These two London spots will please vegan and omnivore alike; as long as they don’t mind spice

I hate people who politicise food. Vegan twenty-somethings who climb onto their soapboxes to tell me what not to eat are often urbanites who display a shocking ignorance of seasonality and the realities of food production. The hypocrisy of one such, haranguing me on the evils of “stealing” honey from bees while entirely ignoring the crisis of falling pollinator populations and the fact that honey production helps redress the balance, provoked rage. Yet I’m equally angry at those who, decrying all “woke” causes, will order an enormous sirloin just to “really irritate the damned vegans.” Or load up on cheap meat at a discount store without thinking about its production.

Food deserves respect. Whether you are a carnivore, a vegan, or somewhere in between. That slice of bacon on your plate took the same levels of care and attention as the tomato, and the manner and location of its production can make a vast difference to its environmental impact. I honour anyone who does the hard graft to feed me. If anything, I am slightly in awe of vegan cooks, who … in my culinary frame of reference … have to cook with one hand metaphorically tied behind their back. 

It’s from that perspective that I can recommend both Mildred’s and Vantra in London’s West End. Both are strictly vegan, but the flavours coming out of the kitchen keep you focused on the joys on your plate rather than a contemplation of what’s missing. There is no sense of sacrifice or abstinence, and no need to hit Burger King on the way home to fill a stomach left empty by salad. Which is, I sheepishly admit, what I was expecting as I braced myself for my first vegan encounter.

This introduction was at Mildred’s, an excellent gateway experience to vegan dining. It’s a bright, buzzy, modern cafe on St. Martin’s Lane, full of people of all ages indistinguishable from any other set of restaurant patrons in Covent Garden. Another foolish pre-conception crushed. There were no heavily tattooed, uncomfortably pierced, Birkenstock-wearing anarchists in sight. There was a lot of moreish food hitting tables.

Tempting starters include a wild mushroom tortelloni, not far off of what I’d make at home, where I’d always default to a cream or a brown butter and sage sauce it’s done here with a “caramelised leek cream” that, by some kitchen wizardry I can’t comprehend tasted as good as anything to come out of a cow. On future visits I’m curious to try their takes on whipped feta and loaded nachos. My one experimental purchase of vegan cheese was frightening, but the dairy alternatives here were delicious.

My main was called “bokkeumpab”, a twist on the Korean fried rice classic but with spicy tofu. Exquisite. Though that still didn’t keep me from envying my friend’s fried “chick’n” burger, another foray into spice and tofu that delivered all the comfort and sloppy, multi-layered joy you want from a burger. If you think about it, chicken and tofu are both relatively tasteless proteins that come into their own when a chef pairs them with something that gives them flavour. It’s actually no wonder they’re interchangeable. Maybe someday we’ll say “it tastes like tofu” instead of “it tastes like chicken” as the ubiquitous descriptor.

Mildred’s desserts astonished me most. As an accomplished cook in the Sicilian tradition I’m no stranger to oil instead of butter and vegetables as stars. But to create a proper desert without egg or dairy products seemed impossible. I was wrong.

Mildred’s carrot cake could compete with any “normal” version, and some might even find the lighter, fluffier icing here to be more to their taste. I missed the slight sharpness and silky density of the cream cheese, but didn’t mind the alternative. The tiramisu was better than many I’ve had in Italian restaurants, with a great balance between the coffee, the chocolate, and whatever the creamy stuff was. But the triumph was undoubtably a chocolate ganache cake that was as dense, moist, sharp and sweet as the best examples you’ve had anywhere.

I could take most carnivores I know to Mildred’s and be confident they could find something across all three courses to satisfy their hunger. Vantra is not quite as easy a fit. Located in a basement on Wardour Street just off Leicester Square, its menu celebrates raw food, steaming and fermented food, all of which left me wishing we could continue a few hundred metres on to the heart of Chinatown. But with a friend to navigate the menu (the same one who introduced me to Mildred’s), we found some safe territory that was also delicious.

