Pollen Street Social Review

& a glimpse inside the kitchen...

Last week I went to a blind wine-tasting in a stuffy carpeted room on the top floor of a Mayfair pub. On the table, columns of bottles were massed, awaiting palatal analysis and identification.  One of the sweaty, post-work crowd sidled up to me and refused to leave my side the entire evening.  Not for any flattering reason: he had arrived drunk at the alcohol imbibition.  The sole potential benefit of his presence was his vaunted knowledge of wines, gained from downing over fifty years’ worth of ethanol. Wine after wine he sipped, swirled, glugged, holding each up to the window despite the fading light. Glass after glass he swigged and squirted from one side of his mouth to the other, patting his lips, flipping his tongue up to his palette  in order “to catch the aftertaste”, sucking and squelching.  “Taste the vanilla in that”, “feel the syrupy smoothness of this”, he said, nodding sagely.  1/9 of his answers were correct…

To me, this is all a manifestation of the emperor’s new clothes syndrome which may sometimes be applied to Michelin-starred restaurants. Do I really want to dine on fussy little squiggles of substance that I have to chase with another globule of something or other so that the perfect scientific reaction can effervesce at the back end of my tongue?  However, Jason Atherton’s soon to be double Michelin-starred flagship is not in this category.  An idyll amongst the raucous, tourist-ridden bustle of Regent Street, Pollen Street Social sits opposite its sister restaurant, Little Social (see review here). Its style is unfussy, open, and clean, with attention to detail: even our bags were given individual stools.

Before we had even turned the page of the menu, a selection of amuse bouches materialised: dainty sweet corn muffins topped with delicate swirls of dill and cucumber cream, beetroot and blackberry filled tuiles that burst with sweet vinegary freshness, and my favourite, a Jerusalem artichoke crème.  These were followed by cups of mushroom consommé topped with delicate parmesan foam, salty and meaty while being vegetarian.

To start, I chose the neeps and tatties in a mushroom ragout- a wonderful coil of tender turnip ribbons generously grated with umami Berkswell cheese.  I could have easily devoured my dining companions’ portions as well.

Out of the whirr and buzz there then appeared the sprightly figure of Tiziano, the junior manager, who filled the room with his energy and excitable charm. He whisked me off to view the upstairs kitchen and the pass – a dark, orange- lit forge, tantalisingly situated behind glass.

It was sprung with energy but, unlike the amped up drama so often portrayed on TV, it was at the same time controlled and calm. Whilst fixing plates, advising chefs on the pass, and approving the dishes that flowed past us on wooden board, Dale (Head Chef) talked me through the dishes.

Our main courses were served as soon as I returned to my seat: the juiciest of chicken breast with a skin so crisp that even I (spurner of skin) couldn’t resist – its earthy savouriness was contrasted with the little pops of peas and broad beans, underpinned once more by the seasonal buttery, almost molten, girolles. The wild garlic flowers added to the dish with their fresh savouriness. My dining companions’ lamb and gnocchi dishes were also successes, although if there were any criticism it would be the mushroom theme that was developing throughout the vegetarian dishes – a non fungi fan would have had difficulty.  In addition, my companion found some of the mushrooms somewhat too heavily salted.

We decamped to the dessert bar to watch the pastry chefs practising their craft. First, a palate cleanser which was one of the highlights of the meal, straddling the line between savoury and sweet, and without risking losing stomach room for dessert: light yogurt foam with fairy-thin shards of meringue and a verdant and astringent basil sorbet.

We watched as cylinders of tempered chocolate were filled with an aerated milk mousse and crumbled sticky and crunchy caramelised puffed rice.  A chocolate disc was delicately placed on top like a lid, and adorned with a gold leaf foil, and then accompanied by a rocher of honey ice cream.  My dining companions' poached berries with lime and cream cheese sorbet with honey sugar tuile were also a hit. These were chased by a velvety chocolate mousse, and an almond and cherry financier, and a passion fruit and blood orange pâté de fruit, as well as a hazelnut crème entremets for the road…just in case.

Delicious, unfussy, comfortable and exciting – this is one of the finest dining experiences I have had in the last few years.  And I can say that without any fear of an emperor’s new clothes diagnosis.

Food: 9.5/10

Ambience: 8/10

Service: 10/10

Price: ££££

Loos: 9/10

Berner's Tavern

 

Over volcanic hills, swinging round vomit-inducing hairpin bends in the gravel tracks, we drove.  Across the timeless, verdant countryside we whipped our car, through countryside which had bubbled up thousands of years ago and stayed the same - until we found the ivy-embraced, craggy little farm which was threatening to crumble into the landscape.  Behind the building, little puffs of white sheep scuttled in the distance.  A bucolic idyll.

Then I opened the car door and stepped out.

