With their love and knowledge of southern Mediterranean cuisine, chef couple Sam and Sam Clark have created something very special at Moro. Victoria Hull went along for an early supper. Photos by Susan Bell  

Turning off London’s Farringdon Road into the pedestrianised street of Exmouth Market in the early evening you’re hit by a wall of sound. It takes a moment to realise this is the hum of conversation, discombobulating because it comes from all directions. There are pubs on several corners, and bars stretching down the street. Outside each one there’s a swarm of people, glasses in hand. But this isn’t a frenetic Soho scene with cars and motorbikes jostling crowds for road space. Clerkenwell’s Exmouth Market has a calm, good-vibes sort of sound, the crowd more after-work pinters than tourists out for a bender.

I’m taking a Spanish friend Maria to Moro. Opening in 1997 it quickly became famous for its Moroccan-influenced Spanish menu cooked by chefs Sam and Sam Clark. Exmouth Market must have been a bit of a gamble back then. It was a quiet, shabby street, a bit betwixt and between – with King’s Cross and Islington to the north and the main hub of Clerkenwell half a mile south. But the Emap group of magazines were around the corner and the Guardian – flying high in the heyday of New Labour – was a stone’s throw away. Clerkenwell was known for architects and printers, while Brit Artists had already brought Shoreditch, a little further east, to the notice of property developers.

Sam and Sam, Samantha and Samuel, both happened to be called Clarke/Clark, Samantha dropping the “e” at the end of her surname when they married. They met as chefs a little further down Farringdon Road at the Eagle, the first ever gastro pub, and they both trained at the River Cafe. Earlier this year Idler Festival goers were treated to a Moro food stall. Sam and Sam are renowned for their original, light take on Andalusian food, influenced as it is by the Middle East and Morocco. They spent their honeymoon in a camper van driving around Morocco and Spain, studying flavours and ingredients.

Maria and I have booked for an early supper at 6.30pm and I arrive half an hour early. While I wait I enjoy one of those rare oases of time when you have the chance to stop and survey the world. I savour a glass of medium dry Amontillado and dip crispy crusted, fresh unbleached sourdough into yellow olive oil. The oil kicks the back of the throat signalling its extra virgin credentials and demanding a soothing gulp of the sherry. Perfect combination. A carafe of filtered water arrives and I admire a sprig of flowers and the heavy indented clay salt and pepper holders on the table.

I’m seated at a green leather bench in a line of tables for two. It’s quiet when I arrive but a tight squeeze between the tables. A round-edged zinc top bar stretches along the opposite wall, metal legged stools with shiny red seats paired in front of it. Wine bottles are grouped elegantly behind. A mirror reflecting our line of tables hangs beside a blackboard of tapas choices. Velvet curtains around the door in flowing red, orange, ochre and green soften the room but overall it’s a clear, utilitarian, uncluttered space. A dark green stretch of paint running behind the long banquette is reflected by green tiles in front of the open kitchen at the far end of the room. Otherwise the walls are white, the floor is wood.

The tapas is classic – boquerones, padron peppers, grilled chorizo, crispy chickpeas, tortilla, salt cod croquetas, patatas bravas. There’s more but if you want tapas you could choose to go to Morito, Moro’s tapas bar next door, with a more fulsome list.

Young waiters in black with short white aprons potter around. The one who served me is charming two girls at the next table. “Hellooo, I’m sorry, I feel as if I am pestering you but I haven’t got anything else to do. Have you decided what you’d like?” The girls giggle. They ask what a “biodynamic leaf salad” is. “I always find that question hard to answer,” he says. “Lettuce grown using the rhythms of the moon?”

Maria arrives. I met her back in the nineties when she was a manager at the Groucho Club. She tells me she managed the wine list there. “Being Moro they are incredible on their modern sherries,” she is saying. “They have not one but a whole list of them by the glass.”  I’m already on my second Amontillado and don’t need to be told that the classy choice would have been a very dry fino. Scanning Moro’s list Maria is interested by a Basque wine and wines from Valencia and Galicia. “Not all the wines are from Spain. It’s a very nice Mediterranean wine list,” she says. “Not recherché but unusual wines that you wouldn’t find in other places.” We go for the Basque which arrives cloudy with the softest fizz which gradually lifts to cream the surface. The same pale yellow as fino, it’s almost fizzy but not quite. Somehow both lighter and fuller than Prosecco, it’s flowery, crisp, cold and fresh.

Trying to kick off a cold, I’ve chosen to start with caldo verde – black cabbage and potato soup with chorizo. I’d expected the cavolo nero to be chopped roughly but here it is minced into a comforting slush. Maria is from Sanlúcar de Barrameda on the west coast of Andalusia, part of the triangle of Cadiz province. They produce Manzanilla sherry which Moro’s first cook book describes as “a dry sherry with a slightly salty tang, perfect with fish and shellfish”. Sanlúcar is famous among Spaniards for its seafood. Potaje or one-pot cooking was home food in Andalusia. “Cuttlefish and chickpeas would be staples.” Further north there had been some smart restaurants – Bulli, now closed, was famous on the coast of Catalonia. Now Madrid has some of the most expensive restaurants in the world, with an influx of billionaires. Madrileños are concerned about the escalating price of food and property.

Maria chooses Arroz de marisco – seafood rice with cuttlefish and clams. It could have been a one-pot dish from her youth except that in Moro’s hands it becomes a masterpiece:  delicate and tasty, it is served on a small plate, the rice spread among open clams, soaked in the saffron fish broth with a small pool of aioli. We follow with a tagine of hake fillet, sweet potato and onion, raisins and almonds, chunks of squash and potato soaked with the tagine’s cumin, paprika and lemon juices. The hake is fluffily light and so fresh it almost doesn’t taste. You can imagine this served in an Andalusian finca but at Moro it becomes a subtle and exquisite dish.

The noise has picked up now, voices ricocheting off the hard surfaces. We and the couples on either side of us are shouting to be heard and the sound is escalating. Time to head home. This would be the perfect spot to sit by oneself, back to the wall with a sherry and a couple of starters. Come at six or 6.30pm for the quiet sitting. Get to bed early.

2 x Diatomists Amontillado £24
Olives £4
Black cabbage, chorizo and potato soup £11
Arroz £15
Hake tagine £36
Glass Akarregi Txiki Bianco (Basque) £12
Service £13
£117.01

34-36 Exmouth Market
London EC1R 4QE
020 7833 8336

This article is from Idler #106.

Moro will be selling some of their delicious dishes from a pop-up stall at this year’s Idler Festival, 10-12 July, Fenton House & Gardens, Hampstead.

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