The standout here are their small plates that remind me of pintxos. Soya skewers with peanut sauce were indistinguishable from a good chicken sate. A mushroom skewer with ginger and black bean sauce billed as “lamb” had a taste profile remarkably like the Japanese smoked eel called unagi. It was the star dish of the night.

Before my two vegan dining experiences I was irritated by the appropriation of non-vegan words. Why are chicken, cheese, sausage, and burger used on a menu? Why not call it what it is? Now I understand that first it’s an expectation setting thing: we don’t have the vocabulary for the vegan concoctions, so we use the word that’s closest to give people some idea of what they’re ordering. Second is because it seems like the majority of descriptors on the menu would be tofu.

Mains at Vantra have much less variety than Mildred’s and are almost exclusively southeast Asian. If you’re up for a curry, they serve up delicious options. We tried some ice creams (obviously made from something other than egg and cream) in several varieties that were both strong on flavour and a good counter to the fiery curry that came before.

Overall I preferred Mildred’s. No matter how you dress it up, Vantra’s is still in a dark, pokey basement. That lowbrow environment doesn’t bring down the prices, however: £6.90 for those starters, barely two mouthfuls each, is a princely fee no matter how impressive the tofu transformation is. We were also served lukewarm beer and wine throughout the evening, which I assume was a one-off but is a large red flag. Vantra’s biggest advantage may be that it doesn’t take reservations and is a relatively niche cuisine in very busy part of town. So it might be an option when you can’t get in anywhere decent around Leicester Square.

These two restaurants have opened my eyes to the reality of vegan cuisine, something far different from the virtue-signalling deprivation I had imagined. Hosting a vegan dinner party is now on my list of New Year’s Resolutions for 2024. I still have one significant issue with the category, however.

My husband is allergic to tomato and dislikes anything particularly spicy. Beyond sushi and the occasional mild Chinese take-away, he’s not much of a fan of any Asian food. Yet Indian and Southeast Asian seem to be the bedrock of vegan cooking. Mildred’s would have had limited options for him but Vantra impossible. Yet my experience at both has broadened my thinking about what’s possible. I’m browsing recipes to learn more about the curious alchemy that elevates vegetables to a different plane. When I think about the people who produce delicious food from such a restricted list of ingredients, my respect has only grown.

Smiling, happy people: National Gallery’s landmark Frans Hals exhibition is a recipe for happiness

The most fiendishly difficult question my mother set on her art history final exam was always the same: “if you could commission any artist from history to do your portrait, who would it be and why?” Answering it to her “A” standard took a good deal of self awareness, a solid understanding of your artist’s style and nuances, and plenty of proof points. I picked my answer at least a year before I took her class (I knew the question would come) and it’s never changed: Frans Hals.

No one in the history of art has captured the soul of jollity as well as Hals. Even his most serious sitters have the ghost of a smile, or the sceptical arch of an eyebrow. Their personality leaps off the page. And in a genre that often portrays women as meek, mild and decorative, Hals’ female sitters look like they get stuff done and don’t suffer fools. But they, and most of the men, also look like they’re up for a good time. You’d invite everyone Hals painted over for dinner. They’re successful, charismatic, fun and funny. And that’s how I’d like to be remembered to history.

So imagine my delight when I learned that London’s National Gallery would be hosting the first major retrospective of the Frans Hals’ work in my adult life. It was a joy only exceeded by getting inside the show itself, where big personalities leap out of more than 50 frames in a wondrous gathering pulled together from museums and private collections across the world. It’s like going to a party with all the most charismatic, joyful and welcoming kids at school.

You wouldn’t think this kind of merriment would come out of the Netherlands in the 17th century. Most of Hals’ contemporaries show us a tidy society where everyone keeps their nose to the grindstone making money but never showing off. Everyone is modest and wears black. These are people you’d invest with, but would you really want to have dinner with them? Hals’ contemporaries Rembrandt and Vermeer are more famous these days. Yet I walked through the Dutch galleries after I left Hals’ behind and the people depicted there seemed paler. Less interesting. Less alive.

