TwelvePointFivePercent

34, Mayfair

2012-02-07T00:54:00.000Z

For those of us, and we are many, who follow the movements of London's lively restaurant scene with the devotion of a celebrity's stalker, the last few months have offered particularly rich pickings. From former food-trucks graduating to permanent premises to world-famous chefs popping up for blink-and-you'll-miss-'em residencies in department stores, the pace and variety of new openings has been thrilling and dizzying.

Of the lot, the one that's had me most excited - which is saying something, as despite what the existence of this blog might suggest I generally don't get all that excited about new openings - is 34. By my own admission something of a Caprice Holdings fan-boy, from the moment it was announced early last year that 2011 would see the first new UK restaurant from the group since their relaunching of Scott's in 2006, I'd been looking forward to going.

Alas, delays with the lease and fit-out meant that 34's projected Autumn launch slipped back to early December, when I was being good and saving up for Christmas; by the time January, and with it the gnawing poverty and seemingly interminable wait for the new year's first pay-day that typifies that month, loomed, it felt that I would most likely have to wait as long again to actually eat at 34 as I had for it to open. But Santa must have been spreading the word about just how good a boy I'd been, because lo and behold a couple of weeks into the month an invitation came to dine at 34 as their guest; I was there as fast as you can say "Taxi to Grosvenor Square!"

(It's worth pausing here to mention that had I said "Taxi to Grosvenor Square!" I could have ended up a little lost; despite the restaurant's address being 34 Grosvenor Square, the entrance is in in fact slightly off the square on South Audley Street - just look for the bloody great flag outside).

Inside, it's an attractive room in a classic, quietly-luxurious way; those who care about such things (guilty as charged) will recognise it straight away as the work of Caprice favourite Martin Brudnizki. Pale wood panelling, leather seating the colour of Heinz Baked Beans, inoffensive modern art and cute table lamps, their cords trailing casually off the clothed tables to the wall sockets as if placed there at the last minute, combine to make for a very relaxed atmosphere - no stiff Mayfair formality here.

Steak is the focus of the modern-eclectic menu and a variety of cuts are on offer from Britain, Argentina, Australia and the US, cooked on a vast parrilla imported from Argentina and visible, from one half of the room at least, in the open kitchen. There's a selection of non-beef grills too, as well as salume, salads and caviar for those who are wealthier than they are hungry.

I can only tell you about what I ate; my host Matthew made clear early on in his precise Noel Coward-esque tones that "I do not share food; if there is anything you would like to try my darling you may order it." Intent on ordering a sizeable steak for my main course I started light with a salad of salt-baked beets, mozzarella and truffled-honey walnuts, a beautiful medley of earthy and tangy tastes and firm and pliant textures although I was surprised at how little of it there was for £13.50.

My huge steak - almost a pound of bone-in Bridge of Allan rib eye - was exceptionally good, beautifully medium-rare and full of flavour, scented but not overwhelmed by the smoke of the chargrill. I couldn't decide between Bearnaise and barbecue sauce so was offered a bit of both; both were excellent.

Side orders were great too; chips were nothing fussier than straightforward crunchy, salty French fries, while onion rings - amusingly presented like kids' stacking rings on a beautiful silver stand adorned with a cow's head - were crisp, oil-less and punchy. I was at least allowed to look at Matthew's slow-braised short ribs with horseradish; they looked lovely.

The highlight of the meal for me was dessert. In as sure a sign as any that I possibly eat out too much, I almost forewent the recommended pud of Fleur de Sel chocolate and mint bombe on the basis that I'd had a similar-sounding sweet only recently elsewhere. Persuaded by our waitress's enthusiasm for it however, I was rewarded with a gloriously OTT, almost-but-not-quite tacky plate comprising a hard chocolate sphere - dusted gold - encasing intensely-rich chocolate ice cream and perched on a bed of candied mint leaves and popping candy. Hot chocolate sauce, poured deftly over the shell from a silver jug, melted the carapace and set the candy popping in a Willy Wonka-esque bit of whimsy, and I loved it.

We drank an exceptionally nice 2008 Ridge Vineyards Lytton Springs Zinfandel from California, rich with red fruit and round on the palate, chosen for us from the list by the charming sommelier; before dinner we also polished off a couple of cocktails in the elegant bar area (complete with baby grand), as notable for how well-made they were as for the exquisite crystal glasses they were served in. Plates and cutlery, too, were gorgeous, as was every little luxurious touch from the paper seal on the pat of unsalted butter (served with wonderful bread) to individually-enveloped, mint-tipped toothpicks.

Service, from a front of house team led by Caprice stalwarts Gina Glennon (my favourite London maitre d' ever since we became pals in her Dean Street Townhouse days) and general manager Laura Montana (no relation, I'm told, to Hannah) was faultless; polite, relaxed, knowledgable and unstuffy. Everyone around us - staff and customers alike - appeared to be having jolly good fun, as indeed were we.

Try as I might to find fault with 34 - and I accepted the invitation to dinner only with the caveat that I would say exactly what I thought of the place for good or ill - the only thing I didn't love about it was that the design felt a little Brudnizki-by-numbers, but no-one who eats out a normal amount will notice that so it's hardly a flaw. I couldn't even criticise it for being expensive; there are starters on the menu for £6.50, mains from under £15, and the cheapest steak is nineteen quid, a price that wouldn't even raise a murmur in a gastropub.

There's nothing particularly 'now' about 34; the area's not edgy, the menu's familiar fare, the decor's unadventurous, bookings are taken and the live pianist is from a whole other era. Neophiles will hate it, but for exactly that reason it has 'instant classic' written all over it.

34 was a long time coming. But boy, was it worth the wait.

34, 34 Grosvenor Square, London W1K 2HD Tel: 020 3350 3434 http://www.34-restaurant.co.uk

Mishkin's, WC2

2012-01-23T01:59:00.001Z

Photos throughout by Paul Winch-Furness www.paulwf.co.uk

For anyone operating a restaurant specialising in the cuisine of a particular country or culture, being considered 'authentic' by experts and ex-pats can be both a blessing and a burden. While a reputation for the truest tapas, realest rendang or most verisimilitudinous Vietnamese usually results in a clamour for tables and healthy profits, get things wrong and your faux French or ersatz Asian will make you the object of every food snob's opprobrium.

Only a restaurateur with the supreme confidence and chutzpah of Russell Norman would dare to open a restaurant as wilfully, joyously inauthentic as Mishkin's, described on its website as 'a kind-of Jewish deli with cocktails'. Even as I write this, I can't help but wonder if from conception to delivery Norman wasn't chuckling knowingly to himself at the froth some critics would work themselves up into at just how un-kosher the place is, not only in the sense of the food not adhering properly to kashrut - there's a pork hotdog on the menu for G_d's sake - but also in the liberties it takes with Jewish culinary tradition.

I make no claims to any level of expertise in this area (hell, in any area) so I really can't tell you if the matzo balls are dense (or light) enough, if the salt beef has enough (or too much, or too little) fat, or if the oxtail cholent needs more or less seasoning. But to judge the food qua Jewish food is to completely miss the point of Mishkin's, the point made by that all-important 'kind-of': this isn't meant be an authentic Jewish deli, this is Norman's own playful take on one - and oy is it fun.

The interior at Mishkin's http://www.paulwf.co.uk/

Mishkin's - or 'E.Mishkin' as the sign on the mirror-finish black and chrome shopfront would suggest it more properly be known - stands on Catherine Street in Covent Garden, just round the corner from Norman and business partner Richard Beatty's last opening, da Polpo, on Maiden Lane.

Like all of Norman and Beatty's restaurants, Mishkin's interior is a Zeitgeisty marriage of old and new, salvaged and bespoke. One long wall is exposed brick, the other stripped tongue and groove, while the stairs down to the toilets and the loos themselves are papered in eye-popping 70s patterns. Everything else is pure Formica caff, from the melamine tables to the tin plates and plastic squeezy sauce bottles all bought, Russell delights in telling you, from a Soho pound shop.

Seating is available at the horseshoe-bar - another hallmark, at tables for two, booths accommodating up to six or in what must surely be one of the capital's smallest private dining rooms, an old radio sound booth complete with 'On Air' light and concealing a table for four. If the dining room feels a little tightly-packed, and at night dimly-lit, it all just adds to the carefully-cultivated feeling of intimacy which begins at the very front of the room with the net curtain across the window obscuring passers-by's view of the action within.

As to the food, the Jewish-ish menu is an appealing all-day affair divided into Sandwiches, Meatballs, All Day Brunch, All Day Supper, and Salads, Sides & Extras. Over the course of two visits I worked my way through a decent cross-section of dishes and loved every single one. Cod cheek popcorn, nuggets of sweet fish in a light batter, tossed with green chilli for bite, was superb. The Big Apple Hotdog, served 'dragged through the garden' - topped with sauerkraut and onions - was huge and filling, a meal in itself even without its doughy white bun; likewise duck hash, fried egg and liquor - gravy - which takes over from the truffled egg toast at Spuntino as my new favourite hangover dish.

Another cleverly conceived dish is the meatloaf; served in an individual baking tin, when cut into a whole soft-boiled egg is revealed, like a diner interpretation of a Gala pie. A dish of latkes - small potato rosti - served with smoked eel, apple sauce and sour cream was a delicious medley of textures and tastes, contrasting the salt of the fish with the tartness of apple and the hot crunch of the latkes with cold, smooth cream.

Desserts are limited but cover most bases from light apple and honey pancakes ('blintz') to an excellent chocolate chip cookie served warm with ice-cream. My favourite however - so much so that I ordered it on both visits - was the Bananas Foster, a great big bowl of bananas, caramel sauce laced with rum and vanilla ice-cream.

A limited, and slightly pricy, selection of wines is available, including a very drinkable red Grenache, but the real fun is to be had with the classic gin-based cocktails. Don't be fooled into thinking that the dainty crystal glasses mean dainty measures as they pack a serious punch - the cucumber Martini, made with Hendrick's gin, is light, refreshing and dangerously moreish. Other spirits are available for non-gin-drinkers; a perfectly prepared Old Fashioned finished off visit 1 very nicely.

Pricing is reasonable both for quality and portion size and for the area; rather than the small plates familiar from other restaurants in the group, all dishes at Mishkin's could serve comfortably as a substantial snack or as a main course with the addition of a side order from a list which includes, joy of joys, fried green tomatoes. Ample food for two with a bottle of wine or a couple of cocktails and service came to about £45 a head, but a typical bill for a pit-stop brunch or quick supper won't be more than about £25. Service - from a team ably led by Polpo-group cutie Carmen McIlveen is a just-right blend of laid-back and sassy.

Mishkin's manager Carmen McIlveen http://www.paulwf.co.uk/

Many people will, I think, not 'get' Mishkin's, expecting it be 'authentic' despite it not making any claim whatsoever to be. I don't care, and nor should you, whether Mishkin's is a good Jewish restaurant, just whether it's a good restaurant full stop. And it is. It really, really is.

Mazel tov, Russell and Richard. Mazel tov!

E. Mishkin, 25 Catherine Street, London WC2B 5JS Tel: 020 7240 2078 http://www.mishkins.co.uk/

Le Relais de Venise 'L'Entrecôte'

2012-01-14T17:51:00.000Z

Living, as we are privileged to do, in a democracy, choice is held to be totemic of everything that is good in our society. Who we vote for, where we live, what we do for a living, who we have sex with - or not - are all inviolably our choices; their protection is enshrined in law and if we should ever feel that our freedoms are being restricted we have the choice to take to the streets, airwaves or ballot box to make our dissatisfaction known.

Trying to get through to my broadband provider just after Christmas however, to berate them for the fact that, yet again, I had no service, I came to think that choice was perhaps not such a great thing. "OK, " the recorded woman said in a nasal drone that made me want to kill someone and then myself, "you now have five choices..." I listened and pressed the appropriate button. "OK, you now have five choices" she repeated; "No!" screamed I, "I have just made my choice, were you not listening?" But it transpired that these were in fact five more choices; I made mine and waited to be connected to a human being.

"OK, you now have five choices..." "WHAT?!" I blustered, "but madame you have already given me five choices, and then another five; what could I possibly want with five more? What could anyone want with fully fifteen choices, when all I want is to speak to one customer 'service' operative and get my broadband fixed pronto?" My blustering was for naught; I had to make a choice - had to - or I would never be afforded the privilege of speaking to one of their highly-skilled 'people' - so highly-skilled that for me to be put through to precisely the right one necessitated the navigation of fifteen choices. I made my choice and waited, all the while eyeing up my living room window and wondering whether throwing myself from it would bring a swift and merciful death or merely cripple me.

With this trauma still indelibly fresh in my mind, I approached lunch at Le Relais de Venise 'L'Entrecote' with an enthusiasm that might be surprising to anyone who has read the to-say-the-least mixed reviews that have preceded this one. The reason you see is that, at L'Entrecôte, there is absolutely no choice at all.

Although a menu displayed by the door cheerfully announces that 'Today' one can have steak 'with its famous sauce, French fries and green salad with walnuts', that is in fact all you can have, any day of the year, and it's this formula that is strictly adhered to at Le Relais de Venise's handful of sites around the world. Black and white-uniformed waitresses ask how you would like your steak cooked (and then scribble this on the paper tablecloth) and take drinks orders from an ultra-concise six bin wine list, but that's where your choices end.

Even how I'd ended up somewhere about which everything shrieks 'Tourist Trap! Avoid!', comes back to choice, or rather lack of it; my lunch date Scott had wanted to take me somewhere else in his Marylebone neighbourhood for a post-Christmas, pre-New Year catch-up, but like in so many other villages, pretty much everywhere was shut. So L'Entrecôte and its entrecôte were our only choices.

And do you know what? It was fine. Not the best steak I've ever had, nor the best chips and definitely not the best (or most exciting) salad, but very far from the worst and, at £21 for the whole lot including a same-quantity-again second serving of steak-frites, indisputably good value. The 'famous sauce', the exact composition of which excites nerds the world over as much as the exact make-up of The Colonel's eleven herbs and spices or the recipe for Coca-Cola, was really rather tasty, creamy and heavy on herbs like a slightly tart pesto.

A half-bottle of house Bordeaux was perfectly drinkable, and at eight quid brought a very pleasant, filling two course lunch for two, with seconds, to just £50 pre-tip. While I wouldn't race back to L'Entrecôte I certainly wouldn't avoid it, and nor it would seem would the moneyed Russian/Arab clientele who, Scott tells me, pack the place out even on days when other choices are available.

To finish off my broadband saga: eventually - after a quarter of an hour on hold during which I was invited to choose which of four genres of tinny piped music I would most like to endure, which struck me as being akin to asking an extraordinarily rendered innocent whether he'd prefer water-boarding or sleep deprivation - I got through to a real-live person who, unable to fix things remotely, booked an engineer's visit.

When she said "Would you like to choose a time-slot?" all I could think was that if only the clever people behind Le Relais de Venise ran call centres, the world would be an altogether happier place.

Le Relais de Venise 'L'Entrecôte', 120 Marylebone Lane, London W1U 2QG Tel: 020 7486 0878 http://www.relaisdevenise.com

Sumosan, Mayfair

2012-01-03T17:29:00.000Z

Coming on for two-and-half-years ago, in one of my very first blog posts, I stated with the sniffy hubris of a know-it-all newcomer that the subject, Automat, occupied 'the site of Oliver Peyton's late, unlamented Coast'. I thought it sounded terribly clever to be so in-the-know, and it's an affectation that's stayed with me down the years - most of my posts make some reference to where a restaurant is (over and above its London district) and what if anything it used to be.

Thank goodness then that the three or so readers I had back in 2009 either didn't notice or knew even less than I thought I did about restaurant premises, because blow me down if I didn't realise, upon arriving for a dinner date at Sumosan, that it in fact occupies 'the site of Oliver Peyton's late, unlamented Coast' and that Automat was, and always had been, on the next street along. Whoops.

Sumosan opened on said vacated site in 2002, a London outpost of a small chain with established branches in Moscow and Kiev. Despite never attracting nearby Nobu's level of fame (or notoriety - to the best of my knowledge no love-children have been conceived on the stairs) Sumosan has obviously been doing something right, as on the evidence of my visit business would appear to be booming. It will come as no surprise, given the Russian backing and super-prime Mayfair location, that Sumosan is aimed squarely at the kind of customer for whom recession only affects the hairline, and on a freezing winter night the huge main dining room and smaller downstairs bar were packed.

To anyone acquainted with London's (or indeed Moscow's) higher-end Japanese restaurants, the menu at Sumosan will be familiar fare; superior sushi and sashimi are offered alongside a lengthy selection of mostly fish dishes, all using only the finest produce at prices to match. I was fortunate to be dining as a guest of the restaurant so was able to order just about everything that appealed; had I not been, prices starting at a fiver for a simple bowl of miso soup would have had me fluttering my eyelashes at the nearest thick-necked, expensively-suited Russkie in the hope of his picking up the bill.

Our tastebuds awakened by a glass of bubbly, aforementioned miso and some salty, warm edamame, we started with some perfect rock shrimp tempura, served with a creamy, spicy dipping sauce, and heady, delicate yellowtail sashimi with truffle.

Lobster salad was as beautiful to eat as to look at; chunks of claw meat in a sweet citrusy dressing came encased in frilly green leaves, the whole assemblage forming a pretty green sphere like a 1950s swimming cap.

Kaiso (seaweed) salad with peanut was fabulous, a rich, nutty palate cleanser to prepare us for silken scallop and sublime toro sashimi. Tuna and truffle California rolls were a decadent take on perhaps the most ubiquitous of sushi dishes. The night's revelation came in the form of red sea urchin roe served in the shell, the top sliced off like an aquatic boiled egg. Quite unlike anything I can remember tasting - smooth, creamy, slightly nutty but with a definite whack of the sea, for once I could see why this particular delicacy is so highly prized.

We finished with a trio of hot dishes which delivered two hits and the night's only miss. Black cod in miso - street food in Japan but the pricy signature of any western restaurant with an eye to the Rising Sun - was amazingly good: sticky and rich, texturally firm enough to pick up with chopsticks but then collapsing almost to syrup in the mouth. Sweet shrimp, served in cute little nuggets just begging to be picked up by fingers and popped in the mouth, was like delicious savoury popcorn. The one slightly duff dish was vegetable tempura; it was fine, with good crunch to both batter and veg, but bland in comparison to everything else and not even enlivened by the accompanying dipping sauce.

I'd love to be able to tell you what we drank, but all I remember is that there were two bottles of it (which possibly explains my amnesia), it was a buttery white - a Meursault? - chosen for us by the chatty, approachable sommelier and very nice indeed.

I'd also love to be able to tell you what this all cost, but in a move perhaps intended to not put people off coming, or simply in recognition of the fact that Sumosan's core customer isn't all that worried about money, there are no prices on the rather clunky corporate website. My guess would be about £100-a-head; four dishes less than we greedily had and just the one bottle of wine would halve that, and you'd still be in for a treat.

The decor's rather dated - I'm not sure it's had more than an occasional lick of paint since 2002 - but everything else about Sumosan is excellent and I highly recommend a visit. When it opened - on, let's not forget, the site of Oliver Peyton's late, unlamented Coast - one critic wondered if Sumosan would last 'a couple of years'. Well pass the chopsticks someone, because nearly ten years later, she needs to eat her words.

Sumosan, 26B Albemarle Street, London W1S 4HY Tel: 020 7495 5999 http://www.sumosan.com

My Top 5 Restaurants of 2011

2011-12-28T00:03:00.001Z

I was flattered to be asked recently to name my top five restaurants of 2011 for a feature on Toptable, the restaurant booking site. In a year where there have been a few brilliant restaurant meals, many memorable ones and a couple of complete turkeys it was quite a challenge to pick just five favourites, but these are the ones that eventually made the list. My comments as published on Toptable are in italics and, as I'm not constrained by word count here, I've elaborated on why I chose these five (OK, six) out of all the places I've eaten at in 2011.

Brunswick House Cafe, Vauxhall I’ve completely fallen in love with this casual, cool cafe which serves up simple but considered British food at incredibly reasonable prices in the shabby chic surroundings of London’s grandest salvage merchants. Great cocktails and wine list too.
Since my first visit in April I've been back to Brunswick House Cafe many times and it just keeps on getting better. Well-deserved success and increased renown - all the big critics have visited during the year with only AA Gill leaving less than wowed - have meant longer opening hours and increased size, but the prices remain low and the cooking assured even if service occasionally struggles to keep up. It's impossible not to feel incredibly smug that I live just an easy ten minute stagger away from this true gem.
Brawn, Columbia Road From the people behind Terroirs and newly-opened Soif comes Brawn, a warm and welcoming room offering superlative charcuterie, awesome offal and blinding bistro dishes. The wine list is clever and reasonably priced with some unusual bins, and prices are a steal.
This was one of my meals of the year for many reasons; not just the fantastic food, brilliant wine and fabulous company, but also because the excitement of the experience dragged me out of a kind of torpor that almost saw me giving up blogging. Although I've not (yet) been back myself, many positive reports from readers and friends who visited on the back of my rave post confirm that Brawn is every bit as good as I remember it being. I'm looking forward to a re-visit soon.
Scott’s, Mayfair Although there are many pretenders to the crown, including its own new stablemate 34, for sheer glamour and unabashed luxury there’s just no beating celebrity seafood haunt Scott’s. The food’s fantastic, the service flawless and the atmosphere just crackles with excitement. Expensive, but so, so worth it.

It will surprise exactly no-one that I love a side order of glamour with my main course, and nowhere is it served up more generously than at Scott's. I loved the room, loved the buzz, and on top of it all had an absolutely cracking meal - the pudding particularly was one of the best I had all year.
The Drapers Arms, Islington & The Devonshire, Chiswick Joint honours for Nick Gibson’s brace of brilliant boozers which he’s thoughtfully located north and south of the river. Both deliver astonishingly good, meticulously sourced food and great wines and beers in unpretentious but elegant pub surroundings. I had my birthday lunch at Drapers and it blew everyone’s socks off - best pork belly anywhere, ever.

As with Brunswick House Cafe, Drapers Arms has become one of my most frequently visited haunts and my birthday lunch there really was the stuff dreams are made of. The Devonshire (or as I call, it 'Drapers West') has yet to make an appearance on this blog because I've only visited, so far, for 'friends and family'-type feasts rather than as a paying punter. I have no hesitation recommending it however as the food, drinks and welcome have all been first class: a game feast during grouse season was stellar.

Spuntino, Soho It seems that barely a week goes by without Russell Norman and Richard Beatty opening another restaurant, and while Polpetto remains my favourite of their now-five-strong stable, it’s Spuntino that kept me most entertained in 2011. Yes it’s loud, crepuscular and harder to get into than Ulysses but boy is it FUN. Be warned: the deep-fried stuffed olives are seriously addictive.
Spuntino featured in the Top 5 of many of the other bloggers and writers invited to contribute to the feature, and deservedly so. Within the stylish, sophisticated, at times aloof Polpo family, Spuntino is the sexy, rebellious youngster everyone wants to hang out with (and Mishkin's his new-off-the-boat, groovy Jewish-American uncle). If you've not yet joined the gang, get yourself along to Rupert Street pronto.
Have you visited any of my Top 5? Do you rate them as highly as I do? I'd love to know. Comment below or over on Google+, or tweet me: @HRWright

Ida, Queen's Park

2011-11-27T11:27:00.001Z

One of my dear late father's favourite aphorisms - which I always thought of, fondly, as his statements of the bleeding obvious - was to say to anyone who complained that they couldn't find something, "You always find it in the last place you look!" It never occurred to him that this was the case because having found something you cease to look for it, but I loved him too much to point this out.

Now, as my brace of regular readers will know, my pal Michael Ford and I have had a few hits and misses in our search for a restaurant that caters just as well to his vegetarian lacto-free diet as to my 'if it baas, moos or oinks, kill it, heat it, sauce it and serve it' approach to eating. But would you believe it, my dear old dad was right after all because it looks like we've found it in the last place we looked - right on newly-moved-to-London Michael's doorstep.

