Books for Cooks — The Best Smelling Shop in the World
Books for Cooks is an altogether different kind of bookshop.
At first glance, it’s what you might imagine—a shop selling cookery titles from around the world—but step inside this Notting Hill institution and the sheltered test kitchen at the back gives credence to its nickname: “the best smelling shop in the world.”
Photography by Matt Hickman
From Tuesday to Friday, resident chefs trial recipes from the shelves, championing the shop’s books by sourcing daily changing three-course lunch menus from their pages.
Diners get a sense that they too are taking part in an experiment. Tables in the main shop area are framed by culinary bibles on the theory of cooking, outlining the logistics of deboning fish or the challenging steps of assembling a croquembouche.
Meanwhile, the tables at the back offer a glimpse into the operations of the kitchen. The few book-less shelves are occupied by cooking paraphernalia—varying sized pots and pans, ornaments, and botanical-like sketches of food.
Books for Cooks has, more or less, always had a kitchen—counting the likes of food writer Annie Bell, and the late chef Clarissa Dickson Wright among previous staff.
Founded by Heidi Lascelles in 1983, the shop has been under the ownership of Rosie Kindersley and Eric Treuille—a married couple who first met as employees at the shop in the nineties—since 2001. Eric moved from France to Notting Hill in the eighties and took up the test kitchen mantle in 1994, drawing on his experience of the publishing world and working in restaurants such as Au Chien qui Fume in Versailles, and fashionable spot Le Mijanou in London’s Belgravia, which closed in 1996.
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Keen to finally meet the man behind the counter, I head to the shop in mid-April, just a week after its reopening following a four-month closure during England’s third lockdown amid the Covid-19 pandemic.
As I cross the threshold, appropriately marked by a tiled mosaic of a chef, the aromas stir up comforting memories of meals cooked at home—a location that, for many, became another test kitchen during lockdown, albeit far messier and less impressive than Eric’s.
“Hello beautiful,” Eric says as he welcomes me into the kitchen, a greeting I come to learn is extended to all who enter the shop. After the imposed hiatus, he’s back at the stove with fellow chef and baker Tana, multitasking as he talks me through the shop’s concept.
"The business is Books for Cooks. It’s not a restaurant,” Eric tells me, keen to emphasise that his mission is not to feed people but to sell books. At the time of writing, the shop stocks 8,000 books, which span food and travel writing to biographies of chefs and famous places. The test kitchen is a means to trial the recipes lining the walls and, in doing so, attract people who might not normally frequent a bookshop.
So how does it work? Eric and his staff leaf through the books that arrive at the store, bookmarking recipes—“sometimes for same-day service,” he chuckles—and sourcing ingredients at the local Portobello market, allowing for an easy fix if they run low on anything.
Dishes are dictated by seasonal produce and so spontaneity overrides client’s cravings. That means, for the most part, there’s no choice, no ordering and no fussy eaters allowed—although Tuesdays cater to vegetarians, and the kitchen also abides by fish Fridays.
“I don’t do skimmed milk or any of that,” Eric is prompted to add as he fashions a full-fat coffee for a customer, though he does try to be as organic as possible, sourcing meat, flour, and dairy products ethically because “life is too short.”
““I’m about to serve 30 people with a bag of rice. It’s not rocket science.” ”
Each course is derived from a different cookbook, and as for kitchen disasters—I can’t help but ask—these are really rare nowadays. “In the old days, the cake didn’t fit the tin, or the dish didn’t look like the picture, but cookbooks are really good now,” Eric explains.
Occasionally the staff will tweet the menu a few hours before serving, but this isn’t always the case and not knowing is part of the magic, particularly in a world where we memorise menus, mentally storing our order before even setting foot in a restaurant.
If you’re still not convinced, the hand-written receipt to the tune of £7 ought to do it; the equivalent of a vegan smoothie at one of the neighbouring cafés. I sense an element of the French way of life here, with the well-valued three-course meal reminiscent of the ‘formule’ (set menu) that you find all across France.
“I cook how I do at home. And more or less, I’m careful and buy from the market. It’s the price of a sandwich, but it’s different,” Eric says as he supervises a risotto of roasted gambas and saffron. “I’m about to serve 30 people with a bag of rice. It’s not rocket science.”
While he doesn’t have an exact figure, Eric tells me that they have tested a minimum of three recipes per day in the past 20 years, and diners can find the shop’s most popular recipes in a series of published collections.
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The shop’s table settings are simple, with a jug of tap water, white crockery and a napkin on each primary-coloured surface. The food is of the same ilk; recipe books that contain “ten-metre-long shopping lists” and elaborate instructions are set aside.
“That’s not the cooking here. I’m a bookseller, not a scientist,” he tells me, adding: “I can’t faff about all morning, otherwise the poor people will never eat.”
There are never more than three people in the kitchen—his niece Lily included—and Eric is there every day to ensure that people feel as if “they are coming home for lunch”. He adds that there are also a number of “little friendly helpers” during the lunch service.
Plates are assembled in a geometric fashion on the kitchen counter before a pinafored waiter promptly delivers them to tables. Starters reflect seasonal climates and usually come with generous squares of home-baked salty focaccia scattered with toasted pumpkin seeds.
While we chat, Eric is preparing a fattoush halloumi salad to suit the idyllic spring weather. On a previous visit, a squash, ginger and broccoli soup revived the feeling in my numb limbs on an ice-cold winter day.
Main courses tend to arrive just minutes later, with diners unashamedly glancing over at adjacent tables to spot what’s to come. I feel comforted by memories of such instances, whether it be drooling over wild mushroom ragu on a bed of cheesy polenta, tearing up at the spices of a red fish curry, or relishing a bowl of peppery puy lentils overlaid with aubergine, blistered cherry tomatoes, and a dollop of Greek yoghurt.
Meanwhile, dessert is a first-come, first served scenario, with puddings struck off the blackboard once devoured. Fruit concoctions give a semblance of health while devilish chocolate puddings seduce your gluttonous side. As befits the kitchen’s pared-back ethos, there’s no drinks menu, diners instead offered red wine (for an extra £3) sourced from Rosie and Eric’s biodynamic vineyard, Le Domaine des Savarines, located above the river Lot in the Cahors region of South West France. Here, it’s a Merlot/Malbec blend—all grapes grown without the use of chemical sprays.
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The shop’s single requirement is that visitors are punctual, arriving by noon to make the only sitting of the day. “It’s really busy and then in an hour, it’s finished,” with no leftovers in sight. In normal times, roughly 30 covers are split between small patio-style furniture and communal wooden tables—one of which transforms into a book display after lunch, hiding any indication of the liaison that just took place.
Customers embrace the convivial spirit, squeezing up to fellow diners to make room for everybody—a picture I hope will be recreated in post-pandemic times. It’s a small space, and fewer tables can be used owing to social distancing regulations, making it even more difficult for customers—or, as Eric jokes, “the good, the bad and the uglies”—to secure a coveted table.
When we discuss the future, I’m comforted to hear that little will change. Why mess with perfection? There is an additional exciting development. The shop’s normal lunch service on a Saturday will be no more. Instead, in September Eric will launch an “old fashioned boho-chic” tea parlour chez Books for Cooks, featuring crockery and teapots purchased from the market.
“There’s so much food in the market that it’s not worth me doing three courses on the Saturday, as people graze up and down [Portobello Road],” he explains.
It’s clear from the buzz outside, however, that this is no such day. As Eric’s regulars begin to pour in to request a table—earlier than usual, I might add—I leave him to do what he does best, making people feel right at home in the heart of Notting Hill.