The air was noisome, salty, and thickly perfumed with urine, stale sheep’s wool and rain-dampened hay.  Milena waddled out of the house.  She came closest to the embodiment of a Horacian hag I’ve ever witnessed.  She beckoned us over to the farmhouse and to cross the threshold protected from the weather with a muddy flaxen rag. Her rugged face remained humourless.  As we moved closer, the intoxicating stench intensified to migraine-inducing levels.

Blinded by the darkness and the stink, it took a while to adjust until.  Eventually we could make out shelves upon shelves supporting waxy rounds in various shades of yellow.  Milena waddled closer to us, now bearing a heaving barrel splashing out sheep’s milk.  It was fresh from that morning – she woke up every day at 6 to milk the ewes.  The curds in the barrel were similar in appearance to something a baby might have regurgitated.  She scooped them up and dolloped them into curved wicker moulds, her hands gnarled, stubby and deeply mottled with purple knotted veins.  In their curved, rib-like shape they had adapted to her craft.  She pressed the curds into white, curdled mulch that wobbled in the moulds. After much squeezing and puffing she tipped the substance out of one of the moulds to produce a quivering and uncertain, nude, white, ricotta peak.  The other, a pecorino-to-be – our future round of pecorino - she set aside to coagulate.

We returned a couple of weeks later to pick up our pecorino, for which Milena extorted a princely sum (and only then did a smile play at her lips).  She instructed us to let it ripen for 4-6 months until it had reached its requisite level of maturity.  And so it rested in our kitchen, weeping oil and dispersing its urinous, hay-like scent: a little, coagulating piece of Tuscany.  It eventually reached vintage state, rock solid, and flavour fortified to the max.  (It was tasted and eaten by me with a sense of obligation rather than pleasure.  It turns out I prefer the pasteurised shop-bought version after all.)

Tenuous as it may seem, when I left Berner’s Tavern a couple of weeks ago, I found my opinions to be rather similar in state to the freshly born pecorino cheese – swirling and raw and mildly uncertain.  So instead of writing about it immediately, I let my thoughts settle and ripen over time until I had something more definite and salacious to carve up to be consumed by the reader.   My experience left me pulled in multiple directions.

Since we could only get a very late booking for the restaurant, my dining companions and I had booked a table in the Punch Room bar beforehand, located, like Berner’s Tavern, within The Edition Hotel.  We called to warn the bar that we would be about 20 minutes late, only to be notified, upon arrival, by an unsmiling blonde that our table had been given away.  This was vaguely reasonable, except that they were incapable of providing a concrete time for when we might get a table.  An hour later we were led into a bizarrely half-empty bar.  The timing would not have been an issue had a similar situation not occurred at dinner - this time, their fault.  Hypocrisy was in full swing: we made sure to arrive on the dot for our booking at the restaurant.   Alas, the table was not ready – so, like many restaurants who wish to exploit their customers by sending them to the bar, Berner’s Tavern followed suit.  We ordered drinks expecting the table wait to be brief. Alas, it was not.  We waited 45 minutes – an appalling amount of time.  There was no compensation.  And no apology.  The unrepentant manageress seemed to think that the honour of bestowing a “booth” table upon us would mollify us.  Funnily enough, it didn’t – in stark contrast with the paradigm set by Le Caprice where truffles were brought to our blissfully unaware table at the collapsing of a soufflé in the kitchen.  At Berner’s Tavern, however, customer care does not appear to exist.  The charm and grandeur of the painting lined, high-ceilinged cavern is simply not enough.

In terms of food (when we eventually got round to it), Berner’s Tavern lacks the precision and care of Atherton’s other venture, Little Social (read review here).  My beetroot- smoked salmon was good, but lacked thought: pretty, thinly sliced, delicately smoked salmon with the crunch of macadamia and radish.  However, much needed acidity was overlooked, and the promised lemon purée failed to make an appearance.  One dining companion was satisfied with his prawn cocktail and the other’s Moroccan lamb was warm and delicately spiced.

Berner’s Tavern prides itself on its grandeur, celebrity restaurant status, and accomplished chef/restaurateur at its helm.  Thus its pedestalled position makes it open to scrutiny.  Call me a pedant, but pluralising the already pluralised Italian pasta, ‘orecchiette’ to ‘orecchiettes’, is poor.

The dish itself wasn‘t bad and the ingredients created a pleasant umami flavour.  However, it needed something extra to tie it together, and it also arrived inexcusably lukewarm.  My friends were satisfied with their dishes, though – the macaroni and cheese with braised ox-cheek and bone marrow and brioche crumble was a particular success.

Unfortunately, the tardiness of the meal and poor customer service meant that dessert was not sampled.  The manager did come over at the end to apologise, dealt us his card, and promised it would not happen again.  He offered us an unwanted drink on the house, but it was too little, too late.