Hals’ people are different. Take Isaac Massa, a rich grain merchant who chose to have himself painted with a medusa and a skull in the background. One represents envy, the other death, basically sending a message to his competition to get over their jealousy of his success; death will level them all. (You can’t see these images today; the painting, on loan from Chatsworth, was conserved for the show and they showed up in an infrared scan.) Then there’s William van Heythuysen, who looks impressively regal in his full length portrait but there’s still a ghost of a smile. Years later Hals captures a broader grin in a much smaller and more casual picture of the same man. Here, he’s tipping back on his chair like a naughty schoolboy. 

And then there’s Cunera van Baersdorp, who’s shown with a hand planted on her hip and a jaunty elbow pointed towards us. It’s a pose known as the Renaissance Elbow and is common for men. It’s almost never used for women. 

The exhibition has liberated her from a private collection to hang once again next to her husband, Michiel de Wael, who now lives in Cincinnati; one of several examples of marital portraits that have been re-united in this show. Cunera and Michiel ran a brewery together and her portrait tells us she was just as vital to its management as he was. They are a 17th century power couple. 

It’s not just Hals’ loose brushwork and rapid painting style thank make him seem modern. His people are us, in fancy dress.

And what dress he gives us!

Yes, the Dutch loved to wear black. But under Hals’ brush it’s not monochrome. He captures nuances of pattern, depth and sheen to give every costume multiple layers. Accenting embroidery glistens. Lace glimmers in spidery delicacy. You can practically hear the neck ruffs scrunch against chins. Get up close, and his brushwork is almost abstract. Back up, and it becomes a sharply realistic cap, bit of elaborate jewellery or fantastical sword hilt.

Hals’ people aren’t just showing off, however. He manages to capture a deep empathy in the eyes of his sitters. Years ago when I was going through breast cancer and had time to kill between appointments on Harley Street, I used to pop in to the Wallace Collection to sit in front of the Laughing Cavalier. There was something soothing in his eyes that calmed my nerves and renewed my energy. It was like having lunch with a supportive friend.

He’s come across town to join this gathering, of course. And he’s not the only one with kindness in his eyes. Few other painters can bring people to life like this, much less give their eyes so much empathy they feel like friends.

That this exhibition delivers more of what the Cavalier radiates is no surprise. My favourite discovery here, however, is that there’s a kindness comes from Hals himself. Though he painted the rich and powerful, the two most memorable images in the show are of outsiders he chose to imbue with deep humanity.

Malle Babbe is a woman who’d been put into an institution because of her mental illness. Two of Hals children were in the same place, so we can assume he had a deeper understanding than most of her situation. So Malle isn’t the butt of a joke, or some salutary warning, as she might be in other art of the period, but a poignant and very real old woman captured in a moment of joy. 

The face I’ll remember above the others, however, is the black boy in the Family group in a landscape on loan from the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza in Madrid. Though slavery was illegal on Dutch soil, it’s a fair guess that he’s not there as an equal with the rest of the family. Young black servants were a status symbol at this time and show up regularly in portraits, but they’re usually either painted as another accessory … like they’re jewellery or furniture … or showing off a gleeful grin that feels disturbingly false. This child looks directly out at us while the rest of the family is engaged with each other. They’re cheerful. The black boy is grave and thoughtful. Assigning pain or anger to him is doubtless laying modern interpretations on the subject, but there’s no question that Hals has dignified the otherness of the outsider with a compelling gaze that talks to us across the centuries.

This leaves us with an interesting question. Were all the people Hals painted really such amazing souls? Or is it Hals himself who’s simply channeling his own optimistic, vivacious energy into anyone he put on canvas? We’ll never know. Beyond details of marriages, children, where he lived and what he painted, scholars can tell us little about the man. But this show leaves no mystery as to why the great and the good of 17th century Holland wanted him to capture them for posterity. And it confirms the decision of my youth. If I’m to go down in history as a powerful, successful woman who’s also great fun and infused with kindness, I’ll need to resurrect Frans Hals to paint me.