one unmissable dish. 

On the upside, however, we both soaked in the atmosphere, of which there was a great deal – Balearic chill-out choons spun at the correct volume to our left by somebody on the reassuring side of 40. Service was warm and super-efficient (thank you, mostly, Simon-from-Sardinia, whose name I have doubtless spelt incorrectly).

Due to a combination of tiredness and maternal insecurity, after receiving my (Dalston, micro-brewed, craft) beer while my son inspected the “awesome”-ness of the loos: (“Speakers, so you can hear the music! And very nice taps! And soap made of tea!”) I then ordered most of the available menu (I quote): burratina, peas, aged datterini, basil; alt cod, potato, garlic; potted Dorset crab, spiced butter; crispy ham hock, sauerkraut, mustard; free range pork sausage roll, apple sauce; coleslaw; grilled flat bread.

The son had a go at the oozy-moussey burratina, tucked into the coleslaw, passed on the crab and nibbled politely at the rissole-style hock – all of which I found to be perfectly, deliciously on point (second beer? Oh, yes, I think so). 

However, he declared the sausage roll and its apple sauce to be “actually incredible. Like, really”. I checked and he really, like, wasn’t lying; Spiritland may be the very incarnation of casual dining, but the kitchen is overseen by Owen Kenworthy, ex-Sonny’s and Brawn. I slathered more potted crab on to toasted flatbread and started thinking about pudding: cheesecake v. tirimasu? Well, obviously, both, to share. 

“Mum, there is SO MUCH alcohol!”

“Hand it over to me, then.”

It was now 8.30ish. There was a tube to catch and then another big train, followed by a long drive back to our seaside home – clearly time to call for the bill. However, this was precisely the moment when the DJ caught the eye of my son, beckoned him over and started showing him how to mix. I Googled the DJ, whom, it turned out, also edits a stylish independent magazine. As the early part of my career was spent editing stylish independent magazines, I stepped up to the booth to declare an interest beyond the purely maternal. 

“Oh, I know who you are. I used to work at Arena, and so did they.” He gestured towards friends at the bar. “It was after your time, but I read you when I was at uni.” An hour later my son, riveted, still had a headphone on one ear, a finger on the desk and an eye on the DJ’s Mac screen; I was at the bar, sharing memories of “an era” (it’s an anagram) with my time-slip sort-of former colleagues. 

I’ll spare you too much sentiment. However, for me the evening was like being perched high up on a family tree that, even as I watched, was growing and spreading and casting a branch into the next generation. Before we’d got halfway home the “Traktor DJ” app (as recommended by his mentor – thanks, Anthony) had been uploaded on to my son’s phone and Spiritland had turned into our new, special, shared “happy place” – with (his own choice of word) “impeccable” food.

*NOTE this mark is clearly entirely subjective and biased. We happened to have a wonderful evening. However it’s a light menu, and it isn’t going to be for everyone.