We earn a commission for products purchased through some links in this article.
10 Far-Flung Restaurants Every Man Should Visit At Least Once
Restaurant critic, cookbook writer and Esquire food editor Tom Parker Bowles opens his address book
This is not a list of the best restaurants in the world, or any other such nonsense. Quite how any list can purport to claim, with such unbending self-confidence, what is best, is beyond me.
This is a list of my favourite restaurants (not street food stalls, an entirely different list), places I visit again and again. To distil 25 years of travelling, in thrall to my gut, into a mere 10 places was quite a task. And there are many more I could add. But at the time of writing, these are my favourites. I love them because, like all great restaurants, they combine great cooking with proper soul. Some are little more than shacks on the beach, or perched on the edge of car parks. Others may go as far as tablecloth and wine list. Yet I adore every single one, and they’re my first port of call each time I arrive. And quite often my last, too
Bangkok, Thailand: Nahm
There’s no huge restaurant tradition in Thailand. It’s either food at home, or snacks from the street. Which are mainly Chinese in genesis. So when David Thompson first opened Nahm, the locals were less than impressed. Here was a non-Thai, having the sheer bloody nerve to try and teach them about their own culinary heritage. The cheek of it!
But Thompson, who speaks fluent Thai and has worked here for years, is a genius, a man obsessed with travelling the land and finding traditional regional recipes to bring back and serve up at Nahm. Last year, the place was ranked the fifth-best restaurant in Asia in that endlessly silly 50 best list. But don’t let that put you off, because at Nahm, the surroundings might be five-star, but the food is thrillingly visceral.
Of course, Thompson doesn’t compromise for timid Western palates. Thai food is all about balance and if a dish demands hot and sour, then hell, it will be very hot and very sour. The kitchen makes all its own pastes daily (of course they do), and ingredients are treated with a respect verging on the reverent. Samphire and oyster salad, green mango with grilled pork, hot and sour river prawn soup. Chiang mai chilli prik, massaman oxtail curry and stir-fried beef with chilli, holy basil and cumin leaves. This is eating in Technicolor. You’ll sweat, swear and grin inanely as Thompson and his kitchen deliver plate after plate of lip-smacking, eye-watering, thigh-slapping delight. An excellent wine list, too, heavy on the Riesling and Gewürztraminer that suits these pumped-up flavours. Once you’ve finished, give it a couple of hours then hit the streets, to feast upon wobbling oyster omelettes and cold Singha beer by the metre. You can never tire of Bangkok.
Hong Kong: Victoria City Seafood
Unflattering lighting of industrial strength, hideous, overwrought décor and curt Cantonese service, in a restaurant halfway up a tower block. What’s not to love? I was first taken to Victoria City Seafood (now known as the East Ocean Seaview Restaurant) by the late, great Sir David Tang, as he reckoned it one of the finest Cantonese places in Hong Kong. That’s some praise. I fell in lust with the steamed flower crabs, impossibly subtle and silken, in Chinese wine sauce, and whole lacquered chicken, cut into pieces and dipped in lemon juice and salt; classic slow-cooked pork, the skin brittle, the flesh softly seductive. Milky soups with noodle and spring onion, flawless dim sum, and steamed fish of sublime freshness. This is true Cantonese food, the best, most seasonal ingredients, allowed to shine.
One of the more memorable dinners (of many) was with another late great, Esquire’s AA Gill, formerly of this parish, and historian David Starkey and publishing chairman Nicholas Coleridge. We were sitting in the private room picking on steamed clams and crab and lobster, when my wife, Sara, disagreed with something both Adrian and David were saying. About women, at a guess. And told them so, in no uncertain terms. Now these two men make a formidable, opinionated pair. Nick and I shrunk down in our seats. Even Tang went quiet. But Sara argued her point, eloquently and elegantly, and won. She then carried on taking apart her flower crab, albeit with the faintest of smiles. It will be odd going there without David, but his spirit will dwell there still.
Mexico City, Mexico: Contramar
How to choose a favourite place in one of the greatest eating cities on Earth? Near impossible,as wonderful tucker lurks on every corner. But as I said in my introduction, this is about my favourite restaurants, so all those taco stands and street carts must be left for another list. But Contramar, deep in La Condesa, is the place I return to again and again. The room is light and wide, with simple tables clad in pristine cloths. A huge azure mural dominates one end, its spikily etched swimmers leaving no-one in doubt as to what this place does best — fish, and lots of it.
The aguachiles (Mexican ceviche) are sharp and chilli laced, but the quality of the “just cooked” fish always shines through. Tuna tostadas come with black beans and chipotle mayonnaise: two bites of crisp crunch and soft, smoky flesh; there’s a surprisingly delicate spicy shrimp broth, and fine fish tacos, plus pescado a la talla, a whole grilled fish, where one half is coated in Red Chile Adobo, the other in a viridescent parsley rub. OK, so sometimes standards can drop and service can be slapdash. But Contramar is a Mexico City institution, a place where young and old alike, well-heeled and T-shirt clad, come to gossip, flirt, drink and eat. It’s a scene you’ll want to chew right up, forever.