Suitable for: business meetings, celebrations, friends, family, smart dates

Price: ££££

Food: 5.5/10

Ambience: 10/10

Customer Service: 2/10

Loos: 9/10

Scott's - Review

And then there is the ramasse-miettes:  I love the scrape of the metal across the tablecloth sweeping away evidence of earlier greed, heralding a new course winging its way across from the kitchens, and reassuring one that the meal isn’t over yet.  I love, too, the re-laying of the tablecloth – a delicate procedure, in which the fresh tablecloth, crackling with starch, is laid across the table while the old cloth is simultaneously peeled back without allowing a crude sliver of the denuded table to be seen - comparable in some ways to a very discreet changing of a baby’s nappy.

There is no such pleasure in a flimsy sheet of paper scrunched up after each course to be replaced with another.  Fine if I’m going to Wagamama, or a corrugated iron hipster hotspot.  Not fine if I’m dining at a refined and traditional Mayfair institution - in this case, Scott’s - and paying commensurate prices .

I imagine the oyster bar, the focal point of the room, might be appropriate for a boring date.  The whizzing by of waiters bearing stunned seafood reclining on ice crystal cairns would provide enough distraction to fill any chasms of silence.  The menu, like many of Richard Caring’s establishments, is extensive and  includes a well-trawled ocean’s section, but it is somewhat less inspired than Le Caprice.

To start, I ordered the hot-smoked salmon: flushed and delicately flaky pieces were nestled in a tangle of pea shoots and broad beans, tied together with a green goddess dressing - a pretty dish, notwithstanding the potency of the tarragon in the dressing.  My dining companion enjoyed his chargrilled squid with quinoa, spicy sausage and rocket.

Seared sea bass with lemon and herb butter followed.  I am still tormented by this mis-decision. Why when there was miso-blackened salmon did I choose the least interesting thing on the menu?  I blame the yuzu cocktail.  The fish was fresh and cooked well, but with the bar set high by the exquisite cod with duck broth at Little Social (see review here), my expectations were not met.

The obligatory chips were chunkier relatives of Le Caprice’s, but good nonetheless.

Baked chocolate fondant with cherries and ripple ice cream did not disappoint. Rich and molten, it was the kind of voluptuous confection that invokes an Augustus Gloop-like desire to bathe in it.

Three hours into the meal I expected what has now become an almost universal occurrence: the arrival of a bill-pushing waiter, willing one to leave.  Much to my delight, this did not occur - so Scott’s definitely gets bonus points for service.  In terms of gastronomy, Scott’s was unadventurous, good quality, unfussy and well balanced.

Food: 7/10

Service: 8.5/10

Ambience: 7/10 (9.5/10 if there were tablecloths)

Loos: 9/10

Price: ££££

Suitable for: Smart dates, celebrations, business lunches, seafood lovers

Honey & Co Review

 

There is a particular trend that is permeating the London dining scene like a contagion.

In the flurry of new openings, and novel and exotic twists on traditional gastronomies, a number of restaurateurs have become smitten with Spanish tapas, and have decided to exploit this style of cuisine for all its worth. Tapas are traditionally displayed on a menu in a long list, and served all at once, so diners can delight in dipping in and out of them with a few drinks as they please.  Instead of serving a carefully structured plate of well-balanced complementary elements, the restaurants at fault are breaking the plates down into individual elements.

They call them “small plates”, and I detest them.

You’ll know that you’ve found yourself in this “small plate” trap when the waiter suggests that each person orders three, despite the fact that one is the cost of a normal large plate.  Not only do they expand their profits substantially by doing this, but the effort required by the kitchen is significantly reduced. Chefs don’t need to bother about planning dishes when they can just make whatever the hell they like, call it another small plate and let the diner err when structuring their picky little meal.   Oh, and these small plates seem to have a life of their own: you see, they can arrive according to their own whim and in any combination.  At my most recent visit to a restaurant of this type, all vegetables were deemed unsuitable to be served with fish.

My rage against small plates had been boiling for several weeks when I decided to return to Honey & Co, where I knew my craving for a large plate could be fulfilled.  Call me demanding, or even greedy, if you like. I’d been before and thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but sadly forgot to bring my camera.  This time, however, I was armed.  Itamar Srulovich and his wife Sarit Packer rule the roost at this tiny 30 cover Canaan.  He’s ex- Ottolenghi - an almost guarantee of success - and the Ottolenghi influence is strongly evident in the cuisine.  Décor is kept to a minimum, with stark white walls and patterned blue tiled floor forcing your eye greedily towards the focal countertop display of spiced and perfumed cakes.  Despite the minimalism, there is no lack of atmosphere.  Most people are so pleased to have acquired their 1.5 hour table slot that they exude an aura of excitement.