I spotted Ida, on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Kilburn Lane in Queen's Park, en route to Michael's flat-warming party and was instantly attracted by its turquoise masonry and the candle-lit glow emanating from inside. A glance at the menu revealed the food on offer to be traditional Italian, with an emphasis on the home-made and plenty of meat-free options for Mr Ford, and we resolved to try Ida out at a later date.

On the night of said date things got off to an unreassuring start when Michael arrived on the dot of our booking time only to find Ida in darkness and looking distinctly closed. Fortunately this turned out to not be the case; doors were soon unlocked and candles lit, but for the duration of the meal I couldn't quite shake the feeling that had they not had bookings, Ida would have remained shut for the night.

Inside, it's a cute little space, the walls covered in a mix of film posters, paintings, cartoons and signs, all with an Italian theme in keeping with the cuisine. It's the kind of look that chains pay designers good money to emulate but which here has evolved organically. An open kitchen overlooks the candelit room, casting the only additional light; it's crepuscular to say the least, and while some will find it romantic, daters and non-couples alike will struggle to read the menu.

Of said menu, a number of dishes were either unavailable or had substitutions, including to my great disappointment the rabbit ragu I'd had my eye on which had become chicken for the night. Nonetheless, plenty of what was available appealed, and my starter of molinata - a coarse puree of broad beans, Swiss chard and spinach on a garlic bruschetta - was delicious, especially once some black pepper had been added to balance out slight over-saltedness. Michael's thick, rustic lentil soup was a little watery, and very tomatoey, but still tasty and nourishing and a generous portion for a starter.

Although there's a short list of meat, fish and vegetarian secondi on offer, the real interest in the menu lies in the hand-made pasta dishes, and as all are offered in primo or main course-sizes we followed with these. Michael's tagliatelle - a mix of spinach and egg varieties - with an intense, wild mushroom sauce was superficially simple but notable for excellent pasta and the deeply-flavoured velvety sauce. Best by far though was my agnolini, little flat parcels filled with a blend of three meats (I didn't ask which, but from the sweetness of the filling I'd guess at veal, with perhaps some beef and chicken) and bathed in a beautiful buttery sauce. The pasta was just on the hard side of al dente, but not so much as to find any fault with.

We skipped desserts, partly due to being quite full from the large portions and partly because neither of the two options - tiramisu and raspberry sponge - appealed. This lack of choice was representative of a wider issue at Ida, namely that the menu should be viewed more as a guide to what might be available on any given visit, not to what will be.

Service, too, verged on the haphazard; two plates would be brought over only for one to be whisked away to another diner (of which there were only very few) and our hand-written bill was hilariously over-calculated, but the overall effect was more charming than irritating. With a nice-enough bottle of Primitivo from the short, all-Italian list, a Limoncello, an espresso (not great, it must be said) and 12.5% service - an addition which whilst not unusual in itself seemed oddly grabby for a quiet neighbourhood restaurant - our bill came to £71.00, placing Ida firmly in the 'affordable' bracket and definitely meriting a re-visit.

It's far from perfect - the name Ida means 'work', and it needs some - but I'd wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone lucky enough to live nearby, as of course Michael now does. I rather think I'll be seeing a lot more of both of them.

Ida, 167 Fifth Avenue, London W10 4DT Tel: 020 8969 9853 http://www.idarestaurant.co.uk

Banana Tree, Soho

2011-11-13T17:56:00.001Z

I had to admire the chutzpah of the marketing guy who sent me, unsolicited, a pretty-generous gift voucher to spend at the newly-opened Soho branch of growing Indochine canteen chain Banana Tree. "We would like to invite you personally to come and try out our new restaurant in Soho!" went the accompanying email; "If you like us, blog it! - if you hate us - let us know, as we are all about improvement and value all opinions, especially yours."

Flattery will get you everywhere with me, and where it doesn't get you bribery usually will, so an offer comprising both was always going to be pretty compelling. If I felt the slightest hint of righteous indignation at so flagrant an attempt to curry my favour, it was swiftly dispelled by the mischievous knowledge that even if I did love the place I didn't have to write about it, and if I hated the place, I didn't have to not write about it - the very opposite of their desired outcomes and more fool them for sending out money willy-nilly. Talk about sticking it to the (marketing) man.

But such an expensive and potentially risky marketing strategy must have been backed up by as much confidence in the product as money in the budget and sure enough, Banana Tree was, well, pretty top banana. Conscious that readers might not take me at my word knowing that my presence there had essentially been bought, I took along my pal Nicola who, as a director of a high-end hotel and restaurant group knows her stuff and would, I knew, not hold back with her opinions good or bad. Guess what? She loved the place too.

Photo used with kind permission of Greedy Diva

The Soho outpost of Banana Tree - there are also branches in Angel, Clapham, Bayswater and West Hampstead - replaces what was a large Itsu on Wardour Street, evidently hoping to thrive where another Oriental chain didn't. The decor is a pleasant, funky-chain-by-numbers get up of exposed air ducts, concrete floors, low-hanging lanterns and open kitchen; if it's not original, it's at least bright, comfortable and welcoming, an ambience further enhanced by lovely staff.

Describing itself as an 'Indochina Kitchen', Banana Tree's idiosyncratically laid-out menu takes diners on a culinary tour of that region from Vietnam in the east, inland to Thailand and south to Malaysia and Singapore. We started with some Nyonya Achar - beautiful peanut and sesame-scented pickles, tasty crispy filo rolls with a punchy nuoc mam dipping sauce and a surprisingly delicious char-grilled aubergine half with aromatic caramel sauce. A sworn aubergine-denier, even I had to admit that served like this, eggplant was distinctly edible.

Poor Nicola suffers from that cruellest of afflictions, Vegetarianism, but her wretched kind are thoughtfully looked after here. Some dishes are confusingly described as being suitable for 'selective vegetarians' only, meaning that they contain eggs and/or fish sauce; Nicky erred on the side of caution and ordered the fabulously-named Thai Monks' Vegan Delight. A colourful fragrant stir-fry of pak choy, shitake mushrooms and tofu with garlic, Thai basil and vegetarian oyster sauce, it also introduced both of us to 'mock duck', a wheat protein-based meat substitute which looked, and I'll grudgingly admit tasted, pretty ducky.

I wanted to avoid ordering 'The Legendary Rendang' for the same reason I avoid staying in hotels that call themselves things like 'Splendide' and 'Excelente', namely that they're usually quite the opposite. But persuaded by our sweet waitress's enthusiastic recommendation, not to mention the endorsement of a Malaysian friend who'd visited earlier in the week, I went ahead and had it anyway and it was absolutely, well, legendary. Long, slow cooking of the beef in a top-secret blend of spices, the sauce reduced over time to a thick gravy, made the rendang a rich, sweet treat with just enough curry heat to stimulate without blowing one's head off.

This is the point in a post where I usually say something along the lines of, "we were stuffed but gamely soldiered on to desserts" - not so on this occasion. Our palates nicely tingling and stomachs not over-full from our savoury courses, Nic and I were both fancying something sweet to round things off and asked for a dessert menu, only to be told - to our great surprise and disappointment - that Banana Tree don't do desserts. None. At. ALL. Not even a banana split! They have proscribed puddings, sacrificed sweets, abrogated afters. Why I don't know, and nor it would seem do the staff, but it brought what had otherwise been a very enjoyable meal to a premature and unwelcome close.

With a serviceable bottle of rosé at £16.95 from a drinks list which also takes in cocktails, mocktails (groan), spritzers and raw juices, our bill came to a perfectly reasonable £55, and as this was just under the value of the gift voucher I'd been lured in with I'd guess that this has been worked out as being about the typical spend for a couple.

So a good meal and time were had, but one thing about the experience leaves rather a bad taste in the mouth. Because our bill was covered by the voucher, we left a cash tip so that the staff who had served us wouldn't miss out on any discretionary service charge, and later, closer inspection of the bill revealed that 10% service is indeed automatically added. I don't mind this in principle - 12.5% is the norm, as the title of this blog attests - but it occurred to me that I couldn't remember seeing this stated anywhere. Looking at the menu, it is there, but in tiny print in an already text-heavy section that most diners will disregard. Because of this, they'll leave unaware that the 10% 'will be shared among the kitchen staff, waiting staff and management'.

This, I have to say, appals me; I've always trusted that the 'service' charge I pay in restaurants is used to reward the (usually low-paid) staff who provide the actual service, not to provide a bit of extra cash for the kitchen staff and management who, although obviously involved in the process of getting the food to my table, don't have to put up with my endless questions/flirtation/general showing off in the same way as waiters do. If, as I expect I will, I visit a branch of Banana Tree again, I'll be insisting that the service charge not be added to the bill and tip the waiter or waitress directly instead. I encourage you to do the same.

Banana Tree, 103 Wardour Street, London W1F 0UQ Tel: 020 7437 1351 http://www.bananatree.co.uk

Manson, Fulham

2011-11-06T14:30:00.000Z

The late comedy genius Bob Monkhouse used to do a wonderful line about people's insistence on asking him to tell them a joke just because he was a comedian. "I don't really mind," Bob would say, "but they wouldn't do it to any other profession. I mean, If I said I was a gynaecologist, would they ask me to have a look at the wife?"

I feel for Bob. As a restaurant blogger - some would even say 'food writer' - I'm frequently asked "What's your favourite restaurant?" or increasingly, "Who's your favourite chef?" with the expectation that I'll have an immediate and definitive answer. Which I don't.

The first one isn't too tricky; I have several favourite restaurants depending on my mood so I'll just pick whichever one I'm feeling most favourably disposed towards at the time. But the second one always stumps me, because I'm not really into chefs. I'm aware of them, sure, and could name a few (and a few I fancy - I'm looking lustily at you, Tom Oldroyd), but I don't really have favourites. I'm much more interested in restaurateurs, the characters behind the places I love to eat in - the Richard Carings, Henry Dimblebys and Russell Normans of the world - than in the men and women putting the food on my plate.

That could all change however on the strength of the absolutely flawless game feast I recently enjoyed at Manson on Fulham Road, prepared by their newly-arrived head chef Alan Stewart. Those of you who care about such things will no doubt be impressed to know that Alan's CV includes stints at Chez Bruce - consistently voted one of London's favourite restaurants in every poll that allows Joe Public a say, and very near the top of my 'must-go' list - and the swishy Launcestone Place. All I care about is the fact that he's responsible for one of the best and most memorable meals I've had in many years.

Manson - named after one of its owners rather than an insane killer or shock rocker, although he may be both - opened in 2010 as a Modern European restaurant with a fancy chef and fancier menu and by all accounts was very well-received. Rather too well, in fact; the place got swamped, despite its off-the-beaten-track location, service couldn't cope, and the owners found themselves attempting to run a fine dining destination when all they'd wanted to create was a better-than-the-competition local bistro.

Alan Stewart's appointment marks a change of culinary tack; the menu is now as solidly British as our host for the evening, co-owner Mark Dyer, a former Welsh Guardsman and equerry to Princes William and Harry, who shot the game that Alan then transformed into a feast fit for a (future) king. We started with a silky, rich venison tartare, the meat hung for ten days before being hand chopped, mixed with shallots and meticulously-precise dice of beetroot and seasoned with salt and juniper pepper, Stewart's ingenious blend of dried juniper berries and black peppercorns. A slick of celeriac purée and shaved Kentish cobnuts - hazelnuts' fashionable brother - added earthiness and crunch.

Next came partridge, served as a terrine of braised leg and breast with an additional leg perched on top. The use of honey, both in the braising liquid used to cook the game and in the vinaigrette used to dress the finished dish, brought an unexpected sweetness that made this a lighter course than its description might suggest. This was a clever act of balancing, it would transpire, because in contrast the main course that followed - Yorkshire grouse with damsons and savoy cabbage - was as big, butch and robust as they come.

After the disappointment of the timid 'beginner's bird' I'd been served the night before at Bread Street Kitchen I was ready for some proper, unapologetic, bloody, stinking-to-high-heaven grouse and boy oh boy was this it. A fat breast, cooked very pink, and pungent leg came atop a slab of home-made seeded treacle bread smeared with a pâté made from the bird's offal; damsons from Norfolk, both pickled and as jam, and a grouse sauce pulled it all together. I absolutely loved it, so much so that Alan let me take home what was left of the treacle loaf at the end of the night.

We finished with a beautiful Braeburn apple tarte tatin with clove ice cream; I wasn't a huge fan of the ice cream, a taste for cloves being one I've never really acquired, but I could see that the flavours worked together. The tarte itself was stunning, a perfect balance of sweet and sharp, soft and crisp, and expunged all memories of the abomination I'd endured a few weeks ago at La Brasserie.

To rinse this all down, sommelier Mickey Narea had picked some choice bottles from Manson's thoughtfully put-together and keenly priced list. With the venison we enjoyed a dry red fruit-rich Yering Pinot Noir 2008 before moving on to a full-bodied spicy 2008 Limousin Reserva, Marques de Riscal Rioja with the partridge. My favourite was the peppery, earthy 2004 St Emilion, Chateau Vieille Tour from Bordeaux chosen to go with the grouse; grown-up food needs a grown-up wine and this was certainly it. A refreshing sticky Coteaux de Layon disappeared along with the tarte tatin.

Not a restaurant I would, if I'm honest, necessarily have rushed to visit had I not been invited along for this special feast, Manson is now a restaurant that I'm eager to get back to and warmly recommend. The room's cosily neo-rustic, the staff seem to be very happy to work there and in Mark Dyer - or Marko, or Ginge; like all men of his class he has various nicknames - it has a patron as charming and gregarious as any of my restaurateur idols.

But the real star of the show is, of course, the chef. Alan Stewart's approach to cooking - British, seasonal and ultra-local (most of his veg are grown on Manson's own allotment nearby, they smoke their own bacon, bake their own bread and churn their own butter) - is right-on and right-now, and the food coming out of his kitchen is truly exceptional. The next time I'm asked, as I surely will be, to name my favourite chef, I'm happy to say I'll have an answer.

Manson, 676 Fulham Road, London SW6 5SA Tel: 020 7384 5959 http://www.mansonrestaurant.co.uk

Cicheti - Telegraph Online

2011-11-05T09:24:00.001Z

I've recently started contributing to the London pages of Telegraph Online, and following a few words in a piece on London's most stylish bars and joint top-billing with another writer in a 'debate' on whether we'd pay £250 for a meal at The French Laundry at Harrods (I wouldn't, since you're wondering), my first solo outing appeared last month. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed the arduous research that went into it...

Cecconi's first introduced cicheti to London

While some mass-market fashion brands tread a very thin line between ‘referencing’ big-name designers and flagrantly copying them, it’s an accepted principle that trends eventually filter down from haute couture to the high street.

But when the huge Italian restaurant chain Zizzi announced recently that it was introducing a cicheti menu, it was the first time, to my knowledge, that the equivalent had happened in food: a trend transitioning from the capital’s chicest tables to some of its cheapest.

Although any dish smaller than a traditional starter is nowadays erroneously and annoyingly described as ‘tapas’, cicheti actually are Italy’s, or more specifically Venice’s, answer to Iberia’s beloved bar snacks. Served in backstreet bàcari for around €1 apiece, cicheti are small savoury mouthfuls intended to be ordered one-by-one, either by pointing at the desired item in a glass cabinet on the bar or by helping oneself from a tray passed around by the owner.

Cicheti were introduced to London by Cecconi’s, the venerable and perennially fashionable Italian restaurant in Mayfair, and for many years this was the only place they could be enjoyed in the capital. Here, still the most elegant location in which to sample cicheti, a traditional selection - chicken liver crostini, meatballs in tomato sauce - is served in grand surroundings at far-from-traditional prices ranging from £3-£8 per portion.

Read the rest, if so inclined, over at Telegraph Online

Bread Street Kitchen, St Paul's

2011-10-26T21:12:00.000+01:00

Say what you like about Gordon Ramsay - and boy oh boy, people do - but while he's had a few hits and misses in recent years, and been in the public eye more for his extra-culinary activities than for anything he's done at a stove, his roll-call of restaurants and protégés is undeniably impressive.
His flagship Restaurant Gordon Ramsay in Chelsea remains one of just four in the UK to hold three Michelin stars and he retains one star at both Petrus and Maze. Meanwhile, chefs who came to prominence under Ramsay - Angela Hartnett, Marcus Wareing, Mark Sargeant and Jason Atherton - have harvested stars and critical acclaim in their own rights and whatever the degree of acrimony with which they might have parted ways with Gordon, none of them denies his influence.
Mindful perhaps of the restaurant-going (and wider) public's ambivalence to their nominal figurehead, Gordon Ramsay Holdings seem to have played down his involvement in Bread Street Kitchen. His name is nowhere to be found on any of the branding or menus, and unlike all of his other restaurants, BSK has its own website (the others just have sub-sections on www.gordonramsay.com) which tellingly describes the new venture as being 'from the team at Gordon Ramsay Restaurants' rather than from the man himself. No matter; there's plenty to recommend about the place whoever's name is - or indeed, is not - above the door.
Actually 'doors' would be more accurate, as this is a huge site spread over two floors of One New Change, a new shopping mall seconds from St Paul's Cathedral. Restaurant designer du jour Russell Sage, responsible for several of Ramsay's more recent openings as well as The Zetter Townhouse and newcomer The Balcon, has created a fantastic space that's part school science lab - an abundance of anglepoise lamps, brass microscopes and large communal tables that resemble dissection benches - and part meat-packing warehouse with exposed ventilation ducts, overhead gangways (one housing a 'wine balcony') and tiled floors and service counters.

Despite the laboratory-ish vibe to the place there's nothing experimental about the confusingly-laid-out menu, which offers an unintimidating range of grills, fish and pasta dishes alongside a selection of seafood and cured meats from the 'Raw Bar' (let's ignore for a moment that cooked food served cold doesn't technically count as 'raw').
Between our group - a half-dozen or so bloggers invited along to try out BSK by the company - we tried a broad cross-section of the dishes on offer and for the most-part, it was pretty good. My starter of king crab and apple cocktail with pink peppercorns was prettily retro in appearance but tasted more of its sweet dressing and the fruit than crab, and was steeply priced at £15. Better value - indeed, just better - were five oysters with cucumber and chive vinaigrette at £12.50.
Ceps on toast with a poached egg looked lovely, especially as the bright gold yolk oozed out over the mushrooms, but was bland, while crisp pig's head - actually croquettes - with green chilli mayonnaise promised much but under-delivered. Best of the starters by some way was baked Orkney scallops with treacle-cured bacon and bittercress, satisfyingly huge and beautifully sweet.
Main courses were more consistent. Poussin, in fact one-and-a-half chargrilled birds, was a popular order and proved worthwhile. Roasted grouse with (raw) ceps and watercress was a beginner's bird, lacking the pungency of a really well-hung specimen and somewhat overpowered by the garlic crouton it was served on, but nonetheless discernibly good game. Plump steamed bass with its unusual accompaniments of smoked aubergine and roasted pumpkin was the stand-out dish.
Best of our three courses for my (hypothetical) money was dessert. Chocolate tart with salt caramel ice cream and honeycomb was absolutely fantastic, the viscous, just-warm filling contrasting nicely with the ice cream's salty coldness and the sweet crunch of honeycomb. Pineapple carpaccio (eventually this insistence on calling anything thinly-sliced 'carpaccio' will wane, but not for now it seems) was a pleasingly delicate palate cleanser, while both a sticky orange and polenta cake and homely rice pudding with jam proved more substantial and comforting.

Also impressive were the cocktails; Bread Street Kitchen has poached a bar manager from The Sanderson and it shows in the obvious care lavished not just on preparation but also on presentation - witness a gin-based 'Smoking Bombay' (no Gordon's here, ho ho) served in a pewter coupe spewing dry-ice as it's brought to the table. The wine list is, if unexciting, at least fairly priced, and there's plenty by the glass and half-bottle although this being the high-spending, hard-living City I don't imagine there'll be much call for either.
All-in-all, Bread Street Kitchen is a pretty impressive package. The food's good - not amazing, but nor is it trying to be, the prices while high - three courses, drinks and service will easily reach £50-ish - won't bother the target customer (younger, not-quite-so-stratospherically-salaried City suits) and the design really is great fun. I can't ever see it becoming a destination in its own right like some of Ramsay's higher-end restaurants, but as a local place for local (business-)people it will, deservedly I'd say, do very well indeed. Stage 1 of Gordon's rehabilitation? DONE.
Bread Street Kitchen, 10 Bread Street, London EC4M 9AB Tel: 020 3030 4050 http://www.breadstreetkitchen.com

I was a guest of Bread Street Kitchen on this visit.

Fornata, Soho

2011-10-22T17:38:00.000+01:00

As a supercar-obsessed teenager, I subscribed for a few years in the late 1980s to CAR Magazine. My favourite section, moreso even than the road-tests of said gloriously vulgar vehicles - Ferrari F40 vs. Porsche 959, anyone? - was the buyers' guide, 'The Good, The Bad & The Ugly'. As well as listing the essential specs of every make and model of new car, it gave succinct summaries of reasons for and against buying them which were often exceptionally caustic and extremely funny.

Nowhere was this better demonstrated than in their assessment of the Polish-built FSO 125P, a vehicle for which the writers exhibited particular disdain. As if the specs didn't speak for themselves - top speed 93mph, 0-60 in 14.4 seconds - Car brilliantly summarised it thus: 'For: Quad headlamps. Against: Everything aft.' There was one, fairly inconsequential positive thing to say about this turkey of a motor, but nothing else, at all. And the reason I take you on this automotive trip down memory lane is because that's exactly how I'd sum up Fornata.

To start with the one 'For' for Fornata - a casual all-day Italian on Kingly Street from the owners of Mayfair's swishy Babbo - it looked pretty from the outside, with its nicely designed frontage and bright yellow awning. The dining room appeared welcoming too, with a smart bar and big red banquettes. It's just a shame that everything went downhill the second we stepped through the door.

We - Anders, our old school friend Nina and I - had booked a table for three, so were understandably a little taken aback when the greeter rather brusquely said, "Oh - there's three of you" before going off, inexplicably, to fetch a manager. Said manager then took us downstairs - away from the nice, atmospheric room where there were plenty of tables available - to the oppressively brightly-lit basement. We were shown to a low-ceilinged alcove which Anders and I, both over six feet tall, had to contort ourselves into. It was uncomfortable, but at least provided some respite from the interrogation-chamber lighting.

Fornata's 'concept' - that dreaded word - isn't at all clear from the menu unless you speak Italian, as Anders fortunately can, and if staff don't think it necessary to explain it, as they clearly didn't. The menu is split into two columns, 'Dalla Nostra Cucina' ('From Our Kitchen') and 'Dalla Nostra Forno' ('From Our Oven') which are sub-divided into 'Per Stuzzicare' ('For Snacking') and 'Per Mangiare' ('For Eating' - although surely everything is on a menu?). Prices starting as low as £1.60 and only peaking at £9.80 give away that this is yet another take on 'Italian tapas', but the attempt to present the menu in an original way results only in annoying, almost wilful opacity.

I could have overlooked such pernickety gripes about welcome, decor and menu writing - which matter to me but may not be of the least importance to anyone else - had the food been fantastic, but it wasn't. Rosemary and olive oil schiacciatina and sausage bruschettine with Italian chilli peppers used the same dry, chewy mini pizza base, the latter perked up slightly by the salt and spice of the toppings. A crab piadina with mascarpone and ricotta was better if rather heavy on the cheese, but woefully over-priced for its size at £9.25.

Bland caserecce pasta with creamy mushroom and chive sauce and pollo all diavola - spicy chicken - could have come from a student cookbook. Polpettine and burrata in Pugliese bread (if at this point you're thinking "Blimey, didn't they order a lot of bread-based stuff?" you'd be right, but the menu really doesn't offer a lot of dishes that don't have some sort of carb-heavy component) was OK but it felt a waste to cook burrata; oozingly creamy raw, when baked it just becomes chewy and nondescript. Only grilled lamb chops in a delicate mint marinade stood out as being better-than-mediocre.

