I confess, my expectations of Ukrainian food were shaped less by knowledge than by the absence of it. Beyond the war that continues unabated, what did I really know about the country? Hearty peasant fare, perhaps. Beetroot-heavy stews. The kind of stick-to-your-ribs cooking that sustains through long winters, I would imagine. And, yes, there was that frozen chicken Kyiv lurking in my freezer for emergencies – a guilty convenience that would soon seem almost embarrassingly inadequate.
So when Rumley and I arrived at SINO on a damp winter’s evening, it was with a certain curiosity tinged with uncertainty. What we discovered was something else entirely.
SINO occupies a corner of All Saints Road – itself becoming something of a culinary outrider in the capital, alongside Empire Empire and The Pelican – and immediately has the feel of a charming neighbourhood spot. It feels neighbourly, in that unselfconscious way that can’t be manufactured. Inside, barely twenty covers are arranged in a compact space of muted tones and natural wood, underdressed save a few wheatsheaf motifs; tasteful, thankfully, not gimmicky. You get the feeling this is considered, not done for effect, or tourists.
The cocktail list arrives with evocative descriptions. It seems fitting we should opt for a ‘Hay’ — prune-infused bourbon with honeycomb and smoked hay, promising “the soulful quiet of dusk in the countryside.” It certainly felt that way. We could well have been lying among haystacks watching the clouds go by.
The menus appear on coarse paper, their faux-rustic presentation belying what’s printed on them. This is not the rustic farmhouse cooking I was expecting. Sure, there’s potato, pike, sorrel and sauerkraut — the Eastern European staples one might anticipate — but there’s intrigue, too. Things like ‘bison grass mash’ and a ‘seaweed doughnut’ that suggested we were in for something more ambitious.
Given that Ukraine is the breadbasket of Europe, I had imagined bread might stand out, but this was no humble crusty cob. There was borodinsky rye, buckwheat and potato, and honey sourdough. The butter, though, is what stopped me: infused with chamomile and dusted with bee pollen, it arrived alongside a sparkling Chardonnay that Rumley studied with interest. “Ukrainian,” he said, reading the label, with a hint of surprise. I could have called it there and been utterly satisfied, but we were only just beginning.
With indecision over the à la carte, and not wishing to miss anything, we opted for the Chef’s Selection. When the black pudding croquette appeared — a single, perfect sphere — I understood. This wasn’t a sharing menu; this was a tasting menu, and Rumley and I would be on parallel journeys. “That’s okay, you have it,” he said, as I dispatched the bite-sized confection. His potato and sorrel waffle, however, I wasn’t going to miss, and when I tasted it I understood why this menu was raising eyebrows. We were the second table there, the restaurant still quiet, but I sensed that wouldn’t last.
It didn’t. Before the fish course, a table laid for twelve arrived in a flurry of ‘heys’ and laughter, the atmosphere lifting immediately. Rumley clinked our glasses of Hay with his own ‘hey,’ and suddenly the room felt alive.
Each course unfolds with ceremony: slates, turned earthenware bowls, wooden spoons, the presentation adding layers to the appreciation. Marinated aubergine arrives under a blanket of chervil, reminiscent of baba ganoush but with an umami, vinegary bite that takes it somewhere entirely its own. At the next table, the birthday party is in full swing, their energy spilling over into the room. By the time the BBQ catfish appears — with sausage and paprika sauce, crisp parsnip — we could have been in a neighbourhood bistro in residential Lviv. At least in my imagination. If there wasn’t a war on.
The catfish comes with an orange wine from the Beykush winery in Mykolaiv, billed as ‘skin contact’ on the menu. It’s earthy, complex, a revelation. Rumley had remarked earlier that it was amazing they could produce sparkling wine in the midst of a war; now, with this orange wine, that amazement deepened. Ukrainian viticulture was becoming its own subplot to the evening, each glass a small act of craft and defiance.
Then came the Chicken Kyiv, and I understood just how far my preconceptions had been from reality. This wasn’t the breaded torpedo from the supermarket freezer aisle. This was refined, perfectly executed, a reminder that classic dishes become classics for a reason, when done properly. It arrived as the room reached full capacity, every table now occupied, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses creating exactly the atmosphere a neighbourhood restaurant should have.
A last word about the wine: we finished with Kara Kermen from Beykush, widely regarded as their best. It would compete against any decent Rhône, and if you had one chance to try Ukrainian wine, this would be it. Rumley and I agreed it might have been the revelation of the evening — though there was stiff competition.
As the desserts arrived — complemented by a plum martini — there was nothing I could fault. Layers of corn wafer and persimmon, like a mille-feuille, with a quenelle of corn ice cream and a hint of sea buckthorn. It was clever, delicate, and perfectly balanced.
There’s nothing better, when dining out, than having one’s expectations exceeded, and SINO has probably outdone nearly all others in that department. I don’t think I’ve ever gone anywhere where I’ve expected one thing and been so pleasantly delighted with what came back.
We couldn’t leave without complimenting the chef — perhaps even as a subconscious gesture of support beyond, simply, for his efforts in the kitchen. It was while Rumley and I were singing his praises that the birthday girl from the table of twelve came over. “Are you the chef?” she asked. He nodded. She’d eaten there some months earlier and decided it was to be the venue for her celebrations. “And that,” she said, “was one of the best meals I’ve had. And I’m a chef, too.”
High praise indeed. And from where I was sitting, entirely deserved.
SINO, 7 All Saints Road, Notting Hill, London W11 1HA. For more information, and for bookings, please visit www.sinorestaurant.co.uk.