The menu is divided into starters and mains (hallelujah) – I plumped for spring salad of peas, courgettes, and warm manouri cheese with a lemon and saffron sauce.  Crisp, and light with the nuttiness of the manouri and electric tang of citrus, the dish was very pleasant.

One dining companion went down the more obvious but inevitably delicious route of falafel served with a tabbouleh and tahini sauce – one of the most popular on the menu (the chefs undoubtedly roll falafel in their sleep).

The other opted for the braised artichoke with parsley za’atar and yoghurt dipping sauce.

This was rather a tame option as there only so much you can do to a whole artichoke in terms of flavour(read: very little), and so no matter how delicious the sauce the eating becomes tiresome.  It resides alongside eating fish and quail on the bone in my list of things that I just don’t have time for.  I can’t be bothered to fuss around with scraping a half centimetre of blandish artichoke flesh against the back of my teeth.

My main course was very good: a plate abounding with plump parcels (aka Menti) of burnt courgette and herb with olive oil braised broad beans and whipped feta, the latter  adding a kick of saltiness to draw out the sweetness from the  dumplings and green vegetables.

Despite the petit nature of the restaurant (even the waitresses are petite, needing to squeeze between the close-set tables), the kitchen at Honey & Co must go through roughly an entire field of mint every day.  It resides proudly on almost every plate, and nor is its presence irrelevant – it lifts the earthier flavours into more summery tones, like for example, the shawarma of slow cooked lamb shoulder burnt pitta and goat’s yoghurt with amba mint and pomegranate.  I’m not the greatest fan of lamb, but this dish convinced me that my prejudice was poorly founded.

The lamb was succulent, tender and sweet, and lifted to higher planes with the addition of juicy gems of pomegranate and the ubiquitous mint.

The only disappointment was my dining companion’s chicken makloobah with saffron rice and a lemon yoghurt sauce. Visually, the dish lacked the vibrant flair that every other possessed and was a little bland.

One dining companion went on to order the pink grapefruit and raspberry granita with yoghurt mousse and honeyed oat crisp.  The flavours bounced nicely off each other but I found the granita a little too perfumed.

I’m also more inclined to a substantial dessert: I don’t particularly care for palate cleansers.  If I’m going to sin, then I’ll sin properly. And there’s one vital way to do that at Honey & Co: the cheesecake with kadaif pastry and honey.  Perhaps not the most beautiful of desserts, but more than made up for in flavour – the cheesecake is well balanced, creamy and contrasts perfectly with the crunchy, sticky tangled nest of kadaif.

Bold, well-balanced, vibrant, and generous, the food at Honey & Co is the perfect antidote to the small plate disease.

Food: 8.75/10

Ambience: 7/10

Service: 9/10

Price: ££££

Loos: N/A

Suitable for: buisness lunches, casual dates, family, friends, vegetarians

Little Social - Review

I’d like to be able to write how the waiter’s grime-rimmed thumbnail, with which he had just gouged something sinister out of his ear, nudged against the contents of the plate; how a glistening black hair, half submerged in the dish’s paludinal liquid, entangled itself with the semi-solid floating gelatinous elements; how the plate’s arrival was preceded by the fragrance similar to that of water left stagnant in a vase until the stems of the decaying plant have become slimy, and a beige skin has formed on the surface; how I lifted a debris-encrusted spoon of the liquid into my mouth only for my taste buds to be assaulted by the week-long damp cloth- tasting infusion.

But I can’t.

Because Little Social is impeccable. Nestled in a slither of a side street, it is an Elysium secluded from the tourist-thronged pavements of Regents St.  Jason Atherton’s classic French bistro interior strikes a harmonious balance between refined elegance and comfortableness.  Johannes, soon-to-be manager, glides around the room attentively, infusing it with his charm.  The menu is French inspired Modern European with subtly innovative twists and combinations.

Always lured by the umami perfume of truffles, I ordered the Burrata, pear quince, truffled honey and pickled walnuts - a decadent combination that I imagine would have gone down very well at a lavish Roman banquet.  Burrata is the queen of soft cheeses, and I’ve had the misfortune to witness numerous acts of treason committed against it by a number of restaurant kitchens.  This was not the case at Little Social. Rich, latticed, and butter-soft, the cloud of burrata melted on the palate, while the truffle infusion added a kick of savoury to the sweet decadence.

The pear quince exceeded the expectation provided by the modest menu description: some slices were poached – soft, spiced and near caramelised, some were lightly macerated – sweet with a little more texture, and some were left fresh, adding a crispness to the dish.  This sweetness was cut through by the astringent balsamic reduction and pickled walnuts.

I had carved out a path of indulgence in the menu but my dining companion opted for a lighter course: salad of baby carrots, avocado, fennel, clementines and coriander.  I’ve ordered this several times before and it tastes and looks like summer: vibrant, fresh, crunchy, creamy and tangy, it is a well-balanced dish.

