Dining Out 042: Bar Levan
Dinner in Peckham.
At any given time or any given moment there are few things I want to eat more than a toastie. Am I feeling poorly? Toastie, dipped in Heinz Cream of Tomato soup. Sad? Toastie, filled with melted cheese, ripped apart and stuffed right in the piehole, probably while I’m “putting my brain in the wash” (otherwise known as watching MAFS). Jubilant? Well then, a melty crunchy toastie would simply only improve my situation.
I do not think I am alone in this: when man is bored of toasties he is bored of life. They’re a simple food, something you reach for on a day-to-day, but also somehow also a legitimate treat. And the King of all Toasties, of course, is the Croque Monsieur.
What, after all, is not to love? It’s a cheese’n’ham topped with a layer of the best bit of a lasagna, toasted and then grilled again to achieve a very precise state known scientifically as “ooziness”*. It’s hard to get wrong, but when you get it especially right, it’s a home run, a guaranteed winner, a perfect screamer from 30 yards away – and I discovered recently that they do an especially lovely job of it at Bar Levan in Peckham.
In some ways, a toastie might be a bit at odds with what you’d expect to order at an aggressively small plates-y wine bar (although in general I do feel the menus at these places lightening up a little bit), where you’d think elaborate plates of crudo and Perello olives would rule the roost – but that’s exactly why it’s good, and I think it’s a neat encapsulation of the comfy-but-sexy vibe at Bar Levan.
In a very Peckham-In-2025 turn of events, there are now quite a lot of wine bars in the area, but Bar Levan is my favourite, and the only one I go to with any regularity. It’s a multi-purpose spot: good for a little catch-up, and good for bigger groups too (this is because all of the wine is served by the glass, so you can just get whatever you actually want, rather than having to go in on a bottle of something weird and orange that costs £60, though of course if you want something weird and orange, they can do that for you). Seating is arranged so you’re close to the person or people you’re with, the light is low, the walls are Burgundy-red, the menu is written on a chalkboard, and the music is loud and fun, but well-judged enough that it doesn’t impinge on your conversation.
Every night they open nine or so wines and serve glasses of them until they run out – it’s usually a mix of light whites, “funky oranges” (lol) and reds at varying levels of chill depending on the weather, while the food has a vaguely French-by-way-of-Zone-2 bent, and ranges from snacks like olives and almonds, to steak frites to share.
On my most recent visit, I definitely went more towards the snacks side of the menu: we ended up going for a plate of anchovies in oil, fennel salami and the Big Croque to accompany a few glasses of wine (I had quite a large glass of the only chilled red wine left in the establishment because I am – say it with me – “annoying”, which I followed up with two servings of a very easy-drinking French white wine that I remember absolutely zero other concrete details about, because by that point I was – say it with me – “pissed”).
Anchovies and salami, obviously, are quite typical wine bar fodder, but you can’t deny that Bar Levan have both right. The anchovies are plump, swimming in golden, almost spicy olive oil, while the finocchiona is a never-ending portion for the price (£9); a heaping pile of ham, heavy on the fennel and the fat, good for picking up between two fingers, and tossing in like a Scooby Snack while you gesticulate a bit. Best of all, though, was the Croque Monsieur.
My desire for something stodgy had been heightened by the fact that it was zero degrees outside anyway, but the experience of eating it was one of those great combinations of a food and an ambience: a massive cheesy toastie, lit gently by candlelight as if it were the subject of a sonnet. The bread was (as is ideal) your standard white with hefty crusts, the layer of bechamel was thick across the top, and the meat inside was salty and substantial.
Like the other two items we ordered, it was pretty simple: ingredients speaking for themselves; classics that are classics for a reason. As I say, I think ultimately, this dish probably sums up Bar Levan on the whole for me – it was cosy made a little bit fancy, well-considered but not serious, and warm and welcoming rather than making you feel like you need to act a certain way, as is sometimes the vibe in these places. For the foreseeable, then, every time I drink a glass of wine and it comes without a side of crispy, chewy toastie, I will probably feel extremely short-changed.
* I’m aware that I sound like a bit of a Reels Cheese Pull Perv here, so I’m sorry for that, but if you do want to know, I think that the problem with Cheese Pull Culture is that a) it has taken cheese pull too far (I don’t need the mozzarella dipper to stretch out like I’m using it to measure up for a sofa, I just want to eat it) and b) it tries to apply the principles of ooziness where it does not belong: like, my brother in Christ, please stop doing that to that hot dog. In the context of a toastie, however, I would say that ooziness is a perfectly reasonable criteria for success. Thank you.
Dining Out is written by Lauren O’Neill and illustrated by Lucy Letherland. Weekly reviews are free to read every Thursday, and you can follow us on Instagram here, but if you’d like to see more, you can subscribe for £5 a month or £50 a year, to get extra content every second Sunday.
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