Of eight desserts on the menu, only three were available - a good number of dishes from the rest of the menu were also 'off' - so as there were three of us we ordered the lot. Tiramisu cheesecake was perfectly pleasant - if it was dalla loro cucina then I commend them - but lemon crostata pie was downright unpleasant, the base rubbery, the filling bitterly synthetic. Berries coppa - a glass of very thick sweetened double cream with some berries at the bottom - divided us; Anders couldn't stomach it, Nina and I rather liked it, but to be honest by this point I was desperate to like something.

Service was Mutt and Jeff, veering from informal and friendly to monosyllabically surly, and nothing about the overall experience could make me recommend Fornata. Although the bill wasn't too terrible, at about £35 each including two bottles of wine and 12.5% service, for the same money or less we could have had a vastly superior meal at, say, Polpetto. Fortunately when you've known the friends you're with for well over twenty years, such wash-outs can be laughed off, but I was still embarrassed on London's behalf that having returned only recently from ten years living in Bermuda this was Nina's first experience of our otherwise brilliant restaurant scene.

The FSO 125 was an authorised reproduction of a better car using inferior components at a much lower cost. Fornata feels like the restaurant equivalent - a cheap and shoddy pastiche of other, superior models. In socialist Poland, the only choice was no choice; the same cannot be said of London today. There are vastly better restaurants than Fornata not only in Soho but even on the same street. A huge improvement is needed if, like the 125, it is not to end up on the scrapheap.

Fornata, 15 Kingly Street, London W1B 5PS Tel: 020 8181 8887 http://www.fornata.com

CUT at 45 Park Lane

2011-10-09T23:08:00.002+01:00

45 Park Lane, the new super-duper-deluxe boutique hotel from the Dorchester Collection, stands out from its grand but characterless neighbours like a particularly stylish sore thumb. The beautiful art deco-style building, its name picked out in two-foot high neon yellow letters, looks as if it has been transplanted lock, stock and curvaceous chrome-embellished frontage from Miami Beach, bringing a splash of colourful, youthful glamour to London's five-star strip.

Such a glamorous destination needs a restaurant to match and boy, has it got it in CUT by Wolfgang Puck, the first European opening from the eponymous Austrian-American megachef. Puck's vastly successful empire runs the gamut from fine dining to fast food (at Wolfgang Puck-branded Express outlets in airports and department stores) and CUT, his high-end steakhouse brand, sits firmly at the top of the scale.

Although it's a grand, dramatic room - all high ceilings, swagged curtains and Damien Hirst circle paintings - CUT is actually smaller than it seems, a floor-to-ceiling mirror at its far end giving the illusion of a much longer space. For somewhere so new and opulent it feels surprisingly intimate and warm, the quirky soundtrack of eighties soft rock - yes really - creating an unusual but undeniably buzzy atmosphere. It's an impressive and exciting backdrop for some mostly impressive and exciting food.

I'll declare now - I know these things matter to you - that I was at CUT for a special 'A Tasting Of Cut' dinner thrown by Dorchester Collection and their PR people for a lucky handful of bloggers, writers and boozehounds so my cosseted experience might not quite reflect that of the regular punter. That said, the small army of black-clad staff flitting industriously between tables certainly appeared to be fussing over every table to the same extent as ours, so perhaps it does.

We started with 'A Tasting of Salads', one a light, fresh mix of apple, endive, dates and Montgomery Cheddar, spiced almonds adding a little heat and crunch, and a sweet, earthy assemblage of roasted baby beets, Dorstone goat's cheese, pistachio, citrus and mint. The beet salad was especially pretty on the plate with its three colours of baby veg.

Next, of course, came steak, and plenty of it. Tasting of New York Sirloin, a dish available on the regular menu for £48, consisted of 4oz each of USDA Prime Black Angus and Casterbridge Angus from south west England, and 2oz of Australian Wagyu from Queensland. Sealed over a fiercely hot wood and charcoal broiler before being finished in a 12ooF oven, all the steaks had great aroma and were beautifully rare but only the US beef packed a particularly distinctive flavour. The English cut was rather on the mellow side and texturally a little too fatty, while the Wagyu, supposedly the ne plus ultra of steak, was remarkably tender - almost tuna-like - but a little unexciting to eat after the first mouthful.

Side dishes were excellent. Mac 'n' cheese, made with cavatappi pasta and Westcombe Cheddar, was tangily moreish, while creamed spinach with a fried organic egg broken up and stirred through it was surprisingly addictive. Portions were on the generous side, although one would hope so for £5.50 a pop.

Of the two desserts we tried, banana cream pie with '10 year chocolate sauce' - the recipe ten years in the making - and butterscotch gelato was notable more for the impressive accompaniments than for the rather-too-subtle main element. Warm chocolate soufflé with whipped crème fraiche and Gianduja ice-cream however was remarkable: light-as-air, spoonably soft and deliciously decadent.

CUT majors on Californian wines and one of the wine buffs at the table even went so far as to say that their list is the best US list he'd ever seen - high praise indeed. I have no such expert knowledge but I do know that the wines chosen for us by ebullient, excitable sommelier and my new girl crush Vanessa Cinti - a Puck long-timer who, like executive chef David McIntyre, has been brought in from elsewhere in the empire especially to set up CUT - were fantastic. Particularly sensational was a single-vineyard Heitz Cellar Cabernet Sauvignon 2004; in its robust sweetness it was almost like Port, and as easily drinkable.

All-in-all, it was a very enjoyable meal, in delightful company, and even had we not been getting the full VIP treatment I'm sure that I'd still have liked it very much. I thought the food was good, and at times excellent, but so it should be for the eye-watering prices - three courses with modest wine and service will easily break the ton-a-head barrier. It will come as no surprise that most of the other tables - and every table was taken in only week two of opening - were occupied by groups of suited men and very expensively-coiffured women. CUT at 45 Park Lane is never going to be, nor is it intended to be, a bargain option; I wouldn't expect to see a prix-fixe lunch deal any time soon.

A slightly more...shall we say, 'accessible' way to enjoy the buzz at 45 Park Lane than dinner at CUT would be to have a cocktail or two and a couple of dishes from the Puck-devised bar menu at the gorgeous upstairs Bar 45 (how they managed to resist calling it 'A CUT Above' is anyone's guess). With the same red, yellow and cherrywood decor as the restaurant but with the addition of a few cosy alcoves and seating areas, it would be a very chic spot to start, continue or end a date - if it doesn't end in one of the forty-five rooms of the hotel itself.

45 Park Lane is a great place. It's fun, it's stylish and in marked contrast to many of the capital's smartest hotels, it doesn't take itself too seriously - when I got hopelessly befuddled trying find the door to the loos in a highly-mirrored corridor, for example, staff stepped smilingly in to assist. In fact, with the open design and the bar and restaurant taking up seemingly all of the public space, it actually feels more like a cool restaurant with a great bar that just happens to have bedrooms, than a hotel at all. That's something genuinely new for London, and for those who can afford it, I think it, and CUT, are going to turn out be very welcome additions indeed.

CUT at 45 Park Lane, London W1K 1PN Tel: 020 7493 4554 http://www.45parklane.com/CUTat45ParkLane

These are not just Christmas hampers...

2011-10-07T20:34:00.000+01:00

Unthinkable as it might seem after the past week's mini-heatwave, Christmas is just around the corner and I've been invited to share with international readers, possibly unfamiliar with the quintessentially British tradition of giving Christmas hampers, a few of the benefits of ordering hampers as gifts. And not just any hampers - but Marks & Spencer hampers.

Hampers represent a stylish and convenient way to present gifts for family and friends. Rather than traipsing round shopping malls or combing through catalogues looking for the perfect gift for someone, you can simply select a Christmas hamper appropriate to the recipient and have it delivered, either to them directly or to yourself to give to them in person.

Far from the impersonal gift baskets of old, with limited contents and limited appeal, the new range of Marks & Spencer hampers offer a fantastic variety of choices from specialist wine or cheese selections, to hampers themed around Christmas treats or afternoon tea. I'd be particularly happy to receive The Cook, a huge selection of foodie treats including oils, vinegars, glazes, stocks and seasonings. Ultimately, the range is wide enough that there's something to suit just about everyone; there are even non-food hampers containing pampering products for anyone crazy enough to be dieting over the festive season.

In addition to offering variety and convenience, M&S hampers are also an affordable way to spoil your loved ones; prices start at just £20 for a wine and truffles gift set and although they soar to a lofty £500 for the huge, two-basket Luxurious Christmas selection, most are under £100 and many under £50, including delivery. So this Christmas - or if you will, 'holiday season' - take the effort out of choosing fabulous culinary gifts and let Marks & Spencer do the choosing for you.

Guest post by Marks & Spencer

La Brasserie, South Kensington

2011-10-02T15:04:00.000+01:00

As we strolled along Brompton Road on our way to dinner, Anders said, "There's a restaurant down here that's always busy whenever I walk past. We should go there some time." By coincidence - I won't say 'as luck would have it' for reasons which will become apparent - said restaurant in fact turned out to be our destination, La Brasserie, so Anders got his wish rather sooner than expected.

La Brasserie has been in business on the same site in Brompton Cross since 1972 and apart from the addition of a cocktail bar in 2010 - apparently the reason why they have started to invite bloggers and press in to write about the place - it doesn't appear to have changed much in that time. The decor is 'clichéd French brasserie-by-numbers', with red banquettes, checker-board tiles and framed photos of the Eiffel Tower all present and correct. It looks, as Anders observantly put it, like a tourist trap on the Champs Elysées, somewhere designed to reassure unconfident diners that here is somewhere so resolutely and indisputably French that you could not have a Frencher meal anywhere, jamais.

The menu is almost comedically francais too. Ask any mildy xenophobic granddad what he thinks French people eat and he'll rattle off a list including frogs' legs, snails, onion soup, boeuf bourguignon and steak-frites and all of these are indeed available at La Brasserie. In fact apart from the decor and the menu, the only thing that does appear to have changed since the 1970s is the prices, of which some, even in SW3 on what must be an incredibly expensive site, left us rather a bout de souffle.

I started with cuisses de grenouilles persillade, frog's legs cooked in white wine, garlic and parsley, while Anders decided to try the onion soup. Both arrived unnervingly quickly - within just a few minutes of ordering - and the intense heat radiating from Anders' soup bowl did nothing to dispel the suspicion that it had recently emerged from the microwave. When eventually cool enough to try, it was thin and salty, with no real onion punch and none of the depth and sweetness good onion soup obtains from slow, patient cooking. Anders gave up on it after only a few spoonfuls. The frog's legs smelled and tasted overwhelmingly of garlic; they were nice enough, and tender, but the meat had no discernible flavour of its own.

For our main courses we unthinkingly ordered two variations of essentially much the same dish, in Anders' case the hamburger Holstein - 'chopped steak topped with fried egg, anchovies & capers, frites' - and for me steak tartare, which when done really well (as in proficiently, not 'well', or even 'medium' for that matter, that would be silly) is one of my very favourite dishes.

Alas this was not one of those occasions. What came to the table was so unattractive, so sad and sorry-looking on the plate, that I broke my own rule and took a picture of it, just in case words failed me and I was unable accurately to convey how appalled I was at the green gunge-strewn patty of machine-chopped beef which appeared before me, a black olive plonked on top, two tiny cornichons and two wedges of hard, fridge-cold tomato added as garnish before the whole ugly affair was scattered as an after-thought with parsley.

What even was that green gloop? The recipe includes gherkins and capers and I gamely - and charitably - trusted that somehow in the food processor these had pureed and coagulated in the mix. I must say it didn't taste anything like as bad as it looked - it was well-seasoned and used good-quality beef - but I still couldn't forgive what had been done to it. Anders' burger - essentially the same thing, cooked - was fine. Not great, but fine. The accompanying frites were bog-standard catering chips, and none the worse for that, but not what you'd expect with dishes costing £17 (the burger) or £20 (the tartare).

In for a centime in for a franc, we gamely pushed through to desserts and oh, how I wish we hadn't. Tarte tatin, a forlorn, dark, compacted looking thing, consisted of sharp, mushy fruit (putatively apple) on a soggy base, served with a scoop of ice-cream - the only properly edible thing on the plate. It was actively unpleasant, also microwaved, and more than two thirds of it was left untouched. Anders' ginger crème brulée was OK, a good creamy filling under a nicely crunchy topping.

No-one noticed or seemed at all concerned that many of our dishes returned to the kitchen less than half-eaten, but then service throughout the evening was - with the exception of the friendly if oddly nervy cocktail barman - at worst brusque, at best nonchalant, so it came as no surprise that no questions were asked as to our (dis)satisfaction. And for this, a discretionary 13.5% service - yes thirteen-and-a-half percent - is added to your bill.

Whatever I might say about La Brasserie, it will have no effect on its ongoing popularity. A restaurant that has been in business for nigh-on forty years and is, as Anders has witnessed, always busy, does not need good reviews to continue to thrive nor will it suffer from bad ones. It is, effectively, criticism proof. A waitress could slap Fay Maschler with a mouldering ham and there'd still be a 45 minute wait for a table come Friday night while tables stand empty at the superior, and slightly cheaper, Aubaine two doors down.

La Brasserie isn't meant to be a destination for great (or even good) food. It exists for unimaginative wealthy locals and shoppers (and celebrities - Felicity Kendal was there on the night we visited, the most exciting thing about the whole experience) who value familiarity and stability over quality and value for money. "Darling," Anders said consolingly as I wailed uncomprehendingly into the night, "these people are not price-point conscious!"

No, no; I should say they are not.

La Brasserie, 272 Brompton Road, London SW3 2AW Tel: 020 7581 3089 http://www.labrasserielondon.com

I was invited to eat at La Brasserie free of charge by their PR company

Roganic

2011-09-23T17:06:00.001+01:00

Photography throughout courtesy of www.paulwf.co.uk

Although fully aware that in doing so I am laying myself open to accusations of being an oral examiner of equine gifts, I must admit that I initially declined a very kind friend's invitation to dinner at Roganic. For one thing, I hated the name, a vain, corny play on proprietor Simon Rogan's, to the same irrational extent to which I hate buskers and people who own folding bicycles. For another, I was put off by the cost - £55 for six courses or £80 for ten before even a drop of liquor passes the lips might not shock these days what with the cost of eating out in London soaring to record levels, but it still isn't exactly what I'd call affordable.

I was further turned off by the fact that Roganic is cringeingly styled as an 'extended pop-up' - Rogan having taken a two-year lease on a vacant site on Blandford Street in Marylebone - which irritated me even more than pop-ups do in general; part of the joy for me in eating out often is the sense that I will from time to time come across somewhere so good that I will want to go back again and again, and pop-ups are anathematic to this. Finally, I was afflicted by early-onset review fatigue; with everyone being served exactly the same dishes, within about a fortnight of Roganic opening I was so fed up of reading only subtly different takes on identical meals that the last thing I wanted to do was eat there myself.

Never one to take no for an answer however, my particularly persuasive pal Paul Winch-Furness crossed off all my objections (apart from to the name, which even I was able to see was not reason in itself to boycott somewhere): Cost? I'm paying, he said. Pop-up? That's as may be agreed Paul, but if you like it you can go back a few times in the space of two years, and if you really like it you can always visit its parent restaurant, L'Enclume in Cumbria. As for repetitious reviews, Paul pointed out that the week he had in mind to go would coincide with the first change to the menu since Roganic opened in early July. How could I say no?

To describe everything we ate - in addition to the courses served there are all manner of little extras, freebies and surprises as is to be expected in a restaurant playing at this level - would take almost as long as the four hours we were there, so I won't attempt to. One of Roganic's many strengths is the consistency of vision and creativity which runs through the whole menu, but this also means that some favourite techniques of preparation and presentation such as tuiles made of dried vegetable or fruit purees, or beds of crunchy crumbs used to contrast with smooth mousses or sorbets, were repeated during the meal and I don't wish to also repeat them here.

Better I think to concentrate on the meal's many highlights and to point out the few, but significant slip-ups that meant that what might otherwise have been a stellar meal was, on balance, only a notable one. The dishes that were good were remarkably good. Slow-cooked Clarence Court duck egg on a bed of barley flakes, drizzled with marjoram oil and paired with an unexpectedly complementary slice of crisp ripe apple was phenomenal, a fascinating - not to mention delicious - exercise in contrasting textures and depths of flavour. Pork and eel croquettes with sweetcorn crisps and a mustard-seed strewn sweetcorn puree were salty, smoky and intense, as well as being visually stunning (in common, it must be said, with just about everything, including head chef Ben Spalding).

A couple of courses which had the potential to dazzle were spoiled by kitchen carelessness. A giant Cornish prawn, brought to the table intact for our inspection before being split into three, stone-baked and served with lingonberries, crab meat, fresh horseradish and a brown crab puree, ought to have delighted but had not been deveined, which as well as being deeply unattractive for the diner struck me as being a terrible way to treat such beautiful produce. Roasted duck breast with gizzards, baby carrots and a redcurrant sauce was a joy to look at, elegantly simple, but mouth-puckeringly over-salted.

Everything else was very pretty, perfectly pleasant and not overly-fussy, but in many cases the dishes were memorable more for a particularly clever component than as the sum of their parts. Cured, smoked mullet - actually smoked on the plate, the lifting of a glass cloche releasing a powerful waft of woody smoke - was striking on the nose but a little bland on the palate. Vintage potatoes with lovage, dried potato skins and onion 'ash' was clearly intended to elevate two of our most staple, taken-for-granted veg to gourmet levels but only the crunchy skins - essentially posh crisps - registered. A caramelised cauliflower purée which shared plate space with an otherwise slightly bland piece of roasted pouting was intensely, surprisingly nutty.

An optional extra course of British cheeses was as excellent as one would expect when supplied in prime condition from near-neighbour La Fromagerie. Deceptively simple desserts - two of them, each - impressed; the first, consisting of a bilberry tuile, fresh blueberries, bracingly tart yoghurt sorbet and a lemon and thyme granita was a perfect palate cleanser. The second, plum cake crumble topped with a white chocolate sorbet, interestingly and cleverly took things full circle by its inclusion of a granita of meadowsweet, the honey-scented flower which had flavoured the complimentary vodka-and-cordial cocktail we'd been given at the very start of the meal.

As well as the aforementioned cocktail, extras included a visually beautiful but forgettable canapé of squid ink crouton topped with a herby mousse and amarynth petals at the beginning of the evening and a bay leaf-scented shot of milkshake with a home-made jammie dodger after our desserts, before a final flourish of miniature raspberry Victoria sponges studded with popping candy. All were good fun.

The bread offering was superb, consisting of three different home-baked rolls - among them a wonderful pumpernickel and honey - as well as a chestnut and thyme flatbread. The manner of service of Gloucestershire butter - hand-softened table-side with a wooden spatula before being smeared over a pebble scavenged from the beach at Folkestone - is either charming or intensely silly depending on one's point of view. I tend towards the latter.

If the food didn't particularly overwhelm me when all was said and done, two elements of the Roganic experience did stand out as being especially worthy of note and praise. First was the intriguing, imaginative wine list, ordered alphabetically to encourage considered browsing over instinctive hurrying to the bottom or top of the price range. From it we enjoyed a stunning Cantine Lonardo Taurasi from Southern Campania, every deep red fruit and leather-flavoured sip so volcanically smoky that it felt pleasurably like drawing on a cigarette. We also saw off a bottle of 2008 Voudomato, a Greek sweet red of such syrupy jamminess that it was more like a dessert than a dessert wine.

The other unimpeachable element was the service, from about the most professional, passionate and engaged staff as I can remember having experienced anywhere. The team has obviously been involved in the project from the outset, such that they know and care about how every ingredient came to be on the plate; it transpires that the many unusual flowers, herbs and fungi on the menu are foraged by the brigade's own hands on their days 'off''. If it was a little unsettling to observe the staff gradually leaving via the front (and only) door before our meal was finished, they'd been so attentive that it was impossible to begrudge their being stood down early once the latter, pre-prepared courses of the night had been served.

And so we come to the very important questions of what this all cost, and whether I would recommend it. As to the first, and as previously mentioned, the cost to me was nothing, Paul and his other guest - the delightful but sadly married Florian Siepert - having very generously treated me. But with our ten courses, three bottles of wine, additional cheese course and service, the bill must have come to near on £500. Even with Paul having bartered some of this against his remarkable photography, which with his kind permission accompanies this post, this was a very expensive meal. It's perfectly possible to eat at Roganic for much less, especially since they bowed to early pressure and introduced a three course lunch menu for £29, but the full-on experience is going to cost you and only you can decide whether this is a price you're willing to pay.

As for whether I'd recommend it, I'm afraid I honestly don't think I can say; blessed with Paul and Florian's company and being spoiled rotten, I personally couldn't have had a better evening had I arrived home to find a naked Tom Hardy in my bed. But given that more of the meal had been good rather than amazing, and had it been on my own dollar, I don't think I would have been sufficiently wowed to say that it was value for money and to encourage you to go yourself.

It wouldn't be unfair to suggest that having not wanted to go to Roganic in the first place, I was never going to be blown away, but I honestly went with a completely open mind, ready to be proved wrong. Whether I'm now wrong not to be insisting that you re-mortgage your house and book your place there without delay can only be proven by your going. So do - but only if you want to.

Roganic, 19, Blandford St, London, W1U 3DH Tel: 020 7486 0380 http://www.roganic.co.uk/

Jose, Bermondsey

2011-09-13T01:51:00.000+01:00

I've never been particularly superstitious, but I did reach a point recently where I wondered if I was fated never to make it to Jose, a new tapas bar in Bermondsey from the eponymous Mr Pizarro.

First I had to miss out on being a friend's plus-one to the opening party when a course of medication I'd started caused some unpleasant and unpredictable side-effects including spontaneously passing out - never a good look when you're trying to network over patatas bravas. Then a scheduled dinner date with two pals had to be called off when first one cancelled because both his kids had the lurgy, and then the other because he had it. Jose seemed by all accounts to be under a bit of a jinx.

But thank goodness the jinx broke and, third time lucky, I finally got to experience Jose; I'm pleased to report that it was worth the wait. It's by no means original - great tapas and sherry bars are springing up all over town at a very pleasing rate - but Jose is more than just a great tapas bar, it's a great restaurant full stop, turning out some of the best food I've had of any type, anywhere, recently.

Jose occupies an attractive curve-fronted corner site on Bermondsey Street, spitting distance from Borough Market where Pizarro made his name at Brindisa. It's a tiny little place, seating probably no more than twenty at the tiled bar and at counters in the centre of the room and along the windows, with some additional standing room at a couple of up-ended sherry barrels. By day, light pours through the tall windows making the space feel bright and welcoming; as night falls and the room fills up - and boy does it fill up - it gets buzzier and more intimate.

Arriving early to bag us a seat - unsurprisingly for a casual joint like this no reservations are taken - I ordered some Manzanilla olives and salted Marcona almonds together with what would turn out to be the first of many glasses of deliciously dry, nutty Hidalgo La Gitana Manzanilla sherry. The nibbles were perfectly fine, but as soon as my date for the evening - my pal Tim Selby, sometime-TV chef and now director of a ritzy chain of music bars - arrived, we started making serious in-roads into the rest of the menu where the real excitement lies.

A plate of Iberico ham - from Manuel Maldonado, who I'm assuming to be a man who knows his pork - was good, but suffered from being sliced too thickly for our liking. While it might sound ungrateful to criticise a dish for there being too much of it, part of the joy in eating the very best jamon is in placing wafer-thin, fat-marbled slices on the tongue and letting it melt away. The flavour released by chewing was nonetheless blissful and it was a very generous serving - perhaps too generous - for £9.

Other basics however were done extremely well. Boquerones - anchovy fillets - in cava vinegar were plump and lovely. Ham and cheese croquetas divided opinion; I loved the way the crisp exterior yielded at the gentlest bite to release the creamy, bechamel filling but Tim was a little underwhelmed. Prawns with chilli and garlic on the other hand were as good as this tapas bar staple gets - huge fat prawns, bathing in the punchy oil they had been cooked in, and served with heads and tails intact so that those of us so inclined could enjoy sucking and crunching on the shells.