For main, I ordered roasted Cornish line-caught cod, Asian spiced cauliflower and aromatic duck broth.

The cod was so tender it almost anticipated the arrival of my fork. The cauliflower was done in two ways: florets, and a delicately spiced textured puree, both of which complemented the fish.  The broth imbued the other elements with its contrasting smoky savouriness.

My dining companion’s choice of the risotto of wild mushrooms, parmesan & wild garlic proved that the vegetarian options are in no way neglected.

At this point in the review I would love to furnish you with an opportunity for schadenfreude.  Alas I cannot.  I can’t even say that I had the misery of having to wait a long time to return to Little Social as I returned a week later.  On my birthday, I turned down the prime opportunity to sample another of London’s fine dining establishments, and I even eschewed my traditional birthday cake.  Some might think this decision radical and rash, but the reason lay in the heart of Little Social’s pastry kitchen.

Deep russet brown, glistening, sticky, oozing, sweet, crisp, buttery, crunchy with a caramel darkened to sultry, sweet, savoury and nutty depths, just approaching the perilous realm of burnt: the tarte tatin can only be compared to Hephaestus’ offerings to the gods.

The crisp meringue with Gariguette strawberries, lime Chantilly, fraises des bois and elderflower sorbet was also delicious.

A perfectly formed orb of crisp meringue contributed texture and sweetness to the smooth tangy sorbet and berry interior, making it a delightfully elegant and refreshing dessert.

You may be unsettled by the fact that there were no faults.  I strained to find even the finest of hairline cracks in the restaurant’s performance, reliving the meal in my head, scrutinising the individual elements.  I even went back a second time to check.  And checking yet again, and again,  would be no Sisyphean task.

Food: 10/10

Service: 10/10

Ambience: 9/10

Service 10/10

Loos: 8/10

Suitable for: smart dates, business lunches, birthdays, family, friends, pre-theatre dining, vegetarians

Portland Restaurant - Review

Giles Coren recently reviewed Portland, Great Portland Street’s new culinary adornment.  So wonderful was his experience that he claimed it to be “a perfect restaurant”.  I tweeted this on my way to dinner there, only to have him sardonically (and mistakenly) reply that I had misquoted by using the definite article rather than the indefinite.  His keen eye for detail may have been put to better use in his restaurant critique – “perfect”, with or without the definite article, is not a term to be so liberally bandied about.

A gust of ice cold breeze swilled around the intimately sized room as the door shut behind us.  We found ourselves in a space of clean lines, bare wooden tables, suspended chrome lights, white walls and a voguish open kitchen with jars of things being pickled bordering its front.  The friendly waitress showed us to our table and bestowed both sparking and still water in glass jars upon the table, on the house – no money leeching here.  The modern European menu consists of lists of fashionable Japanese/foraged ingredients with names fun to roll around in your mouth like ‘ventricina’, ‘enoki’, ‘sriracha, and ‘culaccia’.  Indeed, while we were reading some of them out loud, the waitress standing some distance from our table leapt across the room to explain to us what they were.  She was almost worryingly attentive, but still charming – and nowhere near as intrusive as the service I experienced at Hakkasan a few months ago: I’ve been informed that my voice is like a foghorn, but this does not excuse the fact that the waitress ran across the room’s expanse to answer a question I had discreetly directed to my friend regarding the different sauces.  There must be microphones under the tables - I was on edge for the remainder of the evening.

Bread and butter arrived.  The butter, as the waitress gleefully announced, was lightly dusted with grated ox heart.  Intrigued by the gory wood shavings, we showered the sourdough with them.  Either the bread was too strong, or a rather more generous helping was necessary, as the heart provided only the slightest murmur of saltiness – which may, even then, only have been the salt in the butter itself.

Always curious to test a restaurant’s aptitude for preparing vegetarian cuisine, and with a pig-like keenness for truffles, I ordered the salsify with 36-month Comté and spring truffle.  The vegetable was soft, with a slightly chewy texture, which reminded me of the traditional South African koeksisters I first enjoyed when I was three.  Combined with the savoury perfume of the truffle and the salty delicate Comté the dish was excellent.  My discerning dining companion gave his delicate foam-coated Roscoff onion and Cornish mussels with cider and brown butter a firm 10 out of 10.

His main, monkfish with ponzu and enoki, failed to live up to the starter despite the sensitive cooking of the fish.  Instead, it was rather texturally challenged, the gelatinous ingredients stacked in slippery formation on the plate.

With my dining companion looking on with food envy, I revelled in the rich tender flesh of the venison I’d ordered and the caramelised sweetness of the accompanying parsnip.  Although they did not detract from the excellence of the dish, the contribution of oats to the dish wasn’t significant, nor was it necessary.

