Harry Morgan, St Johns Wood, Restaurant Review

I was sceptical about reviewing Harry Morgan, for heaping anything but praise on the famous St. John’s Wood deli would be like kicking the zimmer frame out from under the Grandpa of the North West London culinary family tree. Opened in 1948 by the eponymous Harry Morgan, a local butcher, it has been keeping NW8 in New York style deli sandwiches, and its much-lauded chicken soup ever since – as the vintage photos of the packed deli that adorned the walls attested.

Sure, I’d sampled the salt-beef sandwiches more than once over the last 30 years as a greedy local teenager, in fact they are still often the ‘proffered carrot’ to get me to Brent Cross on a Saturday (that and some Valium). Yet sitting in for an actual meal has passed me by, rather an oversight it seemed in the canon of ‘NW-something places to eat’.

Our early arrival on a damp Wednesday evening was met with an already buzzing restaurant: chubby Jewish boys slurping up chicken soup with extra kreplach (little triangular chicken pasta parcels) in their cricket whites and one business man who didn’t even wait for his bum to hit the seat before he excitedly ordered “a full plate of tongue and a tap water, thanks.”

It was two fiery Fentiman’s ginger beers for us (showing solidarity to a fecund dinner date is always advised I’ve quickly discovered), and an equally rapid order of the meze to share as our post-work hunger kicked in.

The light couscous salad was bursting with fresh herbs, while the thicker than normal tzaziki made it only the more luxuriant and cool on the fat, fluffy pittas. The hallomi had escaped its unfortunately moniker of ‘squeaky cheese’; expertly grilled to be both oozy, salty and the perfect dipping fodder for the home-made houmous.

For mains the chicken schnitzel with sauerkraut almost had me, but it was Harry’s Swiss Burger that finally won through. Less hesitation came from the other side of the table, with a determined order for Hungarian goulash and rice.

As I feared, criticism must fall on the burger, which I say with a heavy heart, was passable at best. The patty was a fine example; thickly cut, well seasoned and cooked pink to order but the sad limp chips and burnt bun made it a rather lack-lustre affair. Perhaps I should have stuck to the schnitzel after all.

Praise could not have been heaped higher on the generous bowl of goulash however, my fork was watched like a hawk as I sampled the slow-cooked hearty stew with the meat falling, as it should, into the thick sauce spiked with paprika.

Defeated come desserts, we took advantage of the deli counter and took two New York cheesecakes home to sample later (verdict: sublime).

After a fond farewell and a promise of imminent return we made our way through the park to the Open Air Theatre to finish this most quintessential St. John’s Wood evening. (Benedict Mansi)

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