Tis the time where the good mans of Goodmans bring your unworthy taste buds the most delicious meat to have ever draped itself across them. What a time to be alive! A time when wine-cellar envy is a well-recognised and widely-documented psychological ailment. A time when the pistachio parfait makes you re-think your allergies. A time where even the carrots, you wouldn’t throw out of bed in a hurry. As in, the little orange stubs that NO-ONE cares about during a meal. If you can make me care about a plate of carrots more than I care about my own well-being, you’re doing something maybe a little too right. I could legit go vegetarian on their side plates alone, but that would leave no room in my mouth for the most important part. The meat.
Now, I partially write this as a sincere apology to my family and the diners that were seated near me on the chilly evening that marked the popping of my Goodmans maraschino. Anyone who’s heard the noises that come out of me when I taste good food would wholeheartedly appreciate the necessity of such a heartfelt apology…and why I probably won’t be showing my face there again in a hurry. But, at a place like Goodmans, sometimes you just can’t help it. With beef-ageing on site and steaks cut on request, Goodmans’ mission is to make life difficult for themselves to bring the best to you…and by “you”, I feel like they really mean “me”. Because any good man who goes above and beyond to slap me with such an intense beef-gasm has a permanent, specially-carved place in my (slightly blocked, but happy) heart.
Goodmans spreads lovingly across Mayfair, City and Canary Wharf.