Dessert ensued.  Ever since my stint at Le Caprice I’ve longed for the citrus tang of yuzu.  I salivated (metaphorically) as the elegant triangles of yuzu tart decked with cigarettes of green tea meringue made their way from the open kitchen to my table.  It did not disappoint.  The meringue, though delicate was an interesting and elegant addition, and the frozen yoghurt added a creaminess to the kick from the yuzu tart.

At this point I was beginning to feel myself slipping rather gormlessly into the haze of Giles Coren’s utopia.  I needn’t have worried.  It didn’t last.  Within the ambrosial Elysium he had conjured up in his review, hairline cracks were beginning to show.  They even began to establish themselves in the food.  After the first few spoonfuls of his chocolate bar with peanut butter praline and peanut ice cream, my dining companion began to dig with greater purpose into the dessert.  With tweezer like precision he honed in on the source of his suspicion and plucked out a 3.5 inch strand of something between the thickness of a human hair and an animal whisker.  Unwilling to stir up a fuss he smeared it down on to the rim of his pate and pressed on.

At this point, mid-dessert and  without any prior warning, the waitress rushed over to us and told us that we had to get up that very minute as the next guests for our table had arrived.  I could see them out of the corner of my eye peeling off their coats and inching their way round the restaurant to assert themselves over what was apparently no longer our table.  We were told that we could sit at the bar, a row of five bar stools lined up against the glass window.  We slunk over, but every stool was taken.  Clearly we still had some status in the pecking order as one of the waiters squeezed his way through the tables and removed a couple from their chairs who had yet to eat so that we could sit.

The waitress then arrived with my half eaten and melting pool of yoghurt and yuzu.  The illusion was shattered further by the location of our new position right next to the door.  Gusts of bone-chilling wind swept into the room whenever the door opened.  Huddled in our coats next to the exit we no longer felt welcome.  Two truffles arrived with the bill, a nice touch apart from the fact that they were decidedly average: the shell was factory-made, and the caramel filling leaked out of the pre-made hole on to the plate.

Whether Portland is “a perfect restaurant” as asserted by Giles Coren, or “the perfect restaurant” is irrelevant.  Whilst much of the food is excellent, a few too many hairline fractures appeared over the course of the meal for the restaurant even to near an exemplum of restaurant utopia.  The appearance of a hair, too, was somewhat less than perfect, and not all that appealing.

Food: 9/10

Service: 5/10

Ambience: 6/10

Loos: 6/10

Price: ££££

Suitable for: business lunch, friends, family,  casual dates

Momo - Restaurant Review

Multi-coloured light shines through the stained-glass windows of the ceiling in triangles, and everywhere there are glass lamps, carved wooden symbols, and ornate mirrors.  In the middle of all this opulence there is a feast of tiered pastries and sweets crowned with luscious fruits, layered gold henna-d tea glasses, as well as Persian rugs, bronze statues and intricate silver vessels…even the answering machine has a Moroccan accent.

It’s like stepping into a restaurant off the Jemma el-Fnaa - almost.  But then there are a few things that sending you hurtling back to the western world:  the giant green chair outside belongs more to a car boot sale than this North African sanctuary, the bathrooms (including hand dryer) have been sprayed with rust-coloured sparkles, and the music projected into this emporium is more of a late night Kiss-FM mash up than Berber folk.

We were seated around a marble table next to the gold focal display dripping with glucose-laden delights, convenient for us to salivate over (figuratively only, of course) throughout the meal.

But as one of my dining companions noted, we had ended up being seated at the only wobbly table in the room -dangerous, if you’re as clumsy as I am.

The restaurant was empty for the first half hour, meaning that service was good – efficient but not intrusive, and with waiters at our exclusive beck and call.  This was not a sign of any absence of quality, but rather people’s lack of awareness that Momo does brunch.  The popularity of brunch in London has soared over the last few years but there is only a handful of places that stray from the omelette/bacon/pancake norm.

On previous trips to Morocco I’ve eaten so much at breakfast that I’ve managed to continue the whole day, camel-like, without any other meals.  It’s good to be able to continue this tradition in London, especially considering the dearth of decent Moroccan restaurants here.

We ordered tea to start – Moroccan mint for me.  The metre- high, admirable yet worrying, yellow stream brought back memories of Marrakech and the numerous carpet salesmen, antique vendors and herbalists who had poured out the perfumed nectar, laced with tooth-rotting sweetness, into patterned tea glasses on gold trays, in the hope of seducing us into buying their goods.  The menu is extensive, with innumerable pastries, sweets and traditional Moroccan tagines.  The absence from the menu of traditionally cooked eggs was refreshing (of particular interest to me after I wasted £13.80 on a limp and bland two-egg omelette at Christopher’s in Covent Garden – I shan’t be darkening their doorstep again).

