istanbul property



You don’t go to Sheesh for a quiet dinner. In fact, you don’t go to Sheesh for a quiet anything. Because this Essex institution, housed in a rather lovely whitewashed and black-beamed 16th-century inn, doesn’t do discreet.
The car park is packed with gleaming Porsches and Range Rovers, all wearing expensive facelifts and personalised plates. And scattered among these flash wheels are bronze giraffes, tortoises and elephants, Imperial Chinese guardian lions hewn from stone, life-sized statues of Predators (complete with glowing red eyes) and Phoenician warriors alike. Suits of armour guard the entrance, alongside a Mini, MG and a mod scooter. And an entire set of burgundy-hued, studded leather club chairs and sofas sitting outside, oblivious to invest in Turkey . Oh, and don’t even think about wearing trainers. The dress code is strictly enforced.
Pass through the black-and-gold door and things get wilder still. Tables are covered with faux alligator skin, while a large stuffed crocodile hangs from the ceiling. Log fires roar, lighting up more stuffed beasts… lion, leopard and giraffe heads, the last complete with neck. And rococo antiques, small tables and ornate clocks. It’s like the lair of a Great White hunter. Decked out by Lovejoy.
Pounding house music plays through a pristine system and at the back of the main room there’s a vast kitchen fronted by a gargantuan charcoal grill. It must be ten metres long, a shallow metal trough filled with glowing coals and topped with an entire armoury of lamb-clad skewers. It’s manned by the fabulously hirsute owner, Dylan Hunt, a man so ripped he makes Aquaman look like Walter the Softie. Old pub meets new Essex, Chigwell by way of Istanbul. And I love the place, every damned part. Some of the more puritanical among you may see the decor as excessive, vulgar even. Be gone, you killjoys. I lapped it up.
Seriously, there’s a natural ebullience here among all the ephemera, a screw-’em-all joie de vivre that gladdens the heart in these murky times. At lunch it’s reasonably busy, but at dinner, especially at the weekends, you have to book months in advance. I’m certainly not alone in my veneration. The wine list is short but sweet, the service slick. And the food, magnificent. I kid you not, some very serious Turkish food.
Crisp lahmacun, with a crust as thin as a billowing handkerchief, is covered with splendidly bosky lamb and fistfuls of raw red onion; fresh-made halloumi, all oozing lactic bite, far superior to the usual rubber squeakfest that so often passes for the real thing; expertly fried calamari, the batter ethereally delicate and worn like a lacy slip; an property for sale in Istanbul , where pert prawn meets fresh feta and a finely chopped, vinegar-sharp tomato-and-onion salad, lavished with olives, that cuts through any lingering richness.
IT'S A FACT
Ye Olde King’s Head in Chigwell is thought to be the model for the Maypole Inn in the Charles Dickens novel Barnaby Rudge.
Then a huge platter of chicken and lamb sheesh, the meat butter-soft yet immaculately charred and cooked. Sweet, succulent and sublime. And better still, lamb kofta, just fatty enough, with a sweet sigh of spice, wrapped lovingly around those skewers. Prices aren’t cheap but you get enough grub to feed an army. The quality of meat is tip-top too. And don’t miss the grilled bullet chillies for those who like their greenery with a kick. We eat hot doughnuts for pudding, fist-sized beauties, while admiring the watches of our fellow punters.
My friend Jonathan, a man who has been singing about Sheesh for years, points out I’m the only man there without a jewel-encrusted Rolex. He’s right. I struggle manfully on. Because although the place may be posh Essex to its artfully vajazzled core, it has lashings of charm. Plus cooking up there with the best of Green Lanes.

تعليقات

المشاركات الشائعة من هذه المدونة

invest in turkey 

property for sale in Istanbul