Nashville, USA: Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack
Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack will not win any prizes for interior design. Not that it could care less, as it serves up the best hot fried chicken in town. The Dolly Parton of deep fried poultry, no less. And by hot, I mean cayenne hot, blow-your-boots-off filthy. If you so desire. The birds are marinated in buttermilk, then dredged in cayenne spiked flour of varying heats, then deep fried in vast and battered iron skillets.
Sitting on the edge of a glum shopping parade, in one of the less salubrious parts of town, Prince’s has been perfecting its art since 1945. The floor is clad in tatty lino, a TV blares in the corner and the only decoration a few tattered posters for concerts long past. You join the queue (and there’s always a queue), and order your chicken (whole, half, leg or breast) through a small hatch, choose your heat (from plain to XXX Hot), then sit back and wait.
Fifteen minutes later and your name is called. The burnished bird (golden in its mild incarnation, black as Satan’s soul at XXX) sits atop two slices of Mighty White bread, stained red with cayenne, and topped with a couple of pickles. The crust is thick and crisp, the flesh impossibly succulent, gushing sweet juice. Go for medium-hot if you want to actually taste anything for the next few hours and not have your tongue transformed into a useless mass of throbbing gristle. Which is just one of the effects of the peerless XXX. This bastard’s a builder, creeping and growing until tears stream down your face, and even thinking hurts. “It ain’t chattin’ food,” I was once told by former mayor of Nashville Bill Purcell, a huge fan. He was right, but Prince’s still serves up some of the best damn fried chicken I’ve ever eaten in my life.
New York, USA: Minetta Tavern
Although eternally full, Minetta Tavern is no longer cool, or hip, or hot. Thank God. The fickle crowd is gone, replaced by discerning locals who love the dimly lit, lavishly upholstered vision of a Greenwich Village long passed. OK, so you’ll always find a proper A-lister tucked away on a corner banquette, but this place is all about laid-back discretion.
Keith McNally is one of the world’s great restaurateurs and while others may rave about Balthazar, or Augustine (which I also love), it’s here where he’s at his best. Formerly a tavern frequented by the old literary soaks of New York — Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound, Dylan Thomas and the rest — a slightly shabby, loose-moraled fug still permeates the air. The steak tartare is big and bosky, the steaks vast, buttery and expertly seared. Don’t miss the bone marrow, moules-frites and Black Label burger, too.
The legendary Arnold Rossman used to run the place, and still occasionally pops back. But this is where New York steak house meets Parisian brasserie deluxe. It has the feel of a club, without the wankiness or waiting list. Lunch is fine, but it’s at dinner when Minetta truly seduces.
Lima, Peru: Chez Wong
Behind a nondescript door in a scruffy, industrial area of Lima, a place where garages and dusty tyre shops dominate, sits Chez Wong, not only one of the Peruvian capital’s great restaurants but an international star, too, a place of fervent culinary pilgrimage that sells just two dishes: ceviche or stir-fry.
Chef Javier Wong started with a small stall nearby, selling shampoo and the occasional ceviche —traditionally a lunchtime dish, as no refrigeration meant you didn’t want raw fish hanging about. As his legend grew, he changed his sitting room into a small restaurant. The walls are covered with endless awards, but the place is strictly utilitarian. There are no menus, or wine lists, barely even a welcome from the small and irascible Wong.
But there’s theatre, as he produces a huge sole, still gleaming from the sea, and skins, fillets and chops it in a few deft swipes. A handful of salt, a big whack of lime and a few sliced aji chillies. That’s it. This is minimalist ceviche, pared down but pristine and the best you’ll ever taste. The fish, thrillingly fresh, is the star, the other ingredients mere adoring vassals. The stir-fry is decent too, but nothing matches that ceviche. The bill is vast and it’s hard to score a table. But Chez Wong serves the pinnacle of raw piscine perfection.
Paris, France: Chez Georges
You’ll find all sorts in Chez Georges, a proper bistro just off Place des Victoires. Dowager duchesses in vintage Dior, picking at île flottante, and street sweepers feasting on the plats du jour. Pinstriped financiers, social X-rays with small, silly dogs, scruffy students and a smattering of tourists, all in search of an old-fashioned, well-priced lunch.
The menu is scrawled, daily, in lilac ink, while old mirrors line the walls, and the floor is clad in small, mosaic-like tiles. Waitresses wear black dresses and white aprons, while Arnaud Brouillet, the patron sports his own long white apron, and watches over proceedings with a well-seasoned eye.