I ordered the Full Moroccan Breakfast (sans poached egg) which consisted of batata hara, merguez, turkey bacon, coco beans in charmoula sauce, garlic-cooked mushroom-filled roast tomato. The potatoes were soft, and had soaked up the piquant sauce, while the merguez were salty, spicy and juicy, the turkey bacon crisp, the mushrooms delightfully garlicky, and the beans flavourful and comforting.  I’d order Moroccan breakfast over British, any day.  Over all, the dish worked well, but it could have done with a touch more salt to draw more flavour out of the starches.

My dining companions were content with their orders, too: scrambled eggs on toast with cured beef, cumin and fine herbs,

and tchaktchouka: merguez, spiced peppers, tomatoes with a fried free range egg, the latter bubbling furiously for five minutes or so after arriving.

After all this, we rolled off our chairs to examine more closely the array of decadent offerings.

Much to my disappointment there were no baklava (or “balaclava” – rather embarrassingly, the malapropism slipped from my mouth).  We plumped for the praline mousseline horn, admittedly more for its inelegance of name than for its advertised flavours.

This tactic, however, worked in our favour: the pastry was crisp, flaky and filled with a light, and not-overly sweet, praline cream.

The maghrebine pastries were also exotic in appearance, looking somewhat as though they were made of play dough, as my dining companion observed.

This is how we ranked them: in first place, the shiny brown- coffee- bean- on-steroids shaped delicacy; in second place, the almond paste ball nestled in a yellow flower-shaped pastry cup, and stabbed with a nut; in third, the lurid frilly sea-monster (whose green resembled rather disconcertingly that of the giant green chair outside the restaurant).

A few mint teas later we tore ourselves away from the Moroccan den.  All in all, the experience had all the necessary qualities of a good brunch: interesting, good quality and decently-priced food, an ambience of decadence and luxury, and good service.   Or maybe I was just seduced by the endless streams of sweet mint tea…

Suitable for: Smart dates, friends, family, vegetarians, brunch, lunch, dinner, cocktails, business lunches, afternoon tea, something different

Food: 8/10

Ambience: 9/10

Service: 9/10

Loos: 6/10 - I walked into the men's.  For future reference this sign = women's:

Spring at Somerset House - Restaurant Review

The architecture of Somerset House is majestic and heavy, with its rather hefty air of hard work and gravity still redolent of the government offices it used to accommodate.  But march through the entrance and turn right and along the frowning edifices, and you will find yourself in Spring – and an atmosphere so utterly opposite it might make you gasp.

Airy, high-ceilinged and painted in pastel shades of green and blue, the dining room really is spring-like in feel.

The various light fittings remind one of frog spawn or aubergines or berries, and the origami petals arranged in gently dispersing circular dandelion drifts on the walls imbue the restaurant with a spirit of lightness.

The attire of the staff has provoked much comment: there seems to be a nautical/operating theatre theme.  I liked the waiters’ striped t-shirts, and while I wasn’t convinced by the tents worn by the women at reception, their colours nevertheless worked together.  However, the woman whom I took to be the maître d’ was, on the other hand, wearing a dark forest green skirt and top combination that did not harmonise with the other staff members’ apparel, and looked both sombre and dowdy.

The menu is not long and there were elements that required explanation.  Our waitress, who bore a striking resemblance to Toulouse Lautrec’s La Goulue – appropriately for someone working in a restaurant with its potential for gluttony – and a haughty self-importance to match, made us feel a bit reticent about asking too many questions.  She defrosted a little as the meal progressed.

I’m not usually one to order fruit juice, but the pistachio and apple was too good a combination to pass up.  It was sublime too – freshly puréed apple with the warmth of roasted pistachios and just a hint of aniseed.  One retro rhubarb-striped glassful is simply not enough.

To start, I had a salad of fennel, blood orange, hazelnuts and radicchio.  The plating was refined and elegant as you would expect from an establishment so concerned with its aesthetic.  I have a weakness for blood oranges too, so this went down well, and the combination of flavours was refreshing.  This dish, however, was listed rather deceitfully under mains, and unless you’re on a 5:2 diet, it is only substantial enough to pass as a starter.

I followed the salad with sea bass with Jerusalem artichokes and black olive dressing.  All the pressure points of cooking fish well had been thoroughly met, and with flair: the skin was crisp to the point of shattering, and the flesh melted away with minimal cutlery usage.  Tender and perfectly seasoned and combined with the salty crushed olives and tomatoes and crunchy-skinned Jerusalem artichokes, this dish was worth its significant price.

My dining companion ordered the fillet of beef with farro, cavolo nero and shredded radicchio.  The beef was generously portioned and a fine cut, but it was slightly under seasoned.  The farro with pea purée made up for its rather un-photogenic appearance in flavour.

