Kentish Town Road isn’t London’s prettiest boulevard. We won’t see it in a Richard Curtis movie any time soon. In my world, a place to change from the Northern Line to the Thameslink. But venture out of the station and, tucked between a nail bar and a pawn-broker, is an unassuming plate glass window, the kind you’d expect to frame neat stacks of shoes or the indifferent gaze of mannequins. Or maybe a pretty standard high-street café.
Don’t be fooled. This plain shell hides a pearl.
Step across the threshold. Leave behind the pound shops and slot machine dens, and you are transported into a bright and airy haven. Cream-tiled walls evoke a seaside fish-bar, and white-chocolate-colored lamp shades and crisp, thick, white, paper tablecloths give the place an effortless, holiday feel.
Now you see why they kept that goldfish bowl window. Invisibly clean, it offers a view onto a rare stretch of Kentish Town Road with elegant Georgian houses, London plane trees and a neat little church. You could be in Hampstead in midsummer.
We take our table in between an American couple raving about their cocktails and a party of twenty-somethings tucking into a steaming bowl of mixed seafood. I know in great detail how much the Americans like their cocktails and exactly what the millennials are eating, because I can hear every word. Hear? I can almost taste it. Belly has somehow fit 40 covers into a space built for 30. But this is a strength not a flaw. It feels social, convivial. And it’s sorcery how it still manages to feel so light and roomy Maybe it’s that window. It draws in the gentle evening light; which floods every corner of the single dining room
A cheerful lad brings menus and we get down to the serious business of examining the fare.
Omar Shah’s roots run deep through the offerings. European bistro cooking threaded with the complex fish sauces, smokey oomph and refreshing vinegars and acids inherited from his Filipino mother’s table. The solid depth of classic French cooking sprinkled with a SouthEast asian taste-dust. It really works.
We made our choices and, buoyed by the delighted noises around us, waited eagerly.
The scallops are worth the trek up the Northern Line themselves. A place like Belly won’t screw up the scallops themselves, and doesn’t, but it is the dressing that elevates each bite: a luxurious coconut and lime sauce that’s somehow both light and deep, which, when the scallops were gone, had me reaching for a spoon.
We also chose the smoked aubergine and heritage tomato salad. I judge a restaurant by its smoked aubergine, and this did not disappoint. Light and smokey, and braised to melting point. A good sign.
To accompany this, an Orange wine. A white rioja fermented on the skins, usually a red wine technique. This gives an amber hue, rich as tequila in the light, fresh and citrusy in the mouth. If you don’t already know much about Orange wine, this is another fun reason to visit.
Other dishes floated past. Crispy garlic and soy asparagus, and smoked trout kilawin (Filipino ceviche I believe). I’ll have to come back.
For the main event we nearly went for the seafood Caldera – a seafood take on a classic Filipino meat stew, which looked super on other tables, but we stayed the bistro course and ordered roast chicken.
I love an underdog story. I am always on the look out for innovative and exciting ways to prepare food with a work-a-day reputation. Forget a home-cooked Sunday roast, this one is next level.
Belly’s trick is to smother the meat in a classic beurre blanc but give it an Asian twist. Luxurious butter incised with sharp nibbles of ginger and coriander that spin you to South East Asia with each bite. The capers sit brilliantly in the mix too.
We washed the bird down with a Lebanese Grenache Syrah. I admire Belly’s esoteric wine choices. Fortune favours their courage. This one was made in a women-only collective, high in Lebanese mountains. Maybe it was knowing that story, but it tasted warm and exotic, evoking sunsets, veils and mysterious ancient gods.
We stripped the bird to the bone and with some of that beurre remaining on the plate I asked for the spoon back. Etiquette and my waistline be damned.
We probably could and certainly should have stopped there, but the clever flavours encamped in my mouth had me heady and happy, and I reached for the pudding menu.
They call them profiteroles but that is merely a departure point. A patty of ice-cream between two buns of light choux pastry, which somehow they’ve managed to get crispy. A wonderful caramel sauce glides off the top. And plenty of it. Perhaps the staff at the pass said – it’s for the chap who keeps asking for a spoon, give him a bit extra. There’s fish sauce in the caramel which gives it a fuller, more kokumi width than straight salt. They ferment their own, and sadly no, they don’t sell it.
By now the atmosphere inside Belly’s was relaxed and happy. Diners, strangers when they arrived, were chatting to each other like old friends, mostly about the quality of the food. It felt quite un-London, like a warm, friendly holiday spot.
So a gentle word of caution. Belly is not the place for an intimate anniversary dinner or serious business meeting, It’s far too jolly.
Remembering the Americans raving about their cocktails, I closed the evening off with an excellent espresso martini – like everything else somehow made of sunshine – and felt like I’d been on holiday. And that is really the heart of it. Belly feels like one of those unassuming little bistros you discover near the end of a sunny vacation. Step inside and discover a magical riot of delightful unexpected flavours you’ll dream about for months. Served in an atmosphere that leaves troubles at the door. The kind of place you wish you’d discovered on your first day, and pledge to come back to for your last night. Go.
Belly 157 Kentish Town Rd, London NW1 8PD – Belly –
Opening Hours: Monday, Tuesday – closed; Wednesday and Thursday 17:00 to 22:00; Friday and Saturday 17:00 to 23:00 and Sunday 12:00 to 22:30
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