I always eat the oeuf en gelée, a deeply savoury jelly that gleams like amber, encasing an oozing egg wrapped in ham. The joy. Then steak au poivre, with lashings of nose-clearing peppers and rivers of cream, and a green salad that cuts through any dairy heft. Oh, and some lamb chops, too, pink and chewy. And maybe radishes with butter, and garlicky, butter drenched snails, so hot they strip the skin from the roof of your mouth; soused herring and potato salad, served from a vast bowl. You help yourself. Plus those îles flottantes, clouds of sweetened egg whites afloat in eddies of proper custard. This is Parisian eating as it should be: classic, unchanging and reassuringly grumpy.
Positano, Italy: Da Adolfo
Everything tastes better with the sand between your toes, and the Mediterranean sun glittering off a deep cyanic sea. But at Da Adolfo, a short boat ride from Positano, the food matches the view. A few tables, on a shaded terrace, at the back of a small beach. You’ll find locals and tourists, English folk with pink faces and slightly perplexed oligarchs, fresh off their ghastly gin palaces, demanding a kilo of caviar.
They won’t get it. Of course they won’t. Sergio is the owner and boss (his brother runs the kitchen) and is built like a gladiator. He’s charming, but you wouldn’t want to be on his wrong side. Anyway, drink crisp local white, served in pretty jugs with chunks of peach. And eat mozzarella baked on lemon leaves, and tiny grilled anchovies, and minute deep-fried prawns. And a zuppe de cozze (soup of mussels) with tomatoes and a nudge of chilli. Whole fish are simply baked, pasta is magnificent. Lunch melts into the long afternoon, and a cooling dip in the sea is perfect for pudding, followed by a kip on the sun-warmed rocks. Beware, though, the Nocello walnut liqueur packs a punch. More than once I’ve missed the last boat home. And then cadged a lift from Sergio. It’s the sort of place that you dream about in the dull depths of English winter, the edible essence of the Amalfi Coast.
Sydney, Australia: Firedoor
Nothing tastes more rancid than a half-baked culinary gimmick. And a restaurant that cooks everything over different varieties of wood might seem a little, well, ambitious. But Lennox Hastie, the British-born chef/proprietor of Firedoor in Surry Hills, spent five years at Asador Etxebarri in Spain’s Basque Country. And what Etxebarri doesn’t know about cooking over glowing coals just ain’t worth knowing.
All that experience has paid off, because Firedoor is a smoke-scented pleasure palace, where two custom-built wood-fired ovens sit alongside four handsome grills, and an Australian-made Aga cooker. And the woods (from apple and cherry to ironbark and pecan) all add their own idiosyncratic allure. The room is large and high-ceilinged, with aged wooden pillars, open kitchen, and exposed lighting, giving it an unforced industrial edge. Service is sweet, slick and genuinely enthusiastic; the food ranging from great to sublime.
Because despite all these macho open flames, Hastie is a chef of great art and restraint. Where you’d expect unthinking charcoal punch, you get delicate poise, an innate understanding of the griller’s art. Pipis (small clams) come with the merest sigh of smoke, and pert garlic stems; marron (a lobster-like crustacean) is barely cooked and wears the lightest of applewood scents, tart pomelo accentuating its inherent sweetness; and 141-day aged rib of beef is lavishly, almost lasciviously marbled, with a crunchy crust and the most intensely bovine depth. Dear God, this is beef as you’ve never eaten it before. Pretty much every mouthful thrills. Book well in advance, or prepare to queue and queue.
Melbourne, Australia: Chin Chin
I’ve probably spent more time in this raucous Flinders Lane restaurant than any other in Australia. I’ve been at 11 in the morning, when the doors first open, sat four hours at the bar by myself, and feasted with friends into the night. Why? Because chef Benjamin Cooper is a Southeast Asian master, and not afraid of true Thai flavours. Pastes pong, chillies burn, herbs gambol and frolic. Flavours don’t just sing but holler, joyously, to the celestial heights.
Spicy Isaan duck larb has a slow building heat, and a whiff both feral and exotic. “Scud City” jungle curry is peppered with fistfuls of insanely hot scud chillies while the Isaan-style chicken is so fierce that crowds gather to watch you eat. It’s the edible equivalent of nipple clamps and studded paddles.
But it’s not all about heat. Crunchy school prawns are expertly fried, and served with a rich roast tomato and turmeric nahm prik. Pad seuw of wagyu beef is soft and majestic. Miang of spanner crab has subtle zing, while ocean trout salad is light and lithe. This is food that sets the senses aflame. Damned good cocktails, too.
Watch Next
Best Gins, Tried and Tested
The Esquire Guide to White Wine
The Best New London Restaurant Openings
The Esquire Guide to Rosé Wine
