Duchy is just four doors down from my office, which means “just a quick lunch” is now a genuine daily threat rather than a hypothetical one. And I swear, I will use it.
Chef Simon Shand runs the kitchen, working alongside restaurateur Alex Grant, the pair behind Leroy. The whole concept is built around the Duchy of Savoy, the stretch of land that once ran from Lyon to Milan, Geneva to Nice, and the menu moves between the two ends of that map, French dishes sat next to Italian ones, sometimes both on the same plate. They use available and selective seasonal ingredients, with the menu changing daily – proven by today’s date printed at the top, so you know it came out of chef’s head that morning.
With London barely coping with another heatwave, a spot like this is rare. Cool inside, low light, door left open enough that the Shoreditch air somehow moves through. It’s hard not to start with a Negroni Savoyard, Alpine, herbal and bitter with Dolin running underneath it, and an Espellette Margarita that swapped the usual chilli burn for something sharper and more citrus led.
The house bread turned up warm and soft with a quenelle of salted butter, and absolutely had no right to be as good as it was. Anchovies on crostini were where I realised this place was special. Meaty, glistening, exactly the right amount of oil, natural salt hitting alongside peppercorn and a few mild herbs. As far as nibbles go I could have made the whole meal out of just this, and with a glass of white wine on a hot day it genuinely felt like being on holiday.
The beef tartare was the best I’ve had. The right amount of pickle, the right amount of mustard. The right amount of egg yolk. Crackers holding their shape as they broke through a layer of chives into the mix. Smoked trout came layered with melon, cucumber and horseradish, light, fresh, sharp, the horseradish dosed just enough to keep things exciting without drowning out the summer freshness.
Mains kept the regional symphony running properly. Roasted stone bass sat on a bed of borlotti beans and mussels in a beurre blanc, the fish breaking apart on top, samphire for crunch, firmly French. The Barnsley lamb chop went Mediterranean, pink, fatty, cooked to perfection, the grilled aubergine soaking up tomato and herb, and we ended up fighting over the last slices.
Pudding was no different. For Italy, plump cherries soaked in cassis sat on a panna cotta that somehow didn’t collapse under the weight of them, vanilla specks running through. For France, a round of almond biscuit held a layer of dark chocolate ganache, strawberries stacked around the edge, and a scoop of olive oil ice cream melting slowly into all of it.
The wine list feels personal. French and Italian producers alongside lesser-known Alpine names, very carefully curated, a chilled glass of 2022 Sardinian Cannonau worked wonders when avoiding the heat of central London. We didn’t order a single thing all night. The team just kept bringing out whatever they were excited about that day, one dish and one glass after another, and because the menu’s new every day, they seemed just as keen to hear what we thought of it. Somewhere near the end, someone appeared with a round of Chartreuse. We didn’t argue.
