William Sitwell reviews Krokodilos, Kensington: ‘We refused to be defeated by the goat'

Telegraph

20-04-2025

Unquestionably this was goat. Goat in all its goatiness. By which I mean it ponged. It reeked. It was musty, earthy and truly goaty. It had everything except the bell.
'It's a wild goat. From the mountains of Greece, from the shepherd,' explained Nikos, our expressive and brilliant waiter ('You can call me Niko, but when you refer to me it's Nikos').
Which shepherd and which mountain I forget, though I could imagine eating such a thing in a rustic Greek bap, up on a barren, dusty hill, the sun beating down, the fragrance of wild thyme around us, the stinky nose and high game flavour in tune with the environment. But on Kensington Church Street, west London?
We asked for a gutsy red to help tone it down. Along came two glasses of something from Crete. That, with some sweet gravy, made it more metrosexually acceptable. Yet I salute the place for being so brave and authentic in serving such a thing. But then, it is called Krokodilos and one doesn't argue with a scary, sharp-toothed reptile.
The goat came as the centrepiece of a satisfying spread served in a well-designed room of pale woods and brickwork, surrounded by shelves stuffed with bottles and ornaments, here and there dripping with greenery. There is comfy upright seating, soft lighting and a large, heavy marble-topped bar at one end.
Nikos enthused passionately about the menu – we were, apparently, in for some Greek masterpieces, a combination of authenticity and creativity.
We started with 'taramas cream', which could be the name of a Jilly Cooper character. It came as a ripple of roe with a confit egg yolk, which we mixed in to give an orange tint and a touch of richness to the smoky roe. We had it with a 'village bread' which, Nikos explained, was 'potato bread' – and with whole chunks of potato baked into the dough, it sure as hell was. It was a little heavy and I reckon the tarama would be better served by something lighter with more crunch.
Next up was a Greek salad, just like the dakos ones of Crete, with those grey-looking large and crunchy croutons. The tomatoes were fabulously steeped in oil and perfectly room-temperature, and on top there was a big, delicious wedge of feta.
Then came rabbit livers, a dozen rich pink beauties in oil and herbs. These were the best livers I've had in a while; something that enhanced my love and admiration for the cooked bunny. A dish of octopus was not as good as the one at Kima, that Marylebone marvel, this version being drenched in too much cream, chopped tomatoes and other stuff.
The goat followed, served with a large bowl of trahanas. This, Nikos explained, was a kind of Greek porridge, or a soup of cracked wheat and fermented dairy. It was perked up with thyme and a Greek hard cheese called graviera. It helped to further tame, or maybe swamp, the goat, which was a good thing. And we refused to be defeated by the meat, attacking it with that wine and sauce and porridge.
So this was hearty stuff: all bold flavours and no-punch-pulling bravura. And it came with a bill to match, due to Nikos's skill in wine-upselling, which moved a generous spread of refined taramasalata, good Cretan salad, rabbit livers, octopus, porridge and goat up to the £300 mark (OK, we shared three starters and, technically, three mains). That included a Cretan white that lacked the smoothness of a great assyrtiko (£75 a bottle), the feisty but plonky red, which was £27 each for two medium glasses, and no pud.
Still, a big hand to Nikos for selling then bearing those gifts with such panache.