Sonny Stores at Psychopomp: 'Could easily become a prime spot'
The happiest of hours
Happy Thursday Saucers. This week takes us up, or preferably down, St Michael’s Hill in search of good drinking and good eating. Don’t know your guindillas from your robiola? Fear not — PXandTarts is here to guide you, if you can make it through the various football references. Enjoy!
Derived from Greek, Psychopomp are the spirits or demons whose job it is to escort souls to the afterlife.
Sonny Stores, meanwhile, is named after the eldest son of owners Pegs Quinn and Mary Glynn, and apparently also references The Godfather — not one half of the iconic ‘I Got You Babe’ 60s duo as you might (not) have thought, nor the nickname of Spurs’ legendary South Korean striker.
Sonny Stores initially started as a pizza operation during COVID but since 2021 has been knocking out puffy potato bread with hot honey and pancetta, and thick wedges of frangipane tart, studded with whatever fruit is at its best and moated by crème fraîche and burnt butter.
Psychompomp, the distiller, dates back a few years further, its signature woden gin first trickling out in 2014.
Differing origins, but the two share an appreciation for quality, locality and good things done quietly. As such, it made perfect sense when it was announced the former would be installing and manning the stoves inside the latter, particularly with Italian food having something of a moment in the sun — if it has ever really been in the shade. In the capital, the likes of Osteria Vibrato, Burro and Tiella are thriving. Incredibly, Jamie’s Italian has just reopened in Leicester Square, a comeback about as popular as scabies. Closer to home, Bacco has just launched on Gloucester Road and Pizza Pilgrims have just joined us from the Big Smoke.
The only evidence of the novel possibility of food within the small (obviously) micro distillery on St Michael’s Hill were two words: Sonny and Stores. Written in their now familiar typeface, they sandwiched the restaurant’s distinctive sunflower motif above the front door which was propped open in the tail end of May’s heatwave.
Inside, a small list of dishes was scrawled, scruffy and endearing, across a blackboard. Most of the remaining, apothecary-coded space was taken up by wooden shelves bolted together and lined with an array of potions to take home with you. Starting with a cocktail seemed, if not obligatory, then at least logical.
My first bite was perfectly poised to partner my negroni. For those attempting to trap the zeitgeist, it would have been equally good with a martini. A fried gorgonzola sandwich with guindillas and honey (£12) was salty, crunchy and fatty: drinking food. You won’t get the same ‘grammable cheese pull from gorgonzola as you might more malleable cheeses like mozzarella or robiola, but its distinctive tangy flavour more than makes up for it. And without wanting to sound too much like Winnie the Pooh, I’d have taken an even more liberal approach to the honey splodged on top as a sticky-sweet bridge between the piquant cheese and a brushpile of pokey guindillas. It was a cheese toastie that had been taken on a guided tour of Piedmont and come home speaking like the Mario Bros; a deceptively simple assembly that I will undoubtedly be attempting to recreate next time I stumble home after too many negronis.
A trio of prawn and mushroom crostini (£12) featured slices of charred bread so soaked in garlicky, buttery juices that had been spooned onto the unusual shellfish-fungi combo that they were essentially de facto garlic bread. No bad thing. In fact there was so much delicious residue left behind once the sweet, snappy crustaceans and plump, smoked shrooms had been polished off, I would have called for more bread had I not wanted to maintain at least the facade of match fitness. You never know when you might get a last minute call up from a desperate Thomas Tuchel.
‘Hot smoked pork rump, borlotti beans, salsa verde’ (£18) looked a thing of beauty on its oval plate. A shining, mahogany plank of pig was dappled in enough of the tricolour salsa verde (herbal green, the scarlet of chilli and garlicky white) to send William Sitwell running to nanny, sobbing “there’s sauce on my food”.
Sadly, the pork itself was nearly impenetrable. Sawing, slashing and stabbing hunks off the rump eventually did the trick and those morsels with enough fat attached were, if not exactly delightful, then at least fine. A carpet of plump, creamy beans underneath was irresistible, having soaked up all the garlicky, porky juices as well as half an olive grove’s worth of verdant oil. Still, that’s as much consolation as winning the World Cup Golden Boot having gone out in the group stages; a feat achieved just the once, in case you were wondering.
I forgot to take a photo of the final plate — very unlike me; the irrepressible heat wasn’t only causing the odd error behind the stoves, where it must have been near getting-out-of-the-kitchen infernal — but it was a suitably quenching one. A bracing tumble of red chicory, slices of crunchy apple and slithers of ricotta salata (£11) was augmented by salted almonds and breezy fresh mint. Big hunks of bacon-y cooked prosciutto hogged the spotlight and made the whole thing rather too porcine. It’s a rare salad that doesn’t take to a cunning infiltration of piggy bits. Indeed, few concessions were made to vegetarianism — even gorgonzola uses animal rennet, which is nothing if not authentically Italian.
Any veggies thinking “oh well, I’ll just have to wait til dessert” would have been shit out of luck: all four flavours of Little Knuckles ice cream (£5), made back at Bedminster HQ, had flown out in the sun and been struck through on the blackboard. Pistachio, cardamom and orange would’ve been my pick, given ice cream is currently the only pudding option. No news on whether Sonny Stores’ redoubtable tarts or tiramisu will make the trip over the river as summer progresses.
Since dessert was off the table, at that point we called it, like the referee who didn’t let Bukayo Saka take Arsenal’s corner on the stroke of half in the Champions League final.
Service was genuine and generous all night, (probably aided by the fact that at times we were the only people in the building). And not just because of the (presumably deliberately) erroneous claim that we had arrived in time for happy hour, despite rocking up nearly half an hour after its advertised end. We certainly weren’t complaining about £6.50 Negronis made with woden, Italian bitter aperitivo and Aperitivo!Co Turin vermouth, nicely bitter and full of red fruit, or dark and stormies made with spiced rum from Circumstance, Psychompomp’s sister distillery.
It is a matter of record that I am a fan of Sonny Stores. I enjoy what they do and what they stand for. And, without wanting to bang the same drum as last time I reviewed one of their projects, hospitality is still suffering. This appearance, scheduled to run for the foreseeable future, wasn’t their best performance. But as the team settles in and irons out any kinks, it could easily become a prime spot to catch one’s breath half way up the hill. To take in the student shenanigans and football fans, all while supping bargainous negronis before or after watching Saka back in action or, indeed, as the ideal way to avoid the World Cup entirely. I can only hope happy hour is as elongated next time.
All words and photos by PXandTarts
Sonny Stores at Psychopomp, 145 St Michael's Hill, BS2 8DB
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