The Shoap, EC1

Scran or no scran?

The Shoap is, as far as I’m aware, singular in London. Which makes it doubly rare, because there aren’t many things that London only has one of.

But there it is: the only Scottish deli in the city.

It’s perhaps not surprising that London isn’t teeming with Scottish delicatessens. In fact, the same is probably true everywhere you go (outside of, you know, Scotland) — the Scotch diaspora hasn’t always leant into its produce. Which is a shame, because of course it’s actually pretty excellent, if you look for the right things.

There’s the whisky, of course, though The Shoap actually avoids leaning into that too heavily, perhaps recognising that scotch isn’t hard to come by elsewhere in the capital. Shortbread makes an inevitable appearance, as do black pudding and haggis, while the tattie scones have become a fast fixture in this house. But The Shoap also stocks an array of smoked fish and other seafood, Scottish cheeses, and cured meats. Modern independent producers get representation too, whether it’s small-batch fizzy drinks, craft beer, or kombu flakes made from dried Scottish seaweed.

But The Shoap pulls double duty, not only as a purveyor of Scotland’s up-market exports but also simply selling home from its bare-bricked base near Angel station. There’s Irn-Bru in all its myriad forms filling the fridge; Tennent’s on tap and tablet on the shelves; and a row of all things Tunnock’s, from teacakes to caramel to coconut snowballs, as the final temptation at the till.

You find the same dichotomy in The Shoap’s fresh food offering, both the bougie and the banal. Lunchtime sandwiches are on from midday, and change monthly, but all feel decidedly modern. A haggis chopped cheese gives a Scottish twist to the New York deli classic, adding just enough sheep innards to contribute a little funk to the minced beef patty without letting it overwhelm. Roast pork belly with black pudding and apple sauce is similarly considered, the blood sausage never allowed to dominate the essential flavours of the pig-and-apple staple. Other times they’ve offered cauliflower with blue cheese bechamel and dukka, Scottish salt beef and pickled neeps, or hot smoked salmon with mozzarella and chilli jam.

I don’t want to presume, but I suspect these aren’t combinations you’ll find routinely across Scotland, even today. But there’s some essentially Scottish core to each, some ingredient or flavour treated with respect for tradition, but more so respect for the fact that they’re just plain delicious and deserve to be cooked with craft, care, and creativity.

None of which is to say that The Shoap is entirely up itself, or doesn’t know a simple pleasure when it sees one. For one, those sandwiches can be paired with homemade pies: a dense mutton mince number that deserves to be doused in brown sauce, or a simple concoction of macaroni cheese in pie crust, which is exactly as good as it sounds.

Better still is breakfast. Bread rolls are baked each morning in the shop, and served soft, crispy, or well-fired — blackened to a crisp on top, but still pull-apart soft everywhere else. I opt for square sausage and an oozing fried egg, but I’ll be back again for black pudding. I only wish the tattie scone option came with two of the potato patties — just one gets a little lost in the mix.

There’s no special secret to The Shoap’s breakfast rolls, no especially considered construction. Just good bread, with good ingredients, cooked by a good chef, resulting in one excellent hangover cure.

And that’s really what connects every element of The Shoap: the upmarket and the down-home, the freshly prepared and the bought-in. It’s a celebration of the fact that while Scotland may not grow the greatest tomatoes or fluorescent olive oil, the scran it does offer — the black pudding, the tattie scones, the thick slabs of tablet — is extraordinary in its own right.