The salad of grilled lamb, chickpeas, radicchio and chilli jam was good without being outstanding, and the vegetarian onion squash with cime di rapa and chilli butter was also flavourful, albeit on the small side - despite our waitress’s assurance that it was a main course. Surprisingly, vegetarians are not abundantly catered for.

The rhubarb element of the winter rhubarb ice cream with meringue and candied ginger dessert looked uncannily like the floor tiles of the women’s loos.  This lavatorial reminder didn’t manage to put me off – it takes a lot more than that.  The ice cream was tangy and tart and contrasted well texturally with the good, but quite ordinarily so, meringue.  The ginger was a wonderful addition titillating the palate whenever a piece found its way on to the spoon.

I enjoy most types of dessert but I am more inclined towards those with substance, which the hazelnut and pear tart with crème fraiche and espresso went some way towards satisfying.  The pastry was lovely and crumbly and suffused with hazelnuts but slightly on the dry side.  The pears were delicious, too.  However, the almost invisible dots of expresso powder were not enough to substantiate the menu’s claim to its existence.

The dark chocolate honeycomb petit fours were a nice touch at the end to accompany our fresh mint teas and coffees.

I’m always sad when a good meal comes to an end, and Spring was indeed a good meal with some especially outstanding dishes.  The service was ok without being exceptional (by the end of the meal the waitress had half-smiled once) while the interior is ethereally beautiful – almost a reason to go in itself.

Food: 8/10

Ambience: 10/10

Service: 6/10

Loos: 9/10

Price: ££££/££££

Suitable for: smart dates, celebrations, family, business lunches, healthy eating

Portal

Portal is exactly what it says on the tin – a portal into a hidden space. Its chic matte black and green brick exterior, tardis-like, opens up to a beautiful glassed in courtyard. It's not very well known, but I’m pretty sure there’s a good reason for this: everyone is keeping it a secret, and so should you. You’re not going to want to compete with your friends for a table here.

With its serene black and white format and the floor-to-ceiling glass panes, Portal does urban chic very well. As we were a group of 12, I booked the private room (which seats 14). Wine-lined, and with a sliding glass door, you can converse audibly with your dining companions.

I’ve been known to punch (accidentally) the odd stranger whilst taking my coat off or putting it on. With wine bottles as a substitute the situation was rather more precarious: I narrowly missed bringing down the entire row of 2003 Quinta do Portal ‘Auro’…

Very rarely is the bread worth mentioning in a restaurant, but Portal is a cut above many: served freshly baked in engraved wine boxes along with peppery olive oil it would be hard even for the most resolute gluten-free fad enthusiast to resist.

Please don’t think I’m a bore, but the tap water is also worth noting: sweet, cold and crisp, and flavoured with sliced cucumber and fresh mint. And like the dining scene in Philemon and Baucis, my glass seemed to replenish itself. Attention to detail is what marks the good from the great, and Portal is definitely closer to the latter.

The amuse bouche was cream of gazpacho with parmesan shavings. Spoons were hard at work to scrape every last scrap of this with its fresh, spicy and bold flavours.

After some studious analysis of the modern Portuguese menu, I plumped for grilled vegetables with carrot and ginger puree - maybe not the most adventurous starter to choose, but I’m always on the lookout for good vegetarian food. If a meat-orientated restaurant takes its time to conjure up a good vegetarian dish then it is a true sign of its quality, rearing its head above all the meat-crazed restaurants on the scene at the moment.

Clean and modern presentation was consistent throughout the meal, and Portal is definitely not shy with its green garnishes. The purée was warming and smooth, but unfortunately the carrots were a little underdone, and unusually for a restaurant, there wasn’t enough salt to draw out the earthy root vegetable sweetness.

Luckily, I turned carnivore for the next course: the duck breast with apple, chard and summer cup reduction.

Sweet, juicy, tender, succulent, cooked to the perfect shade of blush, this was the wagyu of the duck world.

The red of the apples added drama to the plate, and they too were cooked to perfection with their creamy combination of sweet and sour. With all elements so beautifully in sync with their bold simplicity, this dish is a reason in itself to visit Portal.

One of my dining companions ordered the sirloin, aubergine puree, shallots and peas. The downside of the private room is that it’s impossible to get to the other side of the table fast enough to assuage severe food envy.

Inevitably it was excellent…or so I was told.

The Dover sole, cauliflower purée, smoked pork belly and lemon foam also went down very well.

Sadly, however, the vegetarian option of tofu, broad bean and shimeji fell short. My dining companion had to resort to self-seasoning - a drastic action and a real shame.

A bottle of white and of red in (both delicious), dessert was definitely necessary.  I ordered the fruit salad, and no, this is not a cop-out. Portal’s fruit salad makes up for its healthiness with visual decadence. It happens also to be delicious as the fine slicing contributes to appreciation of the fruits’ flavour.

It would have been sacrilegious not to try Portal’s pