We love Feast with all our hearts—and guts, kidneys, and livers. This fearless English kitchen celebrates nose-to-tail eating of locally and naturally raised animals, a concept so deliciously responsible that it makes even staunch vegetarians light up in appreciation (before running for their lives). So despite the occasional inconsistencies of execution, the valet-only driveway, and having to drink a respectable, complex wine out of thick, minerally tumblers that destroy its nuances, we still give Feast three resounding cheers.

Timid diners have plenty to chew on, like braised pork finished simply with spinach and a crusty gratin of potatoes; white bean soup with tomatoes and kale; or garlicky, briny plump shrimp. But its best work is inspired by the Michelin-starred St. John in London (where one of the chef/owners of Feast worked), showcasing the guttural, primal delights that can only come from the usually discarded body bits: stuffed duck neck with lovely crunchy and charred bits; inky black pudding with a hint of mint; pan-fried beef tongue with onion gravy; lamb testicles fried to a crisp shell and gently firm, mushroomy center. It all begins with spectacular bread and softened butter, and is lovely with several of the Old World, affordable wines here. But this cuisine (and the simple décor of dark wooden beams and hearth fire) begs for something pubbier; something from the ample selection of English stouts and ales. Go on, drink your courage and be well-rewarded.