Where Jose really came into its own however was with some of the less-ubiquitous speciality dishes which we tried next. Morcilla de Iberico - pig's blood sausage - was a little dry itself but completely delicious when taken with a forkful of its sweet, lively accompaniment of al dente peas, broad beans and almonds. Hake with allioli was a beautifully-cooked fat, translucent, flaking piece of this tasty white fish in a perfect crisp batter, let down only by the allioli which was lacking in the stiff garlic punch one expects from mayonnaise's sexy, swarthy Spanish cousin.

Chicken livers with garlic and Fino were superb, both the livers and the sherry-based gravy (please let's just pause to absorb the beauty of that thought - sherry-based gravy) packing strong, rich flavour and addictive when piled onto crusty bread. Contrastingly and welcomely refreshing was a tomato salad with Vermouth vinegar, the multiple varieties and colours of tomato all contributing subtly different flavours each enhanced by the just-there dressing.

The stand-out dish of the night, putting the 'special' into 'Specials Board', was Iberico pluma - pork shoulder loin, served rare in thick ribbons, the silky, fondant meat's delicate flavour contrasted with salty, smoky piquillo peppers. The word I scribbled down at the time to describe it was 'revelatory', and although I hesitate to use it now for fear of sounding precious, this really was a dish unlike any I've experienced both in terms of the main ingredient and the preparation. Anyone who might be squeamish about rare pork - I wasn't, but I imagine many are - will be cured by one mouthful of this, and I sincerely hope that it graduates to the permanent menu.

We finished off with a simple, gorgeous plate of white peaches and the last of the season's strawberries drizzled with Pedro Ximenez, the sweetest, stickiest sherry more akin to a liqueur than a wine. A floral, elegant Moscatel Jorge Ordonez was a perfect match. Throughout the meal we'd also enjoyed Oloroso Matusalem from Gonzalez Byass and a crisp white 2010 Tremendus Rioja which nicely complemented the bolder dishes such as the livers and the pluma.

Service was casual, friendly, helpful and no matter how busy the place got, unhurried; we spent a good few hours eating at a leisurely pace, ordering a couple of dishes at a time, pausing to gauge our levels of satiety and ordering more accordingly, until we were ready to go pop (or fall off our stools from excessive sherry consumption). An ebullient Jose Pizarro was working both the kitchen and the room, helping his very lovely staff to ensure that everyone was having a time as great as their meal.

If our £120 bill caused us to gasp slightly it wasn't through any fault of the restaurant's; prices are very fair indeed but we should have ordered a bottle or even two of sherry rather than ordering glass after glass (after glass). You could easily eat abundantly and well at Jose for under twenty quid, including a glass of wine or sherry.

Jose is, simply, as good a tapas bar as you will find anywhere in London and indeed as good as any restaurant could want to be: it serves excellent food and wine at fair prices, the room is attractive, the staff is efficient and enthusiastic and that elusive, money-can't-buy quality - the atmosphere - is lively and beguiling. After a few false starts, I felt lucky to make it to Jose. If you go - and you should - I rather think you will too.

Jose, 104 Bermondsey Street, London SE1 3UB http://joserestaurant.co.uk

@SIAM, Soho

2011-09-04T14:28:00.000+01:00

The @ symbol (or to give it its proper name, the 'at symbol') has had a number of uses in its 111-year lifetime. Originally conceived as accounting shorthand for 'at the rate of', with the arrival of email in the 1990s the humble @ came into worldwide(web) usage as an integral part of every email address. Since 2006 however, the sign has acquired a new prominence as the opening character of every Twitter username; other means of communication are old hat - these days Twitter is where it's @.

Don't go looking for smart new Thai restaurant @SIAM on Twitter though; the username does exist, but it's not them - in fact it's one of the thousands of dormant accounts which include, frustratingly, @hughwright, an Evangelical Christian in the US who's not tweeted since May last year. And not that you would, but don't go looking for it in Siam either - you'd have a job to, as no such place exists, the Kingdom of Siam having become Thailand for good in 1949. Do however go looking for it on Frith Street, slap-bang in the heart of Soho, where you will find it, especially if what you're looking for is some really very good Thai food at not-too-hideous prices.

I'll say now for the avoidance of doubt that when I say 'really very good' I only mean in my self-confessed inexpert opinion; whilst I absolutely love Thai food, I can't pretend to know a very great deal about it. When I was invited along to experience @SIAM (something else I'll make clear now for the avoidance of doubt) I did think about being a bit mean and taking my Thai friend so that he could be the judge of authenticity. Realising however that that would just make me look and sound like an arse, I instead invited my lovely friend Greg, whose expertise is as non-existent as mine. Both of us know what we like and what tastes good however, and I base this post entirely therefore on the degree to which we enjoyed what we ate.

Seated at a slightly-cramped-but-great-for-people-watching window table, we ordered a selection of vegetarian and fish dishes, Greg being one of those poor misguided souls who has forsworn the consumption of lovely meat. First came some gorgeous corn fritters, deep fried kernels bound in a red curry-scented batter served with 'aromatic syrup', a sticky, sweet chilli dip. Tom kha goong - a rich, sweet and sour coconut milk-based soup containing fat prawns - was creamy, zesty and luxurious, the lemongrass within not over-powering the other flavours.

Next we enjoyed Pla Hoi Shell, seared scallops served in a cleverly-spiced dressing with enough heat to exhilarate without masking the sweetness of the flesh. Shards of crisp green apple on top added a pleasantly contrasting texture. Also very clever was a dish of steamed sea bass with chilli, served with braised lettuce in a salty, citrusy broth consisting of lime, fish sauce and sugar - a textbook example of umami. Soft-shell crab, bathed in a sticky sauce ('a light chilli jam' according to the menu) was excellent too, none of its flavour lost in the frying process and complemented by a crisp, bright salad.

Perhaps surprisingly, the only duff dish of the night was that most ubiquitous of Thai specialities, green curry; for many diners this would be the default choice, hence our ordering it to see if it passed muster. As it was, it was disappointingly bland, with no discernible taste of the advertised sweet basil, but perhaps this was due to the presence of tofu, which as we all know exists only to stop vegetarians dying from protein deficiency. Or perhaps it was just that everything else had been so exciting and complex that our palates, already dancing with so many joyful flavours, could no longer discern or appreciate subtlety.

Washed down with a bottle - OK I'll confess, two - of a peachy, floral Gavi di Gavi, it was an excellent meal which had we not been guests of the restaurant would have come in at about £50 a head, or without the wine about £30 - great value for such high quality in the heart of the West End. It was made even nicer by very pleasant surroundings - the room, although basic, has been carefully designed with some attractive touches including a huge, ornate Buddha - and attentive, nothing's-too-much-trouble service from which every table was benefitting.

I can't let it pass without comment that, for a restaurant with such an apparently contemporary name, the very use of the @ symbol suggesting that here is a business that is embracing the digital age, their website - every modern business's shop-window on the world - is fairly terrible. Music blares unwarned and unwanted from the speakers the moment one lands on the homepage, typos abound ('comtemporary' anyone?), navigability is next-to-non-existent and there are even factual inaccuracies - sorry, @SIAM, but you are not 'The only Thai restaurant in Soho', not by a long shot. Such inadequacies don't do what is in fact a very good little restaurant justice.

This notwithstanding, I'd certainly encourage any fan of Thai food, or indeed of good food generally, to give it a go. But by-pass the website, and head straight for the restaurant itself; if you don't enjoy it, I'll eat my h@.

@SIAM, 48 Frith Street, London W1D 4SF Tel: 020 7494 4511 http://www.atsiam.co.uk (though as above, I wouldn't bother if you value having normal blood pressure)

Brawn

2011-08-23T23:52:00.000+01:00

The last few weeks have not, for me at least, been a very happy time in which to be a restaurant blogger. Criticism of the activity - as if all those doing it form some homogenised entity all writing for the same reasons and to the same ends - has become increasingly vocal and, at times, personal. Calls for bloggers to 'learn to write like journalists' and adopt journalistic standards (an oxymoron some might say in the light of recent scandals) have been hailed as A Good Thing, ignoring the fact that being paid to write for a newspaper or website is quite different from setting up a blog and writing, unpaid, for fun.

When bloggers - certain bloggers - responded by introducing a table of disclosures '[placing] us at the leading edge of blog transparency', the clear implication being that anyone who didn't follow suit must be a deceitful bounder, I felt that the very heart of my hobby had been ripped out and that it was becoming more of a chore than a pastime. The almost-final straw came when an article slating restaurant bloggers appeared in a respected publication, written by someone not only who I knew and liked but who had also been my host at a free event for bloggers some months ago. Et tu, Brute? I thought, and started very seriously to question whether the game was worth the candle.

And then I went for lunch at Brawn, and in the space of a couple of hours of near-perfect food, fantastic wines and the most exquisite company, I was reminded why it is that I do this. Not for freebies - though I won't deny they're a nice, occasional bonus - nor for any perceived credit for being the first through the door of a new restaurant to write about it, even if my hastily-written 'review' is so poorly constructed as to be barely intelligible. No, I do this because eating out, when it's as good as this, is so bloody pleasurable that to then relive it through writing about it - even if no-one reads the result - is almost as joyous as having the physical experience all over again.

Brawn occupies a long, light corner site on Columbia Road, famous for its Sunday flower market but on all other days of the week an unremarkable East End mile running from the Shoreditch end of Hackney Road to Haggerston Park. To some, the restaurant's location might seem wilfully off the beaten track, an impression which the near-total lack of exterior signage - that tiny stencil pictured here really is it - does nothing to alleviate.

Get there, however, and you will be rewarded with the sort of meal which so many modern restaurants try to deliver but so few manage to get right: small plates, suited to sharing, of imaginative but unpretentious food using exceptional quality produce, simply but expertly prepared and sold at a fair price.

Between four of us - myself and best friend Andrew along with our birthday girl pal Sarah and her handsome husband Ian - we ordered extensively from all four sections of the concise one page menu. From the wonderfully-headed 'Pig' section we chose a selection of charcuterie consisting of the brawn from which the restaurant takes its name, salame Toscano and pork rillettes. It was all excellent, particularly the brawn - a mellow terrine made from the meat of the pig's head, pressed with herbs, spices and diced carrots. We also enjoyed some Basque saucisson seche; hard and dry as it should be, the effort required to chew it was more than repaid by the peppery depths of flavour released with every bite.

From the 'Hot' section, baked field mushrooms with bone marrow, parsley and Alsace bacon was the epitome of chic comfort food; I usually hate parsley but here the balance of flavours and textures, of earthy fungus with salty meat and of unctuous marrow with the grassy herb was such that it barely registered - praise indeed. A 'confit' rabbit leg (actually, I'm fairly certain, braised) offered up abundant pale, delicate meat made more robust by accompanying girolles - perfect doll's house specimens - and coco beans. Spatchcock'd quail with tapenade was beautifully simple in preparation if not in eating; I ultimately gave in to temptation and necessity and took to tearing the sweet flesh from the minuscule carcass with my fingers.

Alongside the hot dishes we tried a couple from the list of six 'Cold'. Heirloom tomatoes, anchovies and red onion was a superlative salad, the tomatoes bursting with colour and flavour and embellished with just enough of the anchovies and onion to bring a little saltiness and tang. Foie gras, violet artichokes and smoked duck divided opinion; Sarah, not usually a fan of foie gras, pronounced it the best that she'd tasted, while I found the cold, pressed roundels sadly flavourless. Our differing opinions may, of course, be related. The fat little cubes of smoked duck strewn around it and across the quartered artichokes however were delightful.

There had, of course, to be dessert, and these were as good as everything that had gone before. Or that, at least, is what I'm told; Andrew wouldn't part with so much as a teaspoonful of his chocolate ganache with hazelnut cream, nor would Sarah cede a soupçon of mirabelle and almond tart. No matter; Ian and I were busy joyfully demolishing a selection of cheese which included a creamy St Maure de Touraine, a Meule des Bergers and my favourite, a pungent Morbiers.

The fabulous food - and bar that foie, I truly thought every single dish was exceptional - isn't the only star at Brawn; there's an excitingly put-together list of mostly natural, organic or bio-dynamic wines from small producers to enjoy too, and enjoy it we certainly did. We kicked off with a bottle of Prosecco Casa Coste Piane to toast the birthday girl, moved on to a big, peppery but not over-powering 2008 Vacqueyras, Domaine La Garrigue and finished off with glasses of sweet, Port-like Maury Vintage Rouge.

Service is warm, attentive but wholly unobtrusive; staff are happy to advise on the wines and provide guidance on the menu (although happily there's little on it that needs explaining, a leaf many restaurants would do well to take out of Brawn's book) but otherwise leave guests be. This contributed to a daytime ambience as light and welcoming as the decor; at night I imagine an altogether buzzier, busier vibe takes hold.

Best of all though - no, let's say, the icing on the cake - is that this outstanding experience comes comparatively cheaply; for tons of food, plenty of super booze and every-penny-of-it-deserved 12.5% service, we paid just £43 each, a level of value for money seldom seen in our oh-so-expensive city.

Brawn is, basically, brilliant; reliving the experience in prose has been almost as much fun as the fabulous meal itself. That, to me, is what blogging is all about, and if you've indulged me in that pleasure by reading this far, I thank you. I'll keep on doing it, for now, for you.

Brawn, 49 Columbia Road, London E2 7RG Tel: 020 7729 5692 http://www.brawn.co/

Quaglino's, St James's

2011-08-11T23:32:00.007+01:00

Quaglino's in St James's was imbued with an indelible glamour the moment when, in an early episode of Absolutely Fabulous, Patsy set out to Eddy their itinerary for the day as:

"...a little mosey down Bond Street, a little sniff around Gucci, sidle up to Ralph Lauren, pass through Browns and on to Quag's for a light lunch."

Patsy's choice of lunch spot was understandable; in its Nineties heyday, under Sir Terence Conran's ownership, Quaglino's was about as fashionable as restaurants got. It will come as no surprise that it was the first place I rushed to eat at when I moved to London in 1994 and loved it.

These days, Quaglino's is part of the vast D & D London restaurant empire and is, if not exactly unfashionable, unlikely to figure on many a Londoner's must-go list. This is, I have to say, a terrible shame, as it's still, well, absolutely fabulous.

My dinner date - the Patsy to my Eddy - was my friend Caroline, with whom I've had a tradition for several years now of catching up over long, boozy meals at D&D stablemate Le Pont de la Tour. On this occasion however we'd been lured to Quag's instead by my having accrued enough Toptable points for a free three course meal there. Caroline benefited from the same menu being available to other diners at just £25.50, including additionally a glass of Piper Heidsieck Champagne - which given that the latter by itself usually costs £12 is an incredible bargain.

Four choices were offered for each course and although essentially formulaic set menu stuff - a soup, a salad, smoked salmon or rillettes for starters, chicken, steak, fish or pasta for mains - imaginative accompaniments and attractive descriptions lifted things above the ordinary. Caroline's Severn & Wye smoked salmon, served with a wholemeal blini and a tart vine tomato and shallot dressing, and my duck rillettes with pickles and a good chewy sourdough were smart takes on these classics.

Mains of gilt-head sea bream with 'sea vegetables' - seaweed to you and me - and saffron potatoes was a lovely piece of fish, the flesh firm and skin grilled crisp, the whole a very grown-up riff on fish and chips. Pan roasted breast of chicken with an oyster mushroom and broad bean ragout and a handful of roast gnocchi was nourishing and more substantial than initial appearances would suggest - portions are neatly plated on large white crockery, which plays tricks on the eye. Side orders are offered at a flat £3.75 but are not necessary.

Had they not been part of our offer menus we'd probably have passed on desserts, but a little known law still on the statute books states that if knickerbocker glory appears on a menu it is an Englishman's obligation to order it. I fulfilled my obligation stoically and was rewarded with a splendid coupe of cream, fruit and sauce which I enjoyed tremendously. Caroline also liked her apricot and almond tart, crisp sweet pastry encasing a light but satisfying crème patissière-based filling.

The wine list is extensive, particularly strong on France but spanning old and new worlds with a reasonable but limited selection by the glass and carafe. It's a great read with much to excite but by no means cheap, starting at £21.50 and going up. Mark-ups aren't aggressive though - particularly on Champagnes - and our 2009 Viognier Mas La Chevalière was a lovely bottle for £24.50.

With an additional glass of Champagne (well I couldn't let Caroline drink hers alone, could I?) and 12.5% service our total bill was £70; more than we'd perhaps expected to spend but with hindsight a complete bargain for the quality of the meal we'd had. A la carte prices however might make the eyes water.

Service was impeccable with just the right level of formality to complement the grandeur of the space without feeling stiff. While many restaurants have moved towards a much more casual style of service in recent years - the next waiter to address my group, whatever our genders, as 'Guys' will see his 12.5% deducted - at Quag's the atmosphere is altogether more deferential and the height of polished professionalism.

Patsy and Eddy might have moved on - to where, we will find out when Ab Fab returns to our screens later this year - and taken the cool crowd with them, but like Ab Fab, Quaglino's seems overdue a revival. I rushed to eat there in 1994, and do you know what, sweetie darling? I'd happily rush back.

Quaglino's, 16 Bury Street, St James's, London SW1Y 6AJ Tel: 020 7930 6767 http://www.quaglinos.co.uk/

The room, unchanged in twenty years, is stunning; the most frequent comparison, and I can think of none better, is with a grand ocean liner. An imposing, canopied glass entrance opens into a blond marble, muralled lobby from which a slightly perilous staircase leads down to the mezzanine. Here, a small army of black-uniformed staff wait to welcome and whisk coats away. Entrance to the huge dining room proper is via a sweeping staircase, flanked by the restaurant's famous bronze 'Q' motif and which it is impossible to descend without feeling as glamorous as Dolly Levi arriving at the Harmonia Gardens

Opera Tavern, Covent Garden

2011-08-07T13:06:00.003+01:00

Recent raves on this site about The Fat Delicatessen and Capote y Toros will have left readers in no doubt as to my fondness for tapas, and ever since Opera Tavern in Covent Garden opened to almost universal acclaim last year I've been meaning to get along to sample its take on small-plates. So when my lovely friend and sometime dining buddy Will treated us to tickets to see Butley at the Duchess Theatre just a few metres away, Opera Tavern was the obvious choice for our pre-theatre dinner.

The imposing battleship-grey building on Catherine Street offers two dining areas, a buzzy informal ground floor bar and a more restrained first floor dining room. We were seated in the latter, and although very attractive - high-ceilinged, with a fabulous chandelier and some striking art - it felt a little awkward to be eating an essentially casual cuisine in such smart surroundings.

Opera Tavern's website describes their offering as 'Italian and Spanish-influenced tapas' - the latter part of that description surely something of a truism - and this translates into a menu split roughly 50/50 into traditional Iberian specialities and more modern small dishes using fashionable ingredients. It's an attractive proposition, offering plenty to appeal to the casual diner as well as excite the more adventurous eater.

We ordered a variety of dishes covering most sections of the menu but skipping hams, charcuterie and cheese, arguing that these tend to demonstrate only the expertise of the buyer rather than the prowess of the kitchen. For the most part the food was excellent, although to save myself from future repetition let me say now that portions were on the Lilliputian side especially given the comparatively Brobdingnagian pricing.

This skewing of the price-portion size ratio was evident from the first (literal) mouthful; pinchos morunos - little skewers akin to yakitori - of Gressingham duck with fig, and octopus and chorizo with green tomatoes, cucumber and pomegranate, were absolutely delicious but too small to share and at £3.25 each, not cheap enough to justify ordering more. Mini burgers (Opera Tavern seemingly the only restaurant in London to not have adopted the dread term 'slider' for these) of Iberico pork and foie gras, the richness of the moist meat patty offset by some smoky, crisp-fried onions and nicely charred buns, were similarly mouth-watering but so, for just under six quid each, they should be.

A pair of fish dishes impressed. Roast salmon with Datterini tomatoes, sweet shallots, ricotta and samphire suffered slightly from the shallots almost, but fortunately not quite, overpowering the sweet delicacy of the rest. Steamed sea bream with confit salsify, sea aster, capers and smoked anchovy dressing however was perfectly balanced, the fish beautifully moist from steaming and complemented by the unusual accompaniments.

Service had up to this point been typified by some fairly long waits between dishes but alas now went badly awry. With three dishes yet to come, after a few minutes' waiting we were instead presented with dessert menus, our waiter having not put through the rest of our order. This was hastily corrected, but with curtain up in twenty minutes we had to race through our last few plates - an extra shame given that one of them, chargrilled sirloin with bone marrow, Iberico pork fat chips, new season's garlic and thyme aioli, was the best of the meal, let down only by the somewhat anaemic chips; the patatas fritas in a side dish were much better although the bravas sauce with them was timid. Free-range chicken, also chargrilled, with chorizo, baby spinach and sautéed potatoes was pleasant and, unusually, substantial.

Overall, putting aside the service failure (for which only the most hurried and perfunctory of apologies was made) it was a good meal, but the issue of cost can not be ignored. With a bottle of luscious, aromatic Alquézar 2010 - at £20 one of the cheapest bottles on a steeply-priced all-Spanish and Italian list - our bill for really not very much food and 12.5% service came to £92, which rather made my eyes water. At these prices, I couldn't in good conscience recommend Opera Tavern when there is an increasing number of as-good-if-not-better and cheaper alternatives springing up all across town quicker than you can say "I'll have the croquetas and a glass of Amontillado please."

I can however recommend Butley, which with the delicious Dominic West in the title role nourished us more in two hours than had the hurried and pricy meal at its neighbour. It's on until 27 August - catch it if you can.

My gorgeous pal and dinner date Will Davies is climbing Pico Aneto, the highest peak in the Pyrenees, to raise money for the wonderful charity Kids Company. If you'd care to sponsor him, I'll love you for life. Visit his Virgin Money Giving Page for info.

Opera Tavern, 23 Catherine Street, London WC2B 5JS Tel: 020 7836 3680 http://www.operatavern.co.uk

Galoupet, Knightsbridge

2011-07-25T19:56:00.002+01:00

Firstly, a public apology: when our waitress told us straight-faced that Galoupet's offering of small plates to share was a 'unique concept', I laughed out loud and reeled off a list of other places where this could be done, like the worst kind of restaurant-collecting tosser. It was an awful, Onanistic thing to do and I wouldn't for a second have blamed her if she'd tipped my (superb) Pink Basiltini cocktail over my head and had me thrown out. That she didn't, and in fact proceeded to provide unfailingly polite and enthusiastic service for the rest of the night, is to her enormous credit. Mea maxima culpa.

Whether it's entirely unique or not, the menu 'concept' (why does everywhere have to have a 'concept' nowadays?) at Galoupet - a new wine bar/restaurant/shop on Beauchamp Place from the Chateau of the same name - is a very appealing one. Fifteen dishes, most available in a small or large size, are offered in a simple list, in the order in which the kitchen thinks they are likely to be most enjoyed - so salads come first, followed by fish, finishing with some meat dishes.

For every dish there's a suggested wine pairing, served in a 125ml measure, this large variety of by-the-glass options made possible by the use of Enomatic wine storage machines. You don't have to have the suggested wine; the intriguing list offers another twenty or so varieties, including (of course) those from the Galoupet estate itself. The flexibility is there to order lots of small plates to share, each with a different wine, or stick to a conventional starter-main-dessert-and-bottle-of-wine-between-us configuration.

As is more-often-than-not the case when I eat out in Knightsbridge, I took with me my best friend, SW3-based stylist-to-the-stars Anders, who's always keen to find new places to recommend to his affluent clientele. Happily, Galoupet goes straight onto his list as it's really, eye-openingly good. The cuisine is loosely Mediterranean, with some unusual Asian touches; it's not 'fusion' but the result is genuinely unlike anything I can remember trying elsewhere.

First up was a 'seasonal dip' - for summer that means red pepper, Pecorino and sorrel - with olive oil crisp bread. We had fun scooping up the thick pepper purée; topped with the finely grated cheese and scattered with sorrel it was very moreish, which alas added to our slight sense of disappointment that there wasn't rather more of it. Next we tried two salads, and if the first - heritage tomato and shiso with pepper dressing - suffered from being bland, the same could not be said for the second, a combination of figs, fregola, purple basil, orange, konbu and hazelnut which genuinely thrilled us with its mix of brilliant tastes and textures.

Our two fish dishes also delivered one hit and one miss and I take full responsibility for the latter. Stone bass and burnt tomatoes should have come also with coriander but, because of my cilantrophobia, the chef experimentally substituted a red pepper coulis for the evil herb. The resulting combination lacked punch and felt timid; loathe it as I do, I could see the role the coriander should have played. Much better was mackerel with purple potatoes, pistachio, mint and the gloriously-described diamante citron - candied lemon to you and me. This ingredient's sweet but still discernibly citrusy flavour and grainy texture accentuated the salty fish, earthy potatoes, aromatic mint and crunchy nuts which made up the rest of the dish; it was colourful, pretty and, I scribbled down simply, 'brilliant'

Finally for the savoury courses came two meat dishes which were the stand-out successes of the whole meal. Norfolk White free-range chicken with miso, peach and ginger was a fat quarter bird, marinaded in miso and ginger and roasted until just cooked so as to remain moist and sweet. The peach element was a thick chutney which provided just a little welcome tartness. Best of the lot though was a fabulous, zingy Thai-inspired dish of O'Shea's onglet steak with mandarin, peanuts and papaya. The blend and balance of ingredients was well-judged and just very clever; I would (and will) go back for this dish alone.

Desserts too were exceptionally good. A moist pistachio, vanilla and olive oil cake with vanilla ice cream was delightful; free from flour, eggs and butter it felt, said Anders alliteratively, "healthy and hearty". More indulgent - and therefore perfectly suited to my taste - was a slice of frozen Ecuadorean chocolate ganache, dusted in shaved chocolate and served with lavender, blueberries and some crunchy meringues. These were not cooked, we were told, but dehydrated, a technique which gave them an intriguing slight saltiness which cut through the sweet richness of the chocolate.

We drank, I'll admit, rather a lot of the very good wines on offer, including a lovely slightly chilled Sangiovese, a buttery, Chardonnay-like Insolia and both our favourite, a bright, apple-y Grosset Off Dry Riesling. The staff have obviously been very thoroughly drilled on the wines so that in effect every one of them is a sommelier. A note of caution though - to diners and the restaurant - is that with most dishes only being quite small, often the pace of the food did not keep up with the service of wine, such that on a couple of occasions a dish or glass had been finished before we received the wine or food which ideally would have accompanied it.

Service otherwise was excellent, our waitress undaunted by my idiot behaviour at the start of the meal, although she and others seemed at times rather too interested in what we thought of everything to the point that concerned questioning risked tipping over into intrusive interrogation. This could have been nerves - the place has barely been open a fortnight and is still finding its feet - but could make diners less inclined than we to voice their opinions feel harassed and hurried. That would be a shame, as the room - long and light, all pale blond wood, polished bronze and copious mirrors - is beautifully done and deserves to be lingered in.

Overall I thought Galoupet was pretty damn good. The concept is, if not unique, then certainly innovative and the food is exciting and genuinely felt new - if anyone's had Mediterranean sharing plates with Asian accents anywhere else then do please correct me. What's more, despite being in London's most expensive borough, it's actually very reasonably priced; we were guests of Galoupet for this meal but to give you an idea, wines start at just £4.10 for a 125ml glass and the most expensive dish on the menu is only £12.50, so it's a restaurant within everyone's reach.

Many have reached it already - on a miserable wet Wednesday night, business was brisk and the place was buzzing. I recommend you get along and experience it for yourself sooner rather than later; Galoupet has 'hit' written all over it.

Galoupet, 13 Beauchamp Place, Knightsbridge, London SW3 1NQ Tel: 020 7036 3600 http://www.galoupet.co.uk

Scott's, Mayfair

2011-07-15T12:14:00.003+01:00

When a couple of weeks ago my super-posh gal pal Alexandra purred "Let me take you for dinner at Scott's" it was, I can safely say, the most exciting invitation I'd received since 1995, when a particularly stellar pop star I'd met at a party asked me back to his hotel room. I accepted both offers, and each resulted in my having a fabulous tale to tell, but this blog being about restaurants I'm afraid the only episode you'll be hearing about here is the fancy fish supper.

Scott's usually needs no introduction, but just in case you've been asleep under a rock (or perhaps a rock star) since 2006, it is the jewel in Caprice Holdings' crown, widely regarded as one of London's best restaurants and certainly its most famous - even more so these days than its slightly-faded sister The Ivy. A Mayfair institution throughout the twentieth century, Scott's fell out of fashion and favour at the turn of the millennium until being bought five years ago by Richard Caring, given a sensitive but stunning Martin Brudnizki makeover and transforming, seemingly overnight, into the capital's A-List hangout of choice.

Write off Scott's as a mere celeb canteen though at your peril, for behind the landmark round window and canopied entrance there's a beautiful, brilliant and welcoming restaurant catering to a far more diverse clientele than the paparazzi-populated press would have you believe.

The room is a clever, comforting mix of the old - dark wood panelling, leather chairs and banquettes - and the new - artworks and sculpture by, among others, Damien Hirst, Tracey Emin and Gary Hume. A square bar around a vast stone seafood 'altar' dominates the main room; tables - none seating more than six - all face it. A connected yet discrete back room offers less theatrical seating in just as attractive surroundings.

Alexandra and I chose to sit at the bar; perched on our stools we had a perfect vantage point from which to watch the comings and goings of the constantly busy, buzzing room. Whilst browsing the menu we grazed on a generous complimentary medley of olives, almonds and - to my immense delight - pork scratchings. Scott's is first and foremost a seafood restaurant so naturally fish and crustacea feature heavily, but there's plenty of non-piscine choices and Alexandra and I in fact both ended up choosing non-fish starters.

My wild rabbit and black pudding salad with a crispy pheasant egg was a lovely taste of the countryside, little bitter leaves (dandelion, I think) and a sweet-ish grain mustard dressing complementing nicely the mellow rabbit and robust, peppery pudding. The pheasant egg, richer in flavour than a hen's and about half the size, had been poached until almost set, breadcrumbed and fried; it added interest in both texture and taste. Alexandra's buffalo mozzarella, zucchini flower, mint and broad bean relish was an Italian summer classic, the crunch of the lightly tempuraed flower contrasting with the milky softness of the cheese, the whole given freshness and bite by the relish.

We decided it was only right to order fish for our main courses; to come to Scott's and not have fish would be rather like going to a steakhouse and having the chicken. Most of the fifteen or so fish dishes on offer are simple assemblies of fish (all sustainable) either grilled, roasted or fried with butter or sauce and a vegetable or two, with the exception of a couple of more modern, modish dishes such as cod with chorizo and padron peppers. Fried slip soles with brown shrimps, olive oil and soft herbs (mine) and seared sea bass, lemon and herb butter (Al's) were both perfect; fantastic fish, luxuriously prepared and tasting great. There's not much more I can, or need, say; it was just brilliant. I also enjoyed a side-order of peas, bread boans and lovage.

Only I had room for pudding (this will surprise exactly no-one, I expect) and absolutely loved the chocolate Turkish delight. If I tell you it was, essentially, a deluxe, home-made Fry's Turkish delight bar topped with rose ice-cream and a crystallised rose petal, you'll probably either think "Ooooh!" or "Eeew!" but I can assure you it was the former. A glass of Banyuls rinsed it down delightfully, as had a bottle of Vouvray ‘Sec’ 2009 Bourillon Dorléans the rest of the meal.

Scott's' incredibly welcoming staff have that gift of making first-timers feel like the regulars - famous and not - who make up the restaurant's core clientele. We arrived early evening and lingered - unhurried - until much later, and it was fascinating to observe just how many seats at the bar and tables around the room were taken by solo diners and families who dropped in for a quick supper before going home, or out, before the table was reallocated to a dinner booking. Scott's functions, from what I could see, just like any good local restaurant, with the exception that its locale is probably London's grandest.

The perception of Scott's is that it is rather grand too, but like many perceptions, it's not true. Scott's is fun, warm, welcoming and once you're in, very inclusive, with two obvious barriers. One is actually getting a booking; coveted dinner-at-eight slots book up weeks in advance but if you don't mind eating a bit early or a bit late, there are tables available most nights even at short notice, or you could take a chance on a walk-in - certainly there were seats at the bar which vacated during the time we were there that didn't fill up again.

The other barrier is, of course, cost. Scott's is by no means a cheap place to eat (well it was for me; Alexandra, classy from her immaculately-coiffeured head to her Ferragamo-clad feet, picked up our £150-ish bill) but that's mitigated by the superlative quality of everything about the experience. You'd have a great time and not be too badly out of pocket if you dropped in, as many seem to, for just a main course and a glass of wine at the bar, but I really would advise saving Scott's, and up, for an all-out blow-out on your next special occasion.

Or, perhaps, get taken by a pop star. But that's a whole other story.

Scott's, 20 Mount Street, London W1K 2HE Tel: 020 7495 7309 http://www.scotts-restaurant.com

Roger Hickman's Restaurant, Norwich

2011-07-05T23:22:00.002+01:00

Norfolk is, egregiously unfairly, probably the most maligned county in Britain. Silly (if not-entirely unamusing) stereotypes abound about the good people of Nelson's County, generally alluding to a lack of intelligence, a fondness for intra-familial relations and a tendency towards eccentric, abnormal behaviour - or, as the medical profession's tongue-in-cheek acronym would have it, NFN: 'Normal For Norfolk'. Spend any amount of time there however and you'll discover not only that none of this is true (OK, not entirely true...), but that there is a very great deal more to love about the county than there is to mock.

Its towns and city offer all the comfort and amenities of more thriving metropolises without the congestion and crime. Its historic villages are beautiful oases of calm offering a quality of life at least comparable and perhaps superior to, say, the Cotswolds at half the cost. And, to get to the point to which you have I expect been urging me to get for two paragraphs now, Norfolk has the most fantastic food scene; artisan producers, rare breed farms, organic grocers and weekend markets mean that whatever outsiders might like to think of the locals, no-one could ever say they're not at the very top of the culinary tree. The wealth of quality food has even spawned a Norfolk Diet movement.

Although I've not eaten at all that many restaurants in my adoptive home county - my family having now all gravitated there from almost-as-roundly-mocked Dorset - I can confidently say that I have not eaten at any better than the Ronsealogically-named Roger Hickman's Restaurant in Norwich. Chef-patron Roger Hickman was head chef under former owner David Adlard and took over the premises when Adlard sold up to found a now hugely-popular cookery school. I ate once at what was then Adlard's with my family a few years ago and remembered having been impressed with the Tom Aikens-esque technique of the chef; that chef was, it transpires, the Aikens-trained Hickman. My mum's recent birthday presented the perfect opportunity to re-visit and see what had changed now that it's Hickman's name out front.

As far as the decor goes, the answer is 'not much'; the interior is very much as I remember it, bright, neutral and homely with a few French bistro posters interspersed with bold modern photography adorning the walls. It's a bit of a mish-mash but an inoffensive one, and the lack of anything much to distract the eye means at least that diners' focus will be, deservedly, on the excellent food that's on their plate.

As well as a haiku-short a la carte - just two choices for each course - there's a keenly-priced lunch menu at £17 for two or £20 for three courses, which we ordered from. Before our starters came, we were given - to my surprise, as such little extras don't tend to be included with set menus - a cute amuse-bouche of chicken liver parfait topped with minted pea mousse and a bacon crisp. Just a mouthful of each, layered in a shot glass, it got the meal off to a promising start.

Our starters were, like everything on the menu, as simply and elegantly presented as they were described. 'Asparagus and quail egg salad with pickled mushrooms' was Spring on a plate, crisp asparagus spears and halved soft-boiled quail's eggs lying under a scattering of small - but not fussy micro - leaves, a quenelle of light asparagus mousse contrasting with the piquancy of tiny pickled ceps. 'Poached salmon with dill cream and apple and ginger purée' comprised a ballotine of cooled poached fish, rolled in finely chopped dill and served, in addition to the advertised accompaniments, with a portion of excellent smoked salmon.

We were joined for our main courses, unexpectedly, by my extremely pregnant sister Helena, and our already attentive waiter's level of care for my beloved elder sibling was so fantastic that even if the dishes that followed had been inedible muck I'd probably have still left loving the place. Far from it; all three were terrific. My roast skate wing with sauté potatoes, samphire and caper cream, mum's roast chump of lamb with spinach, confit tomatoes and pearl barley risotto and Helena's roast duck breast with confit leg, roast carrots and crispy egg (£16 from the a la carte menu), were all uncomplicated, well-executed compositions of clearly very fresh - and local - ingredients, and completely delicious.

It being a birthday there had to be desserts (as if I ever need an excuse) and these too impressed us. If roasting was the preferred cooking method for main courses, poaching was the technique du jour for puddings. Helena loved her poached peaches with rice pudding, granola and apricot sorbet, as did mum her poached cherries with cherry jelly and chocolate mousse (I'd like to be able to tell you how delicious the mousse was but mum devoured it with such enthusiasm that there wasn't so much as a teaspoonful left to try). I thought my choice, raspberry Arctic roll with vanilla jelly and a hazelnut tuile, was splendid - a retro favourite given a clever modern makeover. The popping candy-studded truffle petits-fours which came with coffee were the perfect end to a brilliant meal.

Spot the very pregnant sister.

But it gets better. With a bottle of crisp, apple-y Les Vignes Comte Tolosan from the regularly-changing list, two coffees and service (not included, so entirely at diners' discretion) we paid - for two three-course lunches and two courses from the a la carte - just £95. Less than a ton, for food of exceptional quality, good wine and brilliant service in very pleasant surroundings? Say what you like about the people of Norfolk; with a restaurant as good as Roger Hickman's to call their own, they're the ones who'll be having the last laugh.

Roger Hickman's Restaurant, 79 Upper Saint Giles Street, Norwich, Norfolk, NR2 1AB Tel: (01603) 633522 http://www.rogerhickmansrestaurant.com

da Polpo, Covent Garden

2011-06-28T00:40:00.005+01:00

In much the same way as people are always 'rushed' to hospital and champagne is always 'quaffed', it's seemingly impossible for Polpo, Russell Norman and Richard Beatty's Beak Street restaurant (as if you didn't know that) to be described as anything other than 'wildly' popular. I should know - mea culpa.

For many restaurateurs, such success would be enough, but there's been no R&R for R&R who, in under two years, have gone on to open Polpetto on Dean Street and Spuntino on Rupert Street, as well as converting what was the private dining room at Polpo into a stylish Campari Bar. The latest addition to their burgeoning empire (do empires ever do anything but 'burgeon'?) is da Polpo in Covent Garden, their first foray outside of Soho.

Despite what the name might suggest, da Polpo is more than just another branch of Polpo, although it's certainly closest to the original site in character and size. Rather, it's a combination of all the best bits of the other restaurants, with a couple of new details added due to popular demand. A 'Greatest Hits of Polpo' if you like, following the difficult third album, with its interminable delays and creative crises, that was Spuntino. So, filament lamps, brown paper menus, maps of Venice and, most importantly, the now-familiar Italian-influenced food are all present and correct, but now bookings are taken into early evening (until 5.30) and there's a table that seats groups of up to twelve. It's the most obviously commercial and, in more ways than one, accessible of the group, and unsurprisingly, it's very, very good.

Da Polpo offers a variety of seating areas each with its own character; a banquette-lined back room well-suited to families (plenty of parking space for buggies), high counters made from recycled school desks ideal for casual grazing, and more business-like tables for two in the main room. There's also the option to sit at the L-shaped bar, and it was here that Alyn and I settled in for lunch on my birthday a couple of weeks ago.

Fairly famished from traipsing around the Miro exhibition at Tate Modern, we started with a couple of pizzette, the gorgeous Peter-Piper-picked-a-peck-of-pork-shoulder-and-pickled-pepper (it's not really called that, but it should be) and spinach, parmesan and soft egg which was fabulously Florentine. Next came a perfect fritto misto, a huge mound of crisp, oil-less seafood including prawns, calamari and little fish (possibly whitebait, possibly anchovies, definitely delicious) which I hope will remain on the menu forever - it's the kind of dish I'd make a special journey for.

We followed that with more prawns, this time grilled with garlic, chilli and parsley - simple, wonderful and, at £6.40 for six huge prawns, good value - and some chickpea 'meatballs' in tomato sauce which surprised us - sworn carnivores both - with how, well, meaty they were. Salty, matchstick-thin zucchini fritti were an ideal accompaniment. As a final birthday treat - OK, treats - I tucked away a tiramisu pot (still as 'textbook' as when I first enjoyed it at Polpetto) and a Bellini sgroppino, a scoop of lemon sorbet drowned in Prosecco. It was terrific, as you'd expect a booze float would be.

As well as delivering great food in very pleasant surroundings, da Polpo is good value too; all of this, with a carafe of Polpo house wine, a couple of beers and 12.5% service came to about £55. In common with its sibling sites, staff have clearly been recruited for their enthusiasm and charm as much as their ability although not, regulars might be surprised to note, for their tattoos, all being remarkably ink-free. Joking aside, this does add to the feeling that da Polpo is designed to be more approachable, less trendy than its Soho stablemates, making it perfect for more conservative Covent Garden.

It will, I think it's safe to say, prove to be 'wildly popular'.

Footnote: The morning after writing this post I found the bill and spotted that my desserts weren't added - well it was my birthday - so the total bill should have been around the £65 mark; still great value.

da Polpo, 6 Maiden Lane, London WC2E 7NA Tel: 020 7836 8448 http://www.dapolpo.co.uk/

Watatsumi

2011-06-26T00:03:00.006+01:00

I remember with almost Proustian clarity my first taste of Japanese food. It was 1995, and a new bar called Foundation had opened to great fanfare in the basement of Harvey Nichols, replacing the Sloane Rangers' canteen Joe's Cafe. It was a sleek modern space, all black marble floors and glass pillars, with a waterfall running down the full length of the back bar. As well as swanky cocktails, some rather nice wines and a selection of primo cigars - which of course you could smoke indoors, this being more than a decade before the smoking ban - they served yakitori, wooden skewers of char-grilled meat and vegetables in a sticky, moreish marinade.

The smokiness of the meat, the salty-sweet marinade and pungent onions or peppers combined to create a sensation of taste which I now know to be umami but which back in the nineties I just called 'delicious'; whatever it was, from the first little plateful I was hooked and so began a love affair with Japanese food which continues to this day. (Foundation alas is no more; it's now a Wagamama, which seems rather fitting).

You can imagine then that I was rather pleased to be invited along to Watatsumi, a new-ish Japanese restaurant in the Club Quarters Hotel (nope - me neither) on Northumberland Avenue, just off Trafalgar Square. A noble stab has been made at giving the high-ceilinged, columned room a Japanese feel; paper screens zig-zag along one wall and branches of cherry blossom stand in tall thin vases on windowsills, but the overall effect is more Ikea than izikaya.

It's easy to excuse the room however as the food being served therein is really rather good. Setting out 'to show that there is more to Japanese cuisine than raw fish', Watatsumi offers all the familiar staples - sushi, sashimi, tempura and, yes, yakitori - alongside an innovative selection of hot dishes best summed up as western favourites given an eastern flavour. Thus, for example, US or English steaks are served with spicy miso or wasabi sauce, and sea bass ('pan-fried' of course, as if it could be fried in anything else) comes with shiso butter.

Alyn and I ordered a selection of dishes covering most sections of the menu, starting with some good, prettily-presented sashimi (salmon, tuna and yellow tail) all subtle and smooth and, at £13.50, good value for six pieces. A California roll, from a selection all available as maki (roll) or temaki (hand roll), was excellent, a little loosely packed but of very good flavour and texture, both light and fresh. Watatsumi crispy calamari, deep-fried baby squid dusted with a spice mix, were also splendid, tangy and lip-smacking in that way Nice 'n' Spicy Nik Naks are. This, believe me, is a good thing.

For our main courses we both ordered beef - the prawns and lobster was recommended which of course it would be at £45 a pop - a 250g bavette steak 'marinated in spicy miso and grilled' for Alyn and Fuji burger for me. Alyn's steak was full of flavour and cooked beautifully medium-rare, the best way with bavette, but my 'burger' - actually a bit of a misnomer as what came was two bun-less patties of seasoned beef - was just a little strange. The patties had the same appealing savoury tang as the calamari had had, but the accompaniments - purple potato chips and steamed rice - were fairly bland and didn't add much. We very much enjoyed a flawless dish of vegetable tempura though, and the selection of chilli sauces - sweet, mayo and hot - served with it.

With the exception of mini moshi - lovely sesame or vanilla-flavoured balls of ice-cream coated in pounded sticky rice and served with a shot of lychee liqueur - there was nothing remotely Nipponese about the desserts, and although a cheesecake made with English strawberries on a speculoos base was absolutely gorgeous, I wonder if any restaurant should admit on the menu to using Philadelphia in the recipe.

Overall the meal was very enjoyable and service, for the most part, was good - our waiter was friendly and knowledgeable - but there were a few too many incidences of plates being cleared the second the food on them was finished, wine glasses being topped up after a single sip was taken and once, unforgivably, food being served to an empty seat while Alyn was away from the table, for us to feel completely comfortable. If the staff could just relax a bit, customers will too, and good word-of-mouth, which Watatsumi certainly deserves, should spread - which is vital given that the competition in this touristy part of town consists of the sorts of terrible chain which don't deserve to thrive but, depressingly, do.

I'm not sure that the memory of this Japanese meal will linger as long as that of my first, but it's certainly stayed with me at least a couple of weeks later - not bad as remembrances of dinners past go.

Watatsumi, 7 Northumberland Avenue, London WC2N 5BY Tel: 020 7036 8520 http://www.watatsumi.co.uk

Trinity, Clapham

2011-06-15T13:51:00.002+01:00

For all that this blogging lark is really rather fun as hobbies go, for a number of reasons I don't actually do it very often. Firstly, I don't write about every meal out that I have; I'd be a hypocrite to sneer at those who write up (seemingly) every sandwich or takeaway they eat, given that it was a particularly splendid sandwich counter which inspired my first post, but I don't have the time or inclination to do it myself.

Secondly, while I don't have any hard-and-fast rules to speak of (in blogging as in life...), I generally don't write about meals that fall into certain 'private' categories; I include in this meals with family (with the occasional exception), business lunches and friends' birthday dinners - for this reason, and this alone, a particularly dreadful central London Mexican restaurant can breathe a sigh of relief.

The main reason however is that I'm essentially a creature of habit, and once I find somewhere I like, I go back again and again (and in some cases, again); great for the restaurateur's balance sheet, but not so good for generating new material. I might tweet about how good (or otherwise) a meal at a favourite restaurant was, but I don't 're-review'. Or rather, didn't, until now.

Trinity is the quietly brilliant restaurant in Clapham Old Town which I wrote about enthusiastically following my first visit, for lunch, almost two years ago. Since then I've been back a few times, always for the ridiculously good value set lunch, but only recently did I have the enormous pleasure of the full-on, a la carte dinner time experience.

Although it might seem hard to believe in these days of Polpo, Maze, Bocca di Lupo, Pollen Street Social et al, chef-patron Adam Byatt's first Clapham restaurant, Thyme, was one of the first - if not the first - to offer diners small plates to share rather than the conventional starter-main-dessert model. Thyme moved up West, to The Hospital Club, evolved into Origin - dinner at which remains one of my best and most memorable restaurant experiences ever - and operated for a few years until Byatt moved back to his SW4 roots in 2006 to open Trinity. (I always thought that the name was a reference to it being Byatt's third restaurant, but apparently it's just to do with it being near Trinity Church and his liking the name.)

Unlike Adam's previous restaurants, and bucking the trend he pioneered, at Trinity Byatt serves 'normal'-size portions of fantastically good, modern European food using local, seasonal British ingredients, many of them foraged, fished or farmed by his own fair hands. Dining on this occasion with Eliot - a New Best Friend of mine and an old one of the chef's - we started by grazing on some spring crudités, a punnet of beautifully fresh little vegetables of which Mr McGregor would have been proud, served with creamed fish roe (a very British take on taramasalata.)

There followed not so much an amuse-bouche as a mini-starter, perfect little balls of clean-tasting mozzarella each topped with a smoked anchovy and drizzled in a lemon olive oil and sardine vinaigrette. Our starters proper were wonderful. Eliot's delicate scallop-stuffed courgette flower with warm roast salmon and wild asparagus (long, thin, mild-tasting spears) was both sweet and earthy, while my smoked venison tartare with juniper, celeriac cream and gaufrette crisps, served with a seasoned egg yolk in a half-shell, was as bold and rich as you'd expect from such assertive ingredients.

No young animal was safe when it came to main courses; Eliot chose braised breast of baby veal while I decided (eventually) on the roast rump of salt marsh lamb. Both featured beautifully cooked meat, in generous quantities, with savoury accompaniments to complement their mellow flavours; lardo di collonata and baby artichoke with the veal and bagna cauda, crisp sweetbreads and the most moreish wild garlic puree with the lamb - if only Adam Byatt would bottle and sell it, I'd have the stuff with everything.

Fit to burst, we heroically settled on sharing a dessert - a light, sweet blueberry soufflé with white chocolate sorbet which Eliot elegantly splodged down into the pillowy middle, causing it to meld into the gooiest, gorgeousest mess. Sparks practically flew off our clashing spoons as we fought over every last delicious mouthful. Whenever I've been asked in the past to name a favourite dessert I've always said it was a strawberry soufflé I had at Guillaume at Bennelong in Sydney; this one was easily as good.

We drank...well, rather a lot actually; the super sommeliere chose for me an un-oaked Au Bon Climat Chardonnay and then a big, ballsy Pascal Frère Vacqueyras to accompany my starter and main respectively, then a sweet Pacherenc to sip (OK, guzzle) with pud. These were just a few of the by-the-glass choices from an interesting list which has much to offer in both price and variety and from old and new world.

Service struck the ideal balance of smart but unstuffy, professional but informal, and most importantly, unhurried; despite being deservedly booked solid most nights (and indeed days) of the week there's no table turning or drink-up-damn-you pouring of wine, all of which contributes to a calm, comfortable atmosphere just as suited to cosy dates and dinner-with-mates as to special occasions and family suppers. As will by now be very apparent, I just think everything about the place is plain bloody wonderful and can't (re) recommend it highly enough.

I was lucky enough to not be paying (I need more friends like this - apply within) but from a quick tot-up going by the menu we'd have been looking at about £60 a head - which, these days, strikes me as a complete bargain for the exceptional quality of the cooking. Go at lunch, share a carafe of wine and you'll get out for under £30. Whenever you go, just do; I am reasonably certain that if you try Trinity once, you will, like me, be back again. And again.

Trinity, 4 The Polygon, Clapham, London SW4 0JG Tel: 020 7622 1199 http://www.trinityrestaurant.co.uk

Charlotte's Bistro, W4

2011-05-30T13:18:00.005+01:00

Photo: Paul Winch-Furness www.paulwf.co.uk

As well as the many trends in food to have emerged in the last year or so - gourmet Scotch eggs, historic British dishes redux, goat's curd with everything, three-meat blends - something of a fashion has sprung up for giving new restaurants names which don't quite do exactly what they say on the tin.

Thus, Bar Boulud is not a bar but a seriously upscale burger joint, Riding House Cafe (more of which at a later date) isn't a cafe but a buzzy all-day brasserie, and Charlotte's Bistro isn't a bistro but a...well, here's the thing. I'm not quite sure what it is, or rather, what it wants to be. Whatever it is, it's very good, with mostly terrific food, a pleasant room, efficient service and a clearly extremely talented - not to mention charming - chef. The problem, if indeed to anyone but me it is one, is that the whole is not quite the cohesive, knock-your-socks-off sum of its parts.

Just off the busy Chiswick High Road, a couple of minutes' walk from Turnham Green tube, Charlotte's Bistro comprises a small bar and a long, narrow sky-lit dining room furnished with dark, bare hard-wood tables and chic leather chairs. It reminded me immediately of a branch of Strada; no bad thing in itself - I'm a fan of the chain - but perhaps not the designer's intention. It could certainly serve as a casual, local bistro serving simple food in simple surroundings, but then the menu comes and you realise that what's on offer is rather more serious than that.

Descriptions of dishes consist of short, appealing lists of the principle ingredients and show a strong tendency towards the unusual but not obscure (violet artichokes, salsify), seasonal or regional British produce (English asparagus, Berkswell cheese) and Mediterranean and north African influences (jumbo couscous, tarragon polenta). Fruit, vegetables, flowers and seeds feature widely throughout. Diners lured in by the 'Bistro' name expecting steak frites are in for a not-necessarily-unpleasant surprise.

After some lovely home-baked bread including a particularly tasty rosemary loaf, and a couple of absolutely fantastic cocktails, best friend Andrew ordered the simplest sounding starter - English asparagus velouté, almond milk froth - while I decided to go for the only dish which didn't sound like it belonged on the menu: salad of ox tongue with Thai style raw vegetables, toasted peanuts, garlic and chilli. The velouté was a let-down; not at all velvety, and in fact rather thin, it lacked flavour to the point of insipidness, the almond milk foam adding nothing - Andrew described it, archly, as being 'as beige as the wall behind me'. Ouch. The ox tongue salad was better, interesting both in texture and taste, but like the soup felt rather timid, lacking tang and bite.

Mains were much better, aesthetically pretty and where starters had been on the bland side, full of flavour while light in a Mediterranean way. Roasted hake, Moroccan spices, chorizo, green olives had a lovely Andalusian feel to it and made me wonder why hake, so popular in Spain and so tasty, isn't more popular here. Accompanying salt-baked potatoes were wonderfully moreish, the saltiness balanced by some braised lettuce. Andrew's lamb rump and sweetbreads, garlic purée and fève beans was also superb, none of the strong flavours over-whelming the others and the meat beautifully pink. It was served, oddly, with chunky chips, which were good in themselves but seemed rather out of context with the rest of the dish.

The undoubted highlight of the meal came in the final course. A chocolate fondant served with salt caramel, tonka bean ice-cream and a sesame cracker was seriously perfect, the fondant oozing, the ice-cream gorgeously nutty and the cracker a smoky, savoury counter-point. Our other choice, nougat praline parfait, pistachio crumble and brandy-soaked warm chocolate madeleine was always going to pale by comparison; as it was, it was fine, although the presentation - the plate smeared with chocolate sauce, the parfait and madeleine forming small mounds - was...well I won't go all school-boy about it but let's just say there was a lot of brown. The crumble was delicious; the rest, not so much, but it still rounded off our meal nicely.

Chef Wesley Smalley (pictured) has done time under Jean-Christophe Novelli and Marco Pierre White, and the Michelin pedigree shows. But herein perhaps lies the difficulty with Charlotte's Bistro, namely that the chef and his abilities are rather larger than the restaurant and its aspirations. His style of cooking is, in its delicate complexity, more Gauthier Soho than local bistro and I wonder if the room needs rather more bells and whistles - or napery and ornament in this case - to do it justice.

Service could do to lighten up a bit too; staff are all lovely but the menu warns that 'mains ordered without starters are subject to a wait of between twenty to thirty minutes' and when we did order starters we were told that they would be 'five to seven minutes'. I think most diners these days know that food takes time to make and serve and don't need to be told as much. If Charlotte's wants to be a bistro - relaxed and informal - it needs to act it as well as think it. One thing that can't be faulted though is the pricing; starters are all £6-£8, mains no more than £17 and puds all at six quid or nine for cheese. The wine list is short-ish but with some interesting bottles; we enjoyed a 2008 Macabeo Torrelongares Cariñena (£20).

Overall, and on balance, I like Charlotte's Bistro very much; it's a nice place, the food was mostly excellent and if you get a chance to have a chat with him, you'll find Wesley Smalley to be a lovely chap who obviously cares a great deal for what he's doing. I was lured out to W4 by a pleasantly persistent PR, and would encourage anyone who tends to only eat out in the West End to think about making the trip to give Charlotte's a try. If however you are lucky enough to be a local, then get yourselves there without delay - it's already good, and can only get even better.

Charlotte's Bistro, 6 Turnham Green Terrace, Chiswick, London W4 1QP Tel: 020 8742 3590 http://www.charlottes.co.uk

Capote Y Toros, West Brompton

2011-05-19T20:26:00.004+01:00

Within a few doors of each other in West Brompton, the leafy little stretch of Old Brompton Road that's posher than nearby Earl's Court but not quite South Kensington proper,the same proprietors operate Cambio de Tercio - reputed to be one of London's best Spanish restaurants - Tendido Cero, a traditional tapas bar, and now Capote y Toros, a ham and sherry bar to which I was invited - you might say 'summoned' - recently by my good pal, Spanish food buff and culinary girl-about-town Rachel McCormack.

Let's just contemplate the beauty of that concept for a moment: a ham and sherry bar. A bar specialising in Spanish ham - the really good stuff, from pigs fed on acorns so that their flesh becomes all fat and nutty and sweet - and sherry, dozens of different varieties of it from the palest dry Fino to treacly dark Pedro Ximenez, as well as an all-Iberian wine list. In addition to the (amazing, silken) jamon, there's a list of about twenty tapas, most of them using sherry as an ingredient. Even in Spain such places aren't all that common, so for one to pop up in London is a rare treat indeed.

The name 'Capote y Toros' refers to bull-fighting, toros being bulls and capote the dual-coloured satin cape worn by the toreador. It's a theme which runs through the whole room, the pink and orange walls covered with bull-fighting photos, posters and memorabilia (though not, you'll be pleased to hear, the plaintive-eyed heads of real champion bulls which looked down from the walls of a similarly-themed bar I once visited in Guadalajara).

Between seven of of us - an opinionated, rag-tag collective of Twitter pals comprising three publicans, two wine experts, Rachel and myself - we ordered almost everything on the menu and it should tell you all you need to know that none of us found a single fault with anything. From the simplest nibbles - Manzanilla olives and roasted almonds - to the truly inspired - curls of wafer-thin, shaved foie gras drizzled with a Pedro Ximenez reduction and sprinkled with cracked black pepper which I am still dreaming about - it was all magnificent and several dishes had to be re-ordered.

When you've loved everything it's hard to pick out favourites, but I'd recommend particularly the butter-soft, yielding pork cheeks with potato puree in sweet Oloroso, Piquillo peppers stuffed with oxtail and the best pulpo a la Gallega I can remember having since a friend's Gallician mother introduced me to this gorgeous paprika-spiked medley of octopus and potato. Puddings were imaginative and excellent, especially a mousse of sweet Oloroso sherry and caramelised figs and Pedro Ximenez ice cream with boozy raisins and Macadamia nuts. I did find portions of puds a little on the stingy side for the £4.75 price tag, but that could easily have been my distended stomach talking.

And with it, of course, there was sherry, a £12.50 flight of five varieties each from minerally, salty Manzanilla and Fino, through richer Amontillado and Oloroso, up to sticky, sweet Palo Cortado all served in helpfully-labelled glasses for the memory-impaired. Consumed in that order, each brilliantly complemented the food served alongside it; the flight has been matched to the menu flow with evident expertise.

This huge abundance of food, our sherry flights, a couple of bottles of wine and one of Cava with our puds - plus service - came to a very reasonable £45 a head. Less gluttonous/dipsomaniacal diners will probably average a spend of about £30 and you could easily pop in with a pal, share a plate of ham, wash it down with a sherry each and leave with change from a twenty. Service is friendly and proficient, the crowd buzzy - the place was deservedly packed on the night we visited - and, although he reminded us of Raw Sex, a guitarist added to the authentic atmosphere. It's a lovely place not only to eat but also to be.

It will be obvious that, for the second time running, I've been bowled over by a real local gem. With new, central London openings showing no sign of abating, it's easy to forget that there's a culinary world outside of W1. With Capote y Toros on their doorstep, the lucky residents of SW5 might rather you did.

Capote y Toros, 157 Old Brompton Road, London SW5 0LJ Tel: 020 7373 0567 (but NB: no bookings) http://www.cambiodetercio.co.uk

The Fat Delicatessen, Balham

2011-05-08T20:35:00.003+01:00

One of the many great things about living in London is that we are absolutely spoiled for wonderful local café/delis, where we can enjoy a quick, delicious snack or light lunch and then, if so minded, buy the ingredients to make it at all over again at home. As well as well-known mini-chains like Ottolenghi, small but flourishing independents populate many of the 'villages' which, cliché would have it, make up our fair capital; locals love to think of each as being their 'little secret'.

Apologies to the locals of Balham then for blowing wide-open this particular little secret, the absolutely delectable, worth-the-fare-to-zone-3 Fat Delicatessen. I'd walked past it numerous times on the way to and from visiting a friend who lives round the corner and always meant to go in; having finally done so for a lunch with said friend (let's call him Matthew, as that is in fact his name) and Alyn recently, I'm extremely glad I did.

The long, whitewashed, slate-floored room feels distinctly Iberian, which is appropriate seeing as it's tapas, along with a few Italian specialities which are on the menu. As well as a thirty-ish strong selection of dishes divided up into 'Bar Snacks', 'Breads', 'Ham & Salami', 'Cheese', 'Meats', 'Fish' and 'Vegetables', there's a choice of paninis and sandwiches as well as daily pasta specials (all made in-house) and made-to-order salads. Prices are pleasingly low; the only dish on the menu over £8 is Acorn-fed Jamon Iberico at a still-reasonable £13.50, making it possible to order abundantly without breaking the bank.

Between the three of us we ordered a meat-heavy selection including a serving of delicious Terruel Lomo - sweet cured pork loin - confit belly pork with creamed rosemary fagioli beans and Italian sausage with cherry tomatoes, as well as some pan Catalan, hot green Padron peppers and red onion with piquillo peppers and chick peas.

It was all superb, the flavours rich and distinctive, the combinations assured and nourishing. The Padron peppers disappointed only because none out of the generous portion packed the fierce chilli hit that at least one in every serving usually does, but they were nonetheless saltily moreish. The pork belly was a thick brick of piggy goodness, served on a comforting bed of white beans, and the Italian sausage a huge spiral of salsiccia complemented by some tiny, roast cherry tomatoes.

Desserts sounded great so of course had to be tried. Alyn declared his white chocolate cheesecake to be "heaven" - you'll have to take his word for it as there was none available to try - Matthew's sticky toffee pudding was good, if lacking in the sticky richness of dates, and my affogato was comme il faut. Drinks-wise we enjoyed a bottle of bright, fruity 2008 Borsao Seleccion Blanco from a fairly-priced, all-European list, as well as tap water helpfully offered in large jugs, thus avoiding any need for repeated refill requests on what was a hot day.

Our bill for all of this - six savoury plates, puddings and wine - came to less than sixty pounds, an amount you can easily approach (and exceed) per head in some of the West End's razzier tapas/small plates/cicheti joints. The Fat Delicatessen is, of course, not in the West End and therefore lacks any pretensions to fanciness, reflected in its not-fancy pricing and relaxed, friendly service. It is, simply, what it is - an excellent, honest, local business. Balhamites are lucky to have it, albeit perhaps not for too much longer, all to themselves.

The Fat Delicatessen, 7 Chestnut Grove, London SW12 8JA Tel: 0208 675 6174 http://www.fatdelicatessen.co.uk

Criterion Restaurant, Piccadilly

2011-04-28T13:28:00.007+01:00

Criterion Restaurant is rather like Narnia. Not only in that you step through unremarkable doors into a realm of almost unbelievable splendour, but also in that however much you might ask around you'll struggle to find anyone who's ever actually been.

For several years a high-profile outpost of Marco Pierre White's in-name-only restaurant stable, after the turban-wearing one's departure Criterion struggled for some time to find an identity for itself and slipped from the culinary radar, sustained I would imagine by special offers and passing trade - of which, on Piccadilly Circus, there must be plenty.

Now however Criterion is seeking to assert its status as a serious food destination and based on the evidence of my recent visit, they certainly mean business. Membership of the Sustainable Restaurant Association asserts their eco-credentials and all the favourite foodie buzzwords - local, seasonal, organic - are present and correct on a menu which majors in best of British with some high-falutin' fine dining touches. Served in what is indisputably one of London's most spectacular dining rooms, a neo-Byzantine orgy of soaring mosaic ceilings embellished with more gilt than Midas' loo, it's an attractive proposition - but does it deliver?

Knowing myself well and fearing that I might be far too easily swayed by the offer of a free feed and lots of shiny surfaces, I took along my straight-talking pal Frankie who the regular reader may remember from our trip to Byron some time ago. Frankie's usual sole criterion (ho ho) for liking a menu is that it include a lot of meat and Criterion's doesn't disappoint; as a well as five cuts of Galloway beef there's pork belly, veal carpaccio and new season lamb alongside a few fish and game options. Oh, and a couple of veggie dishes thrown in for good measure if you really insist.

To start, Frankie chose pan-fried Isle of Man scallops with red pepper coulis, fennel and apple which was so prettily plated that I was almost tempted to take a picture; fortunately Criterion's well-oiled PR machine has saved me the trouble. Three fat scallops, corals on, were served on ribbons of fennel and crowned with wafer-thin slices of apple, the fruit bringing crunch and acidity and the fennel depth to complement the sweet softness of the scallops. I was just as impressed by my torchon of foie gras with pear chutney and port reduction; like the scallop dish it was a well-balanced combination of textures and flavours, and as easy on the eye as on the palate.

If our starters were elegant and pretty, our main courses were contrastingly butch and assertive. 'Dukkah spiced ‘Kezie Farm’ ostrich, beef bobotje, sautéed spinach, sweet potato' leapt off the page as the 'must order' dish, and it didn't disappoint. I love dukkah, a middle Eastern blend of herbs, nuts and spices seldom seen on western menus, and it made an exhilarating marinade for the robust gamey ostrich meat. The beef bobotje - a nod to hunky head chef Matthew Noxon's Saffa roots - was a clever choice of accompaniment; hell, serving spiced meat with spiced meat is always clever in my book.

Frankie had Gloucester Old Spot pork loin and belly, pea puree, black pudding and crackling, a textbook example of why this dish in various forms has become as ubiquitous on restaurant and pub menus as steak and chips or the humble burger - done properly and well, it's absolutely delicious and the ultimate comfort food, and what chef wouldn't want to emulate that? Where pork belly has suffered a bad rap in recent years is because it's so often done badly; not cooked for long enough, porcine paunch resembles nothing more than a few inches of translucent fat. Fortunately that's not the case here; all the fat was rendered leaving melting, flavoursome meat, the skin roasted to cracking crackling. Some excellent frites were enjoyed but, given ample portion sizes, not strictly necessary.

For pudding (yes we were stuffed but c'mon, this was research) we shared a pear tarte tatin, which was extremely good, and a selection of English cheeses. Now, I'm a lover of all cheeses but especially those of our own fair Isles, so was disappointed that our waitress was only able to tell us the type rather than the name of each cheese; if you're going to trumpet your use of British produce, then surely you should know what that produce is. Fortunately, being a cheese trainspotter, I was able to identify Montgomery's Cheddar, Milleen's, Ragstone and Sparkenhoe red Leicester among the impressive, generous selection. Naturally, we scoffed the lot.

As well as a couple of signature Criterion cocktails - made, unusually, with Benedictine, just about my favourite liqueur - we polished off a mellow, elegant bottle of 2008 Stonier Pinot Noir from an interesting, varied but be warned, pretty spendy list. And therein is the biggest criticism I have of Criterion, for there's absolutely nothing to fault about the food - a la carte prices are rather high. Most starters are around £12 and main courses almost all over £20, and while you might say that this is to be expected for the quality of the produce and cooking, there are other restaurants doing the same thing, to as good a standard, for less. If Criterion wants to attract diners away from, say, The Ivy - the food is easily as good, the attentive, formal service probably better - then some lower-priced options need to be added to the current, impressive mix.

I know, and accept, that even with Frankie there to rein in my tendency towards hyperbole, some readers will not be willing to take my assessment at face value knowing that our dinner cost only my tube fare. To them I offer this epilogue: the next evening, wholly by coincidence a friend took his young gentleman caller to Criterion for his 21st birthday and declared it one of the best meals, and indeed experiences, he'd had in any London restaurant. I'm inclined to agree; if you'll just take a leap of faith and step through those doors, I'm confident that like the Pevenseys, you'll be amazed at what you find.

Criterion Restaurant, 224 Piccadilly, Piccadilly, London W1J 9HP Tel: 020 7930 0488 http://www.criterionrestaurant.com/

Bistro du Vin, Clerkenwell

2011-04-19T02:30:00.004+01:00

Asked in a recent interview what makes the perfect restaurant, an eminent and well-loved food writer observed that while good food obviously matters, it's not everything, and that the room, service and atmosphere are just as important. "Very, very few places get the mix exactly right", he sagely added. Although not getting it quite exactly right - yet - Bistro du Vin, the first standalone restaurant from the popular Hotel du Vin chain, is certainly an example of a restaurant that's heading the right way.

On the site of what was once Bjorn van der Horst's hubristic Eastside Inn, Bistro du Vin is the latest big-bucks opening in an area which already boasts, within a few minutes' stroll of each other, culinary genre-definers Bistrot Bruno Loubet, The Modern Pantry, Hix Oyster & Chop House and the daddy of them all, St John. Rather than trying to introduce something modern and fashionable to this already modern and fashionable mix, Bistro du Vin instead offers staunchly traditional bistro grub in stylishly classic surroundings, lubricated by an exciting selection of wines, many by the glass. It does, reassuringly and well, exactly what it says on the tin.

Arriving a little early for our booking, Alyn and I enjoyed a couple of terrific cocktails in the comfy bar; the signature cocktail is a Martini made with Chase Marmalade vodka and it's a tart, refreshing belter, perfect as an aperitif (and as one of your five-a-day and bursting with vitamin C, technically a health drink). When it was time to be seated we were offered the option of perching ourselves at the bar-top which overlooks the open kitchen, but as at that point smoke was billowing out from the nowadays-de-rigueur Josper grill we decided we'd be better off at a corner table in the bustling dining room proper.

From the cohesive, jargon-free menu we chose first some oysters - four natives, four rocks, all Cornish - then a classic starter each, in my case steak tartare and for Alyn, foie gras and chicken liver parfait. The oysters were good, if rather small, and in the case of the natives a little aggressively shucked such that the salty, creamy flesh was broken up on a couple of them. They were delicious though, and unmissable while there's still an 'r' in the month. My steak tartare was fine as a dish in itself but the unexpected and unconventional inclusion of a great whack of English mustard meant that it wasn't my favourite starter as I know and love it. Alyn's parfait was excellent - smooth, rich and luxurious - but if I see another Kilner jar on a restaurant table I'll throw it, and myself, out of a window.

Main courses however were just bloody brilliant, or in the case of Alyn's beautifully rare, 600g bone-in Belton Galloway sirloin, brilliantly bloody. I'm not personally elevated to the same levels of char-worshipping rapture as many appear to be by the work of a Josper grill, but I know good meat cooked well when I taste it and this was it. As of course it should be for £30 with pomme frites - superb ones - another £3.50; smooth, abundantly tarragon-y Béarnaise is complimentary. Even better than this mega-meat feast were my 'Hot Roasted Shells', a great pan of top-notch scallops, razor clams, crab, mussels, langoustines and lobster, simply roasted with just a lick of subtly herbed butter. Delicious and decadent (although not nearly as decadent as at J. Sheekey, where a smaller selection costs £20 more); a crisp mixed salad dressed in fresh vinaigrette was the only accompaniment needed.

We by-passed pudding in favour of a selection of cheese from the very well-stocked chariot we'd spotted on the way in, served with good biscuits, gorgeous saffron honey and on request, a few slices of apple. We were brought - by a very well-informed and passionate waiter - some creamy St Pierre, a classic Roquefort and my very favourite, a stinky, oozing Epoisses, then seconds of salty Valencay and what sounded for all the world like Brazilian but which I think was probably something to do with Bresse. All were terrific, very well-kept and served at peak condition and temperature.

Throughout a long, leisurely meal we enjoyed wines by the glass chosen for us by the preposterously handsome head sommelier Roman - "like the Empire", as he unforgettably put it - including a floral Grüner Veltliner, Krems with the oysters, a young, refined Craggy Range Pinot Noir and with the cheese, a luscious Lustau, a Pedro Ximenez blend rich with black treacle notes. We finished the evening with a glass of Moscato, as fun, light and effervescent as assistant sommelier Danielle Meenagh - winner of Michel Roux's Service and every bit as dedicated and passionate as she had come across during the televised competition. We'd rooted for her from week one and it was a real pleasure to see her so clearly excelling in a role she evidently loves.

As is to be expected in a restaurant barely out of its soft launch stage there were a few service glitches, mostly along the lines of empty glasses not being cleared when they needed to be and cutlery being cleared when it didn't, and things being asked for then not brought, but these will be ironed out; the jovial, boyish general manager Mark Jones was eager for feedback and got plenty.

Pricing is fair, and competitive for the area; starters are in the range of £6-£8, mains around £15 and steaks from £13 for onglet up to £43 for a monster 600g Porterhouse which will feed two. There's not much on the wine list under £20 but there's a good selection by the glass. And indeed, 'By The Glass', the name for the Bentley Mulsanne of vending machines which allows the oenologically-inclined to indulge in fine vintages normally available only in bottles - a 55ml glug of Chateau Palmer '96 is on offer for £55 but as Bistro du Vin were kindly picking up the tab on this occasion I selflessly resisted.

Clerkenwell is spoiled for high-end, high-concept restaurants so it will be refreshing for locals and visitors alike that this new opening is, in its very traditional way, breaking the mould. Great food, good service and a pleasant atmosphere - whoever would think of such a thing?

Bistro du Vin, 38-42 St. John Street, London EC1M 4AY Tel: 020 7490 9230 http://www.bistroduvinandbar.com/

Brunswick House Café, Vauxhall

2011-04-03T21:21:00.000+01:00

Brace yourselves dear readers for something of a surprise. You might even want to make sure you have a stiff drink to hand. Ready? OK: I have started going regularly to the gym. Or more specifically, to The Gym, a back-to-basics, no-frills, great value place in my south London neighbourhood where I go once a week in a determined effort to burn off at least one dessert's-worth of the calories which I selflessly consume in the pursuance of producing the present blog.

Even more rewarding however than this expenditure of energy and burning of fat, is that The Gym is a mere lunge from Brunswick House Café, a just-about-faultless little enterprise which is quietly punching above its weight as I try to regulate mine. Brunswick House is a vast Georgian mansion, erstwhile London home of the eponymous Dukes and relic of a bygone age when the hunting grounds for which Vauxhall was famous were deer parks rather than the open-all-hours dance clubs and gay saunas of today. Derelict for many years, Brunswick House is now the London flagship of salvage experts Lassco; once-opulent ballrooms and salons are crammed full of signs, statues, knobs, knockers and bric-à-brac spanning the last two centuries at I Saw You Coming prices.

The café occupies a couple of rooms on the ground floor, including the beautiful ballroom, an Aladdin's cave of columns, chandeliers and concert hall props. As well as a point-and-choose selection of pastries and pies, the daily-changing menu extends to about a dozen simple, modern dishes combining best-of-British ingredients with more Euro-leaning salads and sides. Thus for brunch last Saturday, lucky punters - myself, Alyn and PV The Artist included - were able to choose from dishes as simple and splendid as our order of soft boiled eggs, sea salt and sourdough toast; Blythburgh breakfast slider, duck egg & Emmental biscuit; and confit Old Spot bacon, beaten eggs and apple chutney.

As at another of my favourite places, The Drapers Arms, the minimal menu descriptions are not an affectation but actually tell you everything that will appear on your plate, other than for a little garnish here and there. Simple preparation of obviously top-notch ingredients in imaginative combinations is a formula guaranteed to win me over every time, and my slider was as satisfying and clever a brunch dish as I can remember having. Alyn's boiled eggs were as brilliant as they were basic, their bright daffodil-yellow yolks proclaiming their freshness as they oozed onto the toast. PV's bacon and eggs inspired the most plate envy though; the 'bacon' was more like thick sliced gammon, the 'beaten eggs' a golden galette somewhere between scrambled eggs and omelette.

To accompany the fantastic food there's a lengthy list of heritage cocktails (it was too early for a Sazerac, even for me, but I'll be back of an evening) and all-French wines, none of which is marked up by more than £10. This is a welcome trend which started at Trullo and has evidently spread south of the river, but while this might make for good value on some wines relative to other, grabbier venues, the presence of bottles priced at up to £37, modestly marked-up or not, seems incongruous alongside a food menu on which nothing costs more than £7.20. We just settled for the house white, a Le Lusc Ugni Blanc Colombard 2009 at £15, which was fine for a bottle that we knew had cost only a fiver. The frozen tumblers provided with it were a very nice touch on a day warm enough to allow eating outside on the cute, scruffy terrace.

A brunch dish each for three people, wine and entirely discretionary service came to under £12 each. You'd struggle to pay more for a main and a drink, and could get out for even less; factor in an extra tenner and you could have a cocktail and a pud. Casual and friendly service is provided by a young and enthusiastic staff and the clientele is as eclectic and attractive as the surroundings. Brunswick House Café is, like The Gym and my going to it, fairly new; I have a feeling we'll all work out.

Brunswick House Café, Brunswick House, 30 Wandsworth Road, London SW8 2LG Tel: 020 7720 2926 http://www.brunswickhousecafe.co.uk

Spuntino, Soho

2011-03-29T00:26:00.002+01:00

It will probably come as no surprise - it's certainly never been any great secret - that I have something of a history of addiction. For most of my adolescent and adult life, until only a few years ago, I have at any given point been addicted to something; be it pills, powders, liquor, eating, not eating or sex, I have been there, done that and bought every t-shirt.

Over the last few years though, things have been under control; I won't bore you with the exact whys and wherefores of what I went through but I eventually reached a place where occasional excess is about as bad as it gets. So thanks a great big fat bloody bunch then, Spuntino, for inventing stuffed deep-fried olives, a snack so fiercely moreish that I was hooked from the first bite on my first visit two days after opening and returned twice in the space of a week to gorge on these hot, bitter, salty anchovy-farced pellets of pleasure, laced for all I know with a sprinkling of crack in the crispy crumb encasing them.

The peddler of these narcotic nuggets is of course Russell Norman, the man who brought us Polpo, Polpetto and most recently the Campari Bar, and whose tiny new diner in Soho already has fellow restaurant junkies queuing out the door for their fix. Although unmistakably from the Polpo stable - same reclaimed decor, same gorgeous tattooed staff, lights too low, music too loud, all creating a buzz like no other - the menu is much more Noo Yoiky, Italo-American than the neo-Venetian offering at its sibling sites. Larger snacks - spuntini - replace bite-size cicheti, and diner favourites like mac 'n' cheese, sliders and shoestring fries join a range of Italian-inspired salads and 'Plates' served in actual main course rather than sharing sizes. Polpettino this ain't.

Having never been to the Big Apple - I know, I know, it's on my To Go list - I didn't consider myself qualified to comment on Spuntino's New York credentials, so on my first visit I took along a real live American, Burberry high-up Anthony Garcia-Rios, who straight away pronounced that it was 'totally New York'. The loud, louche, sexy atmosphere, the queuing along a wall, cocktail in hand, for a seat ('no telephone, no reservations' barks the ultra-minimal website) and the scrubbed tiles and filament bulbs of the interior are, I'm reliably informed, a little slice of NYC in LDN.

As for the food, we foolishly ordered everything that sounded amazing, which was about half the menu (the rest sounds merely great). This resulted in a sorry surfeit of food and, I must admit, in an initial writing-off of the menu on my part as being too heavy and carb-laden when in fact all that was at fault was our ordering.

In addition to those evil, enslaving olives we tried lardo and caperberry crostini, a ground beef and bone marrow slider and egg and soldiers before moving on to a selection of larger dishes. The crostini were lovely, the sharp tang of caperberries incising nicely through the unctuousness of cured fat; I've had silkier, sultrier variants elsewhere but that didn't stop me from ordering another round, and some more of those devilishly delicious drupes, on a solo visit two days later.

The slider was a very nice, rich little burger, which is not to damn with faint praise, I'm just not a burger enthusiast. More exciting was the egg and soldiers, a simple soft-boiled egg with the added bonus of a clever faux shell made of crackling, crunchy crumb - tart's comfort food.

Of the larger plates, the absolute stand-out - and a dish I knew I straight away I would order again, and did on visit three - was a courgette, mint and chilli pizzetta which there's no point over-describing; it was just a perfect eight inches of pure pleasure (sorry, sorry, I was sure I was over the sex addiction). Truffled egg toast was fun, a ham-less, gooey croque Madame which, mark my words, will soon be every spendy Soho-dwelling queen's hangover remedy of choice. The only marginally so-what dish of the lot (and what a lot it was) was soft-shell crab with Tabasco aioli, the batter lacking crunch, the aioli punch.

On my next visit with company - this time publishing suprema, exquisitely elegant blogger and fellow good food addict Helen Brocklebank I tried, in addition to a terrific lamb and pickled cucumber slider and a good duck ham, pecorino and mint salad, a couple of Spuntino's deliciously different desserts. Pineapple with liquorice ice cream was a clever combination of sweetness and smoke, and for liquorice-disliking me one of those "I wouldn't normally eat this but I'll take another spoonful if I must" moments. The by-a-country-mile winner though, and my favourite dish of all three visits bar those frickin' olives, was the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the 'bread' in fact thick, salty-sweet peanut butter ice cream encasing fruit-packed raspberry jam, all sprinkled with crushed peanut brittle. It was a super-sweet riot of tastes, textures and temperatures, and I loved it.

There's plenty to choose from drinks-wise; a few wines, a few (artisan) beers, a whole lotta bourbons and a list of classic cocktails, not to mention the extensive list which exists in manager and mixer-in-chief Ajax's head (his naked vodka Martini is among the best anywhere, and a long trail of tearful barmen will tell you how hard I am to please). Service is laid back but sassy ("You didn't ask me how I wanted the steak!" a boor bellowed; "It comes medium rare" the waiter snapped back), the aforementioned atmosphere amazing, the queue an hour long at peak times - which will be all the time for at least a few weeks but is bound to peter off.

Prices are very fair; Anthony and I paid (OK, Anthony paid) more than strictly necessary, just over £50 a head, but that was for a lot of food and booze; Helen and I ordered more modestly, drank less but still left replete for under £30 each including 12.5% service.

What can I say? I'm addicted. There's just nothing not to love about the place and there are far more destructive things to be hooked on, but this may yet be the one that breaks me. So if one night you see me slumped begging in the seedy alleyway opposite, take pity and bring me out an order of deep fried olives won't you?

Spuntino, 61 Rupert Street, London W1D 7PW No telephone, no reservations, nothing on the website but it's http://www.spuntino.co.uk if you insist.

All photographs very kindly supplied by, and copyright of, Spuntino. So hands off.

Gauthier Soho

2011-03-24T15:41:00.000Z

After the unmitigated disaster of our recent experience at Les Deux Salons, I wanted my next meal with fashion-and-now-food blogger Michael Ford to be really special. In a recent conversation about places with a good reputation for their vegetarian offering - Michael being sadly afflicted by that mercifully rare condition which causes its sufferers to forbid themselves lovely meat - newly-Michelin-starred Gauthier Soho cropped up as being somewhere that we were both keen to try, and although only one indicator of quality, Bibendum's having chosen the restaurant to receive his five-pointed favour was enough to persuade me that this was somewhere we could be guaranteed a good time.

And 'good' it most certainly was, at times very good indeed, but I knew before I'd put down my fork at the end of the seventh course that it was going to be a challenge to write up. For one thing, Michael and I both had the tasting menu and as his was vegetarian and mine wasn't, between us we racked up about a dozen different courses - that's a lot of food requiring a lot of adjectives. Or it would be, if it weren't for the second problem, namely that everything was so uniformly...nice that a dozen synonyms for that would do the job, albeit without making for remotely interesting reading.

But write it up I must, or I would not be a very good blogger (bitch-slap to the first person who says "No change there then") so, it being a very good place to start, let's start at the very beginning. Gauthier Soho occupies a largely-unmodified Georgian townhouse on Romilly Street in Soho, formerly known as the Lindsay House and home to Richard Corrigan's signature restaurant until he decamped to Mayfair a couple of years ago. It's an attractive if impractical space for a restaurant, with no one main dining room but several rooms of various sizes over its three floors. The decor is don't-scare-the-horses luxe; warm neutrals, soft lighting and softer carpets.

The Gauthier of the name is Alexis Gauthier, erstwhile head chef of Michelin-starred Roussillon in Pimlico; in February 2011, barely nine months after it opened, Gauthier Soho won its first star while Roussillon's was taken away. Gauthier describes his style of cooking as 'cuisine by intuition and instinct', proudly relying on his experience and understanding of ingredients and technique rather than recipe books and tradition in order to create his dishes. It's also been described, uglily, as 'vegecentric', meaning that the focus even in meat dishes is on the vegetable.

You'd think then that there'd be more than two vegetarian dishes on the à la carte menu, especially one that is divided into five sections from which diners are invited to choose three, four or the full five plats. On the contrary; it's very meat- and fish-heavy and vegetarians wanting more than two plats are obliged to opt for the seven-course gout du jour. In fairness, that had always been our intention, but it seems rather an odd state of affairs. As indeed is the fact that I've still not told you anything about what we actually ate.

I had foie gras with crisp, thin slices of baked apple (very nice), langoustine with ginger and fennel (happily substituted by the kitchen for the advertised celery, to which - restaurateurs please note, poisoners please don't - I am allergic), black truffle risotto with parmesan and veal jus (very luxurious, quite tasty, but a bit wet), seared rose veal with...I don't remember what, something polenta-y I think (nice, although the searing was more like light cooking, rendering the meat a smidgeon tough) and then rhubarb with rhubarb sorbet (a lovely, zingy, reviving facial slap of a dish) followed by Gauthier's signature Louis XV, a chocolate and wafer confection with a thick, viscous chocolate coating and a shaving of real gold leaf on top. It was, you've guessed it, very...nice, like a Michelin-starred Twix Fino. Cheeses, French bien sur, were terrific.

If I'm not at all enthusiastic about any of this, I'm certainly not critical of it either; there was nothing wrong with any of it, nothing whatsoever, but in seven courses only one mouthful really made me sit up and take notice (the rhubarb) while the rest was just so polite and refined that I found myself wishing that there could be just a little spice here, or allium there, or contrast somewhere to liven things up a bit.

All the niceties of fine dining were present and correct and certainly added value to what, at £68 for seven courses (£60 for the vegetarian version which Michael has eloquently written about here) was certainly excellent value for money. Amuse-bouches were lovely (I particularly liked a truffled quail's egg) as for the most part were the petit-fours, although one bite of an as-bad-as-it-sounds basil truffle had us both screwing up our noses in distaste and leaving the rest.

Inexplicably, there's no matching wine flight available or even suggestions for wines by the glass to accompany the tasting menus and the sommelier wasn't on hand to assist so I had to make a noble stab at choosing something from the lengthy list that would work, or at least not clash, with everything; an Argentina Villa Vieja Viognier at £27 did the job for the savouries while a glass each of Plessis saw us through the desserts. When another table's bottle of wine was erroneously emptied into our glasses - another reason to let diners do it themselves, dear restaurateurs? - another bottle was opened and the exact amount of ours that had been wasted was replaced, then a top up given. Good service recovery, but the initial slip-up isn't the sort of thing you expect at this level.

Other little niggles worthy of note: in what I can only imagine is meant to be a mark of respect to the building's townhouse past, guests have to ring an old-fashioned push doorbell for entry, and the loud peal annoyed the living hell out of me as it went off every few minutes throughout much of the epic four hours that we were there. It would be irritating enough even in a busier, buzzier place, but slight gripe number two is that Gauthier Soho is otherwise strikingly, monastically quiet; I'm not a fan of muzak in restaurants - though who is, for that matter - but because of the mish-mash of small dining spaces no one room can ever build up the elusive atmosphere that makes a restaurant somewhere you enjoy being and would want to return to.

Which leads us to the big question, I suppose, which is would I recommend Gauthier Soho, and indeed I would - my body-double Bibendum rates it worth a visit and so do I, but with some caveats. Come if you want to experience good food, prepared thoughtfully with obvious technical expertise and care, in surroundings well-suited to contemplation, at not excessive prices. But if you're after more of a thrill, something to amaze and delight you and serve up a side order of excitement with your spectacle, then this is probably not the place for you.

My search for somewhere which caters really, truly, exceptionally well for my vegetarian Michael goes on. Suggestions are most warmly invited.

Gauthier Soho, 21 Romilly Street, London W1D 5AF Tel: 020 7494 3111 http://www.gauthiersoho.co.uk

NOPI

2011-03-13T15:11:00.003Z

"One hundred pounds?"

"One HUNDRED pounds?"

"ONE HUNDRED pounds?!"

This was the refrain, said with increasing disbelief and at ascending pitch, which for a good few hours after we had spent just shy of that amount on a meagre dinner and one bottle of wine at NOPI, was all my best friend Andrew could say. Nor can I blame him for such vocal incredulity; in (too) many years of eating out I don't think I've ever left a restaurant feeling as thoroughly fleeced as on this occasion, which is a shame as I genuinely believe that NOPI's intentions are far more noble than its approach to pricing.

NOPI - it's a silly neologism denoting 'North Of PIccadilly' - is the first restaurant proper from Yotam Ottolenghi, the deservedly-respected food writer and owner of an eponymous chain of high-end deli-cafés in some of London's chi-chiest postcodes. To date my only experience of Ottolenghi's food had been a dinner party catered entirely from his vegetarian opus Plenty, and very nice it was too; excitingly vibrant flavours and colours, unusual ingredients (although increasingly less so, such has been Plenty's influence on many home cooks; Ottolenghi has done for pomegranate molasses what Delia did a few years ago for cranberries) and a palpable sense that love and thought had gone into every recipe. My expectations for NOPI then were along the lines of 'Plenty: The Restaurant'; similarly thrilling food served in fabulous surroundings.

The latter expectation was at least met; there's no denying that NOPI is a pretty gorgeous space. Occupying the completely-gutted-and-expensively-refurbished site of what was The Club Bar & Dining on Warwick Street, the design makes clever use of materials, texture and light to create a room that's bracingly modern, welcoming and warm. One long wall is covered with white tiles while the wall facing it is exposed white-painted brick; beautiful brass lamps hang low, diffusing a gentle glow throughout the room and furniture is of a warm, honeyed hue. Downstairs a smaller, more casual dining room accommodates two huge communal tables with a view of the open kitchen, source of the no-more-than-OK food which lets the rest of the experience down.

Divided into 'Veg', 'Fish', 'Meat' and 'Sweets' with between six and eight choices for each, the menu consists entirely of sharing dishes and diners are informed that 'We recommend three savoury dishes per person'. With £10 being the typical dish price and several at £12 I wondered if the 'We' in question was the management of NOPI or of their bank, but obediently we chose six dishes spanning the three savoury sections nonetheless. While we waited, bread was served with olive oil and a whipped beetroot and goats cheese dip, the nice-but-blandness of which was a precursor for everything that followed.

The first couple of dishes to come to the the table were between them the most and least interesting of the six we sampled. 'Beef brisket croquettes, Asian slaw' was three Babybel-sized parcels of yieldingly tender, star anise-spiced meat in a salty, crunchy crumb which we both enjoyed, even though we agreed that the slaw - basically just ribbons of veg - added nothing. 'Green beans, roasted hazelnuts, orange' on the other hand was just plain dull; fridge-cold and with indistinct flavours it might have worked as a side, but as a dish in its own right felt rather pointless.

Our two fish dishes, 'Pan-fried sea bass, turmeric potatoes, rasam' and 'Grilled mackerel, fresh coconut, mint and peanut salad' were good but uninspiring. The sea bass, combined with the potatoes and soupy rasam, was essentially a very mild fish curry, which had I not been spoiled with the mind-bendingly gorgeous fish tikka at Trishna recently I might have found more impressive. I enjoyed the zingy salad with the mackerel because it reminded me of the beautiful lotus stem salad I'd liked so much at Viet Grill, but the mackerel with it was, to be honest, just a nice - and small - bit of mackerel.

'Twice-cooked baby chicken, kaffir lime salt, chilli sauce' was tasty enough but only in the way that a poussin, seasoned generously and whacked under a hot grill, always is. The presentation was poor, the lime salt served in a plastic pot and the chilli sauce no more than a squeeze of Blue Dragon's finest in a glass saucer. This would have been fine if we were paying a fiver in a takeaway rotisserie joint but we weren't - this was a tenner in W1.

The real stinker of the night however was our last dish, 'Baked blu di bufala cheesecake, pickled mushrooms'. It sounded so promising, this savoury cheesecake; I was expecting a clever marriage of salty and sweet, a play on flavours like Nigel Slater's awesome Ploughman's Pie perhaps. What we actually got was a wedge - not a generous one either - of New York-style baked cheesecake which had the taste and texture of a decent blue cheese quiche. And for this - reader, take a moment to absorb this please - we paid twelve pounds. TWELVE pounds! TWELVE POUNDS! Of everything we ate this was the most overwhelmingly disappointing and egregiously over-priced dish of the lot.

We simply didn't have any enthusiasm for dessert, figuring that if the rest of the menu was this humdrum then puds weren't going to redeem it, so we called for that astonishing bill. In fairness, £25 of the £94 total was a very decent bottle of Mar d'Avall Garnatxa 2009 from the eclectic and interestingly curated list, and we certainly didn't resent the 12.5% service charge as staff had all been efficient and friendly enough. But that still meant that, factoring in service, we paid about £65 for food that really should have cost at least 25% less.

There are some truly lovely things about NOPI in addition to the decor; huge attention has been paid to detail - a gold 'O' motif is repeated across menus and staff uniforms as well as being used for napkin rings and to weight down bills (already heavy enough, surely) - and the ultra-opulent mirrored loos would satisfy a modern-day Marie Antoinette. It's just a shame that the food being served and the prices being charged for it don't do the rest of the venture justice.

Even if the prices dropped - and for NOPI to survive I really think they must - the food isn't good enough to make me recommend the place when within a few minutes walk in either direction Polpetto and Bocca di Lupo are doing the sharing plates thing so much better. Also nearby is Mark's Bar at Hix to where, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, we adjourned for dessert; for much, much less than one hundred pounds, a piece of fantastic Amedei chocolate tart and a killer cocktail each, served by a hulking Slovak waiter, proved a very effective antidote to our disillusionment.

NOPI, 21-22 Warwick Street, London W1B 5NE Tel: 020 7494 9584 http://www.nopi-restaurant.com

Codorniu Barcelona Supper Club with Catalan Cooking

2011-02-27T23:46:00.003Z

In spite of the fact that one of my favourite people in food, James Ramsden, is proprietor of a wildly successful supper club, I've personally never seen the appeal of these 'underground', restaurant-in-our-living-room type affairs. Even though I eat out a great deal, I still see any meal not cooked at home as a treat whether it's one I'm paying for in a restaurant or one that's served gratis at a dinner party, so the concept of going to someone's home and paying for food in a quasi-restaurant setting is one that I'm afraid I can't get my head round.

Fortunately for James's Secret Larder I appear to be in a very small minority; his domestic diner continues to thrive and I wouldn't want it any other way. A Supper Club which does appeal to me however has been set up by another of my favourite people in food (and in fact, like James, one of my favourite people full stop), the Catalan cooking expert Rachel McCormack. In association with Codorniu, purveyors of fine sparkling wines, Rachel has launched a monthly(ish) night at cult foodie hang-out Bea's Of Bloomsbury showcasing both her immense enthusiasm for and knowledge of Catalan cuisine and Codorniu's rather lovely vino.

The format for the evening is certainly innovative (or perhaps it's not, perhaps supper-clubs all across the world are very similar, but I wouldn't know). Rachel and her able sous-chef Franz Schinagl prepare a four course meal accompanied by a selection of complementary Codorniu wines, each course reflecting the personality of one of Barcelona's diverse neighbourhoods as explained in a wittily- and engagingly-written 'guide book'. It's informative and fun; I thought I knew Barcelona inside-out having visited it more often than any other world city over the last twelve years or so, but Rachel's knowledge, absorbed through living there for many years, is clearly far more in-depth.

Thus we started in Els Mercats, the markets typical of every neighbourhood where locals 'buy fresh food and catch up on the latest gossip', the markets' colourful abundance represented here by plentiful dishes of olives, fuet (a Catalan pork sausage), cheese, Iberico chorizo and ham, and potato and spinach tortillas. The accompanying wine, Anna de Codorniu - 'Spain's favourite sparkling wine' - was light and fresh, perfect as an aperitif and with appetisers.

Next came a cup of the thick, herby cooking broth or sopa which is a delicious by-product of the making of carn d'olla, a mixed meat stew reputed to be the oldest Catalan dish and attributed here to the traditional San Gervasi neighbourhood. Said stew was itself one of the many dishes which, served buffet-style, made up the main course; a vegetarian's nightmare and therefore my idea of heaven it consisted of beef and pork meatballs, pigs' trotters, lamb and chicken, all cooked to delicious, unctuous softness.

Other dishes - some, appropriately given the scale of the feast, made according to recipes from a restaurant called Gargantua y Pantagruel - included fideua, a variant of paella made with short noodles instead of rice, smoky, char-grilled squid stuffed with aubergine, patatas bravas and rabbit cooked with onion. Escalivada - roasted vegetables - and pickled cauliflower doused in delicious alioli were excellent accompaniments. Also excellent was the chosen wine, Reina Maria Cristina Blanc de Noirs which, although Codorniu would never say as much themselves, tasted in my not-entirely-inexpert opinion as good as any Champagne.

Of course, what we really needed after so much food and wine was three desserts and more cava, this time a Pinot Noir rosé which went very nicely with Catalan cream (call it crème brulée at your peril), almond doughnuts and my favourite dish of the whole night, hazelnut 'soup' with crocanti and ice-cream. Served in little glasses it was a perfect end to the meal, sweet enough to provide a lift but with a slight, savoury nuttiness that cleansed the palate. I'll be looking out for sopa d'avellanes next time I'm in Catalunya.

All-in-all it was a fantastic meal, thoughtfully put together and lovingly prepared, with the added advantage - for those minded to read the accompanying 'guide book' - of being educational. Future, paying events - this one was a press/blogger freebie - will also represent good value for money with a four course, all-you-can-eat meal costing £35 or £45 with lashings and lashings of Codorniu wine. If all Supper Clubs are this much fun, I may just have to overcome my prejudices and try out a few more.

Bea's of Bloomsbury, 44 Theobald's Road London WC1X 8NW 0207 242 8330 http://www.beasofbloomsbury.com

The next Codorniu Barcelona Supper Club takes place on Monday 20th March and you can book via Rachel's website, www.catalancooking.co.uk Also visit the website for details of Rachel's Catalan Cooking classes, one-off events and Zeitgeisty Twitter cookalongs.

Viet Grill, Shoreditch

2011-02-14T01:17:00.002Z

I first experienced Vietnamese food at the age of about 17. My cousin-by-marriage Paulette Do Van had recently published 'Vietnamese Cooking' and invited the family for a feast made up of some of the delicious dishes in her terrific book. At the time - the early 1990s, for anyone uncharitable enough to be wondering just when I would have been 17 - it all seemed ever so new and exciting; growing up in a little Dorset farming village, a Chinese takeaway passed for exotic (hell, Spag Bol had felt fairly epochal) so the fragrant, colourful cuisine of the Indochine was a true novelty. Paulette's stuffed chicken wings were amazing and remain to this day a favourite (if fiddly) thing to make at home.

Seventeen years on and Vietnamese food is understandably and deservedly much more widely available, nowhere more so than along Kingsland Road in the East End. Seemingly every business that isn't an über-trendy bar or edgy boutique is a Vietnamese restaurant, all confusingly similarly named; within doors of each other stand Song Que, Que Viet, Viet Hoa, Mien Tay and Tay Do. It's no wonder that, as a work colleague local told me, arranging to meet at one or other of them requires giving minutely specific details and directions. Locals also know that the many restaurants on the strip fall into one of two categories, summed up perfectly by my dinner date Matt Bramford who asked over drinks beforehand whether we were going to "one of the cheap ones or one of the posh ones".

Viet Grill is, it turns out, one of the 'posh ones', essentially meaning that some thought and money has gone into decor and staff training in contrast to the plastic seats, strip lighting and perfunctory service at some of the 'cheap ones'. The investment has paid off, because this is a lovely, lovely place. Entering under the bright yellow neon sign that makes Viet Grill stand out from its more conservatively façaded neighbours, we were greeted by the smell of incense, a lively buzz ("Hanoisy" one might say) and a very smiley greeter who showed us to our table without a murmur about our being fifteen minutes late. The room was a bit overwhelming at first; the walls are papered in a very bold leaf print which made the space feel as loud visually as aurally, but we quickly became used to both.

For the uninitiated, Vietnam's cuisine draws on the traditions of the many countries which either border, have colonized or have traded with it over the centuries. To quote Paulette Do Van, "From China the Vietnamese adopted their love of noodles, the way of cooking, the healthy stir-fry methods...Laos, Cambodia and Thailand have influenced the Vietnamese in their use of herbs...The Indians and Portuguese brought spices, [and] the French, who colonized Vietnam, forced the Vietnamese to be inventive." This is all in evidence on the extensive menu at Viet Grill, from which we struggled to choose just a few dishes; those we eventually did order were all, without exception, excellent.

First up were both spring and summer rolls (autumn and winter rolls it would seem do not exist, at least not here). The former were the familiar crisp-shelled offering, made exemplary by the filling of whole, fat king prawns; the latter, a pair of beautiful translucent parcels wrapped in sticky rice paper and bursting with fragrant mint, chopped vermicelli and more juicy prawns. Neither needed accompaniment, the flavours speaking for themselves, but the nuoc cham - Vietnam's pungent, fish-based riposte to China's soy - and chilli sauce provided made for great dipping.

Next came a lotus stem salad, a super-fresh, technicolour assembly which as well as the clean-tasting crunchy stems consisted of shredded pork, shrimps, Vietnamese basil, peanuts and lime zest. What the dressing was I'm not sure but it was incredible; slightly sharp, slightly sweet, I'd guess maybe a little galangal in the mix somewhere, its brightness made me gasp for joy with the first mouthful. Alongside it we scoffed a plate of 'piggy aubergine', grilled green Thai aubergine topped with minced 'pork sprinkle' and poached spring onions. All I can say of this delightfully slippy, oily, umami-rich dish is that it made me seriously reconsider my dislike of aubergine; if it's always this good then bring on the eggplant please.

Finally and fortuitously we chose what would appear to be something of a signature dish for Viet Grill. Described on the menu simply as 'Slices of monkfish', a gas burner was brought to the table and chunks of monkfish, marinated in saffron and galangal, were pan fried with great handfuls of dill before being served on top of cold rice noodles with fennel, peanuts, chillis and tangy shrimp sauce to taste. It was one of those brilliant dishes where every mouthful was as good as but subtly different from the last, and at just £13 for two it was extremely good value for money.

Wine lovers and oenophobes alike will delight in the interesting, France-heavy wine list with its brilliantly entertaining and informative descriptions; one wine is described as being "As stylish and distinctive as a Christian Louboutin stiletto", another as having "more fruit than convention demands". Wallet watchers might find the arrangement of the list broadly by grape type rather than price disorienting; look around though and there's plenty to be had for under and around £20 a bottle, including our rich, buttery Calbuco 2009 Chilean Sauvignon Blanc at £21.50 which, as promised, was perfect with our monkfish and indeed pretty much everything.

From the greeter, to our (lovely, knowledgeable, patient) waiter and the manager who insisted on personally showing off his monkfish-frying prowess, service was impeccable and we never felt rushed, even though we took ages to decide what to order - too busy gossiping about mutual Twitter pals - and lingered over every delicious dish - too busy gossiping about the launch of the brilliant new book from Amelia's Magazine, of which Matt is fashion editor. The bill, for five dishes of superb food, our bottle of wine and 12.5% service came to £64 which felt entirely reasonable. At one of the 'cheap ones' we'd have no doubt paid only half as much, but had only half the fun. I know which I'd rather have.

As a civil rights activist and equality campaigner of many years' standing (under her married name of North) I'm not sure what Cousin Paulette would make of the apparent inequality at play on the Kingsland Road with the potential threat posed to the established, cheap 'n' cheerful joints by classier, chicer venues like Viet Grill. But one thing's for sure; I doubt she'd be able to find anything to fault with the food.

Viet Grill, 58 Kingsland Road, London E2 8DP Tel: 020 7739 6686 http://www.vietnamesekitchen.co.uk/vietgrill

Les Deux Salons

2011-01-31T00:19:00.003Z

One of the most common assumptions about restaurant bloggers is that we'd all really like to be professional restaurant critics, and some, I don't doubt, would. I wouldn't, because I'd be crap at it; I don't have a critic's detachment, and it goes against my nature to actively look for the bad as well as the good. In blogging as in life, it is simply my nature that I always look for the positive. Be it people, situations, art, books or, in the present context, restaurants, I live by the ever-hopeful premise that in everything and everyone there is something inherently good; even Hitler loved his dog.

You'll appreciate then how hard it is for me that I really can't think of a single good word to say about Les Deux Salons, a sprawling all-day brasserie located just off the Strand. On paper it should be so good; owners Will Smith and Anthony Demetre are the chaps behind Michelin-starred Arbutus in Soho and Wild Honey in Mayfair, so it's certainly got pedigree. But based on my recent experience, for afternoon tea with fabulous fashion blogger Michael Ford, Les Deux Salons may prove to be the mutt of the litter.

Anyone who's been to Dean Street Townhouse - as I have just a couple of (dozen) times - will recognise the sort of dark wood, dark colours, brass fittings look that Les Deux Salons has gone for, both having been designed by the increasingly ubiquitous Martin Brudnizki. However, whereas from day one the Townhouse looked worn-in and welcoming, the room here - or the room we were in; there are of course deux - just looks like an off-the-shelf, generic brasserie, the paint too glossy, the 'aged' mirrors obviously brand new. It doesn't feel like any love's gone into the interior, nor does there seem to be much attention paid to what goes on within it; I noticed several wobbling tables, one of our teacups was stained and the dirty cloths on adjacent tables were allowed to remain in situ and in sight for far too long.

By far the worst offence however was the meal itself. It might seem unfair to judge a restaurant on something as incidental as afternoon tea rather than its a la carte offering, but my feeling is that if a restaurant is going to operate all day, then it should maintain its standards all day. Michael and I chose the Champagne Afternoon Tea at £25, consisting (as one would expect) of tea, finger sandwiches, scones with clotted cream and jam, a choice of cakes and a glass of Champagne. I say Champagne; what we were brought was certainly a sparkling wine, and quite possibly a demi-sec Champagne, but tasted suspiciously like Prosecco. Without it we would have paid £7.50 less, but even then I don't think we would have felt that we'd had value for money.

The finger sandwiches, of which there were half a dozen each, were the sorriest, dullest assortment I've ever seen. Michael's vegetarian selection was entirely cheese - the same cheese at that - while mine was barely more varied; so-so salmon, processed ham, all in very ordinary, very dry sliced bread. Neither of us finished our measly six fingers despite Michael's having not eaten that day and my famously prodigious appetite. There was no sign of say, egg and cress, or cucumber, the kind of light, tasty fillings one expects, and usually gets, at afternoon tea.

Our scones were, in fairness, pretty good - that really is about the most enthusiasm I can muster - but the cakes were dreadful. Chocolate cake, listed on the menu as 'moist', was so dense that the first - and last - forkful stuck in my throat. Quatre quarts, described uninspiringly by our waiter as 'like a dry cake', was like a dry cake. We didn't have the appetite or interest to try the carrot cake; for all I know it could have been the most amazing feat of bakery since Monsieur Carême invented the soufflé, but I doubt it. Our teas, from an unexciting but OK selection, were fine.

Service was...well service was alright, but not great. Our waiter - or at least, the waiter who we saw the most of - was efficient enough but lacked warmth, and seemed to almost resent any questions or interaction over and above the bare minimum (Michael's request for vegetarian sandwiches for example was greeted with a look of such incredulity that a third-party observer might have thought we'd asked him to find us transport to the sun). When another waiter came to clear our table and I politely explained why more than half of our food remained untouched - basically because it was dry, heavy stodge - he did thank me and say that he would 'tell the kitchen' but this didn't translate into any reduction on the bill which, with 12.5% service, came in at a hefty £28 each for mediocre food, average tea and ordinary possibly-not-even Champagne. The Woleseley it most certainly ain't.

All that aside, I did greatly enjoy the company; fortunately Michael was sufficiently laid back as to be able to laugh off the dreadfulness of it all and we enjoyed our couple of hours gossiping. If you're at all interested in fashion, or simply enjoy good writing and photography, then you could do a lot worse than subscribe to Michael's fabulous blog, Anastasia & Duck. But that, I'm afraid, is the only positive thing I can find to say about my experience of Les Deux Salons.

Les Deux Salons, 40-42 William IV Street, London WC2N 4DD Tel: 020 7420 2050 http://www.lesdeuxsalons.co.uk/

Bocca di Lupo, Soho

2011-01-11T14:53:00.003Z

When I told friends that I was being taken for dinner at Bocca di Lupo, so many of them asked if it was a date that I actually started to question whether it was. Call me naïve, but it had never occurred to me that Philip, the handsome, single lawyer who I'd met at a party and who'd offered to take me out might have any motive ulterior to wanting the pleasure of my company. It would seem however that, in the couple of years since it opened on Archer Street - an unremarkable Soho back-alley - this smart, buzzing Italian has developed a reputation as much for being a popular and impressive date destination as for its exceptionally good food. On the strength of my (purely Platonic) experience, I can see why - on both counts.

Bocca di Lupo's striking red brick frontage, with the name picked out in bold relief, has the look of having always been there despite being barely two years old. The restaurant behind it has the same feeling; it's a classy interior, with a long marble-topped bar over-looking an open kitchen and a small, smart dining room at the back done out in warm browns and creams. The overall appearance is of somewhere that could have opened twenty years or twenty minutes ago and always be contemporary. Bookings are taken for both the dining room and bar; our reservation was for the laid-back but lively latter. Notwithstanding the icy draught which blew past us every time the door was opened - which in a place this popular was quite often - it struck me as being the nicer space of the two and a perfect 'date place'; sitting back-to-back with your fellow patrons means sitting cosily knee-to-knee with your companion.

Chef Jacob Kenedy - yes, [sic], only one 'n' - has devised a clever, quite lengthy menu which explores the many regions of Italy, breaking dishes down into half a dozen categories and offering about as many choices under each. Almost all of these are available as small or large plates - perfect for romantic sharing or selfish solo consumption respectively - with the exception of Fritti, fried nibbles which are priced by the piece and Arrosti, a heavenly sounding selection of whole roast birds and fish. Even though I wasn't on a date, I decided to pretend that I was, and let the gentleman - an habitué of the restaurant - order for both of us.

To start off with Philip picked us a Piedmontese battuto - a simplified steak tartare - from the Raw & Cured section, a couple of mozzarella bocconcini from the Roman fritti and that day's special of grilled scallops. It was all wonderful, the battuto light and sophisticated, using just oil to flavour the freshest minced beef, the bocconcini crisply oil-free on the outside, oozing but just retaining some bite on the inside. The scallops however were the real stand-out dish; a good half-dozen whoppers, corals attached (this delighted me but made Philip squeamish; never mind - opposites attract) grilled with a knob of butter and a squeeze of lemon until just cooked through. Couldn't haven't been simpler, couldn't have been lovelier.

We followed this with a variety of small plates from the Pastas & Risottos; the waiter's eyes widened when Philip asked him to suggest four for us to try but my non-date was determined that I should experience as much of the menu as possible. When the food came, the reason for the waiter's reticence became apparent; each 'small' portion was of a size I would have happily accepted as a regular pasta course. Orrecchiette with red onion, tomato and 'nduja - a fiery, chilli-hot salame typical of Calabria but made by the restaurant - was my favourite for its salty, spicy punch, while Philip preferred the sounds-weird-but-it-works pumpkin and amaretti tortelli with butter and sage, the plump pasta parcels sprinkled with crushed amaretti biscuits. I'm not a fan of anything almondy but tried the dish out of curiosity, and found it a very interesting - and not at all untasty - combination of flavours and textures. A Treviso and Asiago risotto was accomplished if unexciting.

With no room left for any more savoury, we decided to share a dessert - how romantic - and were very happy with our choice of a brioche sandwich of pistachio, hazelnut and chestnut gelati. The gelati, all made by Bocca di Lupo's gelateria-cum-deli offspring Gelupo across the road, were beautiful - creamy, smooth and tasting abundantly of what they were supposed to, something which seems to happen far less often than one would wish - and the sweet brioche layers made the dish feel like a dessert proper rather than just a bowl of posh ice-cream. More adventurous diners than we might want to try the Sanguinaccio - a 'sweet paté of pig's blood and chocolate'. Sounds yummy.

Philip being teetotal we drank only water, but in the name of research I took a look at the wine list and it's a good one. With the exception of Champagne it's all Italian and, like the menu, tours the whole country from thigh to heel, not forgetting the islands; a Sicilian Cavallina is one of several bottles available for well under £20. For anyone really wanting to impress their date or simply push the boat out there's also a 'Cellarkeeper's List' of rare and unusual bottles which reads like oenophile erotica. Service is deeply knowledgeable, admirably passionate and generally efficient, although blatant up-selling of extras introduced an unwelcome corporate note into the otherwise convivial proceedings.

As if his delightful company, erudite conversation and infectious joie de vivre weren't enough, Philip also showed himself to be the perfect gentleman by picking up the bill. Even without a drop of liquor it won't have been cheap; pricing is stiff, with small plates mostly around £8 but soaring higher for seafood and large plates easily averaging £18. I would guess that with service added Philip won't have got away with much change from £100 for our just-good-friends feast. I'd call that fairly good value for the consistently excellent quality, but it wouldn't hurt to have a few more accessibly-priced dishes for those on a budget as well as a date. This gripe aside, I left Bocca di Lupo full of affection for both the restaurant and my host and recommend it to you with a happy heart.

A note about the Duran Duran video which illustrates this post in place of the more usual exterior photo: the 'striking red brick frontage' described above was behind scaffolding on the night we visited, and in any case the battery on my phone died thus precluding the taking of any other photos. So in homage to the restaurant - it's name translates as 'The Wolf's Mouth' - I thought I'd treat you to 80s classic 'Hungry Like The Wolf'. Don't say I never do anything for you.

Bocca di Lupo, 12 Archer Street, London W1D 7BB Tel: 020 7734 2223 http://www.boccadilupo.com

Cassis Bistro, Kensington

2010-12-23T16:18:00.006Z

Given that I wrote recently that I'm not greatly fussed about new restaurants per se, it might come as a surprise to find me writing, once again, about somewhere that's barely been open a fortnight. It shouldn't however, as the new opening in question is Cassis Bistro, which on paper ticks all the same boxes as the last one, Cigalon, and indeed offers the same cuisine, Provencal. If (either of my) regular readers are worried that this review of a new Provencal restaurant will just be a rehash of the last, let me assure you now that the two restaurants - and I hope the two reviews - are very different, albeit almost equally as good.

Cassis is the latest addition to the gradually-expanding Marlon Abela Restaurant Company (MARC) which includes private members club Morton's, ultra-expensive, Michelin starred Umu and The Greenhouse in London as well as upscale Italian A Voce in New York - London gets a branch in 2011 - and a couple of other high-end bistros on America's East Coast. MARC clearly positions itself at the premium level of the hospitality industry - a prestige marque, one might say - which puts a lot of pressure on the team at Cassis to get things very right from the get-go. On the evidence of what I saw - and ate - they've succeeded.

You can tell that MARC mean business with this venture from the address alone; Cassis occupies an expensive, expansive plot on the swishest stretch of Brompton Road leading up to Brompton Cross, where Ralph Lauren rubs shoulders with Chanel. Design-wise Cassis is clearly intended to appeal to the people who populate that kind of boutique; the look is bistro de luxe, with populist touches - specials chalked on blackboards, monochrome prints of Parisian cafe scenes - nestled alongside discreetly expensive furniture and classy modern art by Julian Opie and Gary Hume. Warm honey hues throughout and cute zinc pots of herbs on the tables make for a cosy, cosseting space, made even more so by a festive open fire which was most welcome on the sub-zero day on which we visited.

My lunch date was my friend Matt Bramford, a graphic designer and sometime fashion editor (it was his cultured eye that identified the art) with whom I was seeking sustenance before an assault on Harrods. Hurried shoppers, ladies-who-lunch and busy businessmen will appreciate the two- or three-course set menu at £18/£20, but we decided to indulge ourselves and splash out on the a la carte (well, it is Christmas). As well as traditional starters there's a list of petites bouchées - 'little mouthfuls' - such as tapenade and pissaladière which would be fun for sharing, but we just grazed on the abundant, excellent bread selection while sipping a Kir Royale and deciding what to order.

The starters we eventually chose - delayed partly through indecision and partly through endless gossiping - were fantastic. Matt's pumpkin soup with chestnuts and Provencal goat's cheese was as thick and velvety as a theatre curtain, the cheese adding bite and the chestnuts texture, served attractively in a heavy lidded terracotta dish. My grilled stuffed squid, piquillo pepper and passata sauce was in fact a brace of baby squid, char-grilled to perfect smoky tenderness and filled with a lovely salty farce of peppers, herbs and rice. The accompanying tentacles had been flamed to a moreish subtle crispiness; with a lick of the rich passata sauce they would, I thought, make a brilliant bar snack by themselves.

My main course of veal kidneys, violet mustard sauce and raisins was wonderful, the tender kidneys cooked until only just pink and the slick sweetness of the gravy balanced out by the tang of plump raisins. A small helping of mange tout was a welcome inclusion, their crunch and earthy flavour complementing the rich softness of the rest of the dish. I noted at the time that the sauce tasted neither of violets nor mustard; later research revealed that violet mustard does not do exactly what it says on the jar but is actually an aromatic, violet-coloured relish made with mustard seeds and grape must. Whatever; the sauce was delicious.

Matt's roast Landes duck breast - cooked astutely, the skin crisp, the flesh tender, bathing in a luxurious cassis sauce - was exceptional and would have induced plate envy had my own choice not been so good. We agreed with hindsight that side orders of rich creamy polenta were just a little too much; one to share would have been enough.

Filling up nicely but still with room for a little something, we shared three cheeses (bigger appetites can choose to have five) which came with a very tasty chutney and really wonderful honey and fig bread. The waitress could only tell us what two of the three were - a chêvre cendré and a Tomme - but all were very good.

They certainly went well with the last of our bottle of Gamay de Touraine, Chezelles 2009, a light, elegant red which had proved more than a match for the rich flavours and textures of our meal. At £25 it was also good value and one of many similarly affordable wines on the mostly-French list; prices start as low as £19 and go up as high as one's pockets are deep. A charming and personable sommelière is on hand to provide guidance where needed and wine is poured only when the imminent emptiness of the glass requires it.

Service was just about faultless in terms of courtesy and timing but staff seemed a little stiff, even nervous of each other at times, which wouldn't feel out of place in a more formal restaurant but does in what is meant to be a bistro. I'm sure that this will pass as everyone settles in and gets to know each other. That said, Cassis is really only a bistro in name; not having tablecloths, and glass panels etched with French food terms - the only design detail I really didn't like - do not a bistro make and I think that before long Cassis will acquire a well-deserved reputation as a high-end, high-quality destination restaurant rather than the casual, drop-in-anytime kind of place it asserts itself to be. Either way, it certainly hits its mark.

Cassis Bistro, 232-236 Brompton Road, London SW3 2BB Tel: 020 7581 1101 http://www.cassisbistro.co.uk