Would you believe this lunch started five years ago? Not this exact meal. Not this menu. But the reason we’re all sitting here today.
It started on Fish Lane. We didn’t need much of a reason back then. Birthdays, sure. Celebrations, sometimes. But most of the time, we just found an excuse. The rhythm became familiar: a long lunch at the gallery, Brutus for something bitter, Maker for something stirred. Along the way, we’d pick up more people - like the day itself was curating the guest list. And if the mood held, if the wine kept flowing just right, we’d end up in West End. Cacio e pepe. Natural wine. Not the fake natty stuff flooding shelves now. The real gear. Taut and complex.
Why the preamble, you might ask? Because Matt’s cooking at GOMA - and the ritual we built around it - is what brought many of us together. It’s what assembled this room today.
Pneuma. Breath. Spirit. I can’t sum up what made this menu, this restaurant, so special - not in one clean sentence. It was something you felt. Before the first plate hit the table. Before the wine was poured. It had gravity. Quiet, but strong.
Over the years, a bunch of us got pulled in. From those early days on the lane or at the gallery, a crew formed - admittedly a group that made no sense on paper. Marketers. Bar owners. Designers. Somms. A doctor. A judge. But it worked. All of us held by the pull of a restaurant with a point of view. That gravity didn’t just pull diners - it pulled artists, too. Walking up the stairs to be greeted by floral arrangements from Bottega Fiorella. Sculptural, wild, full of posture and soul. Her fingerprint was everywhere, from the walls, to the table settings. The plates, the vases, the physical language of the table, shaped with intention by Tracy at Shut Up & Relax. In my memory, the look and feel of the space became woven into the flavour of the food. One always called the other to mind.
The final meal began with Merimbula oysters, bonito, yuzu, parsley. Briny and sharp, the way an opening should be. If you knew what you were doing, you added Oscietra caviar. Champagne followed, then something lean and mineral. A Chenin Blanc from Saumur, I think. Or maybe the 2017 Jura Chardonnay. Things were moving by then.
The smoked eel cream came next. Cool, jet black, smoked right to the edge. It was served with black apple, prune, and a crisp potato tuile that cracked clean through. Then, a surprise course: the comté and onion tart. A crowd favourite. None of it resembled comfort food in the traditional sense, yet somehow, it made me sink deeper into my seat. Next came the rosemary sourdough with cultured honey and miso butter. Sweet, salty, and fermented. It set the stage for the bluefin: tuna layered over prawn and scallop mousseline, paired with tamarind eggplant and crispy rice.
By then, our resident somms had taken over the proceedings. A 2022 Csontos Furmint showed up. Opened with a wine key pulled from someone’s back pocket, like it was nothing. Of course it was there. It always is with this crowd. And then the wagyu. Course of the day. Slow-cooked, rich and indulgent, finished with cipollini onion, bone marrow, black truffle. Potatoes crisped to the edge and soaked in truffled honey vinaigrette. The appearance of the 2017 Chambolle-Musigny timed to perfection. I looked across the table. No words. Just that shared glance at a friend knowing that this would be the last time we’ll have this food, in this place, with these people.
So we drank like it mattered. A Morgon surfaced. Another bottle or two, passed quietly between hands. But for me, the finisher was the 2012 Radikon Oslavje. It grounded the moment. A bottle held back for the right occasion. And I couldn’t think of a better one than this.
By the time the desserts landed, the energy in the room had shifted. Gorgonzola ice cream with preserved fig. Then, a 58% Weiss chocolate with honey crémeux and a final serving of banana miso caramel. Rich, strange, comforting. As the plates hit the table, so did more footsteps. Friends. Family. Matt’s dog, too, wandered in, as if he wouldn’t have missed it for the world. The room began to swell with new and familiar faces, all there to pay respects, to a team, to a place.
I must stress that this isn't a eulogy, because restaurants and food like this don't die. They move. Their breath fills another space. The people who built them carry that spirit forward. Into the next menu. The next long table. So here’s to Matt, Blair, Odara. To everyone who made that place more than a restaurant. And, to everyone that was pulled into this orbit.
Pneuma wasn’t just a room. It was the force that filled it. The hand behind it moves on. So do we. But damn - it was good while it lasted.
