For our latest Liquid Lunch, Mandy Morello gets her motor runnin’ and tries something a little wild.

A long time ago before we had farms and mass produced goods, humans had to find their own dinner in the wild. Whether it be a mysterious host of shrooms, or gnawing on a dead carcass, we weren’t fussy. Central London’s latest restaurant is taking us back to our primal roots and dishing up food that you could be find plastered to the wheels of your car after a hazy drive through the country.

Native is grabbing their shot gun and heading to the woods to kill dinner just for us. A timely but predatory exercise that shits all over veganism and its petty morals. Imogen, one half of the Native duo, is a hunter-gatherer, and sources game from Britain, whilst Ivan cooks it.

After several successful pop-ups, the couple chose to settle in the very central London location of Neal’s Yard, close to Covent Garden. It’s a very small, compact space with a capacity of 30, spread over two floors and linked together with one of those anxiety-inducing spiral staircases. The white walls still smell of fresh paint and so far no music has been installed.

The petite drinks selection reflects the food – all British wine, beers and ciders. Although it’s nice to see everything local, the drinks seem like they’re not given the same attention that the food menu is – as in there’s not much choice. They promise to offer up some seasonal cocktails and upon entry, I am handed a glass of Prosecco blended with sloe berry. It’s extremely fruity, but a bit too sweet for my liking… and too pink. Safe to say I quickly moved on to their house white.

The staff enthusiastically explain the dishes, already quite knowledgeable about what this new restaurant serves. I begin tucking into what seems like a battered chicken to the untrained eye, but I’m told it is actually pheasant covered in cornflakes. A charming crunchy combination that is complimented by a mayonnaise made out of hay (one waiter calls it hayonnaise) and a rhubarb ketchup. The sauces are genius but leave me feeling a bit depressed that it isn’t bottled up and available in my local supermarket so I can drown every meal in it.

Another stand out dish is the pigeon kebab. I begin to wonder what would happen if I were to chuck it on to some pidgeon-infested street. I could then observe as a pigeon swoops down, lured under a false sense of security and watch as cannibalism ensues. But this kebab is too good to throw away as it’s piled up with cabbage, creamy harissa, hummus and beetroot purée. It’s so creamy that you can’t eat it in your hands like a normal kebab, and my companion finds this out promptly as it proceeds to dribble down his shirt leaving an embarrassing crisp white stain. Not the first time this has happened, I’m sure.

The desserts are just as quaint and colourful as the mains but feeling less wild. We are passed a rhubarb tart, which my friend drops on the floor. It seems the wildness has rubbed off an him and he’s forgotten how to eat in a civilised manner. But the staff bring him another tart quicker than a Soho pimp. It has a succulent texture which is sprinkled with coriander honeycomb. There isn’t much of a dessert range but this is enough to round off the food with a sweet ending.

Forget about wild, the food is the main appeal of Native and you don’t even have to get sloshed on one of their fairly priced bottles of plonk to stand it. The space has a slight claustrophobic edge to it and having one toilet tucked deep in the depths of the restaurant would give any cystitis-prone woman the fear. But none-the-less the dishes are well-crafted, well-presented pieces of art served in a setting with a touch of British charm. Even though some of the ingredients may not exactly be all that wild (cheese, pig, beef ect), there’s no denying that they can make something delicious out of what I would call road kill.

Native, 3 Neal’s Yard, Covent Garden, WC2H 9DP, Average meal costs £13-£15

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The Boogaloo

This ultra comfortable pub near Highgate station is a welcome edition to my list of superb Sunday Roasts. It’s hosted in a dimly lit bar with plenty of noise on the wall, which ensures my hungover eyes and brain don’t get bored. Grab a Bloody Mary, put some money in the jukebox and chow down on a colossal sized roast that will make Saturday night’s traumas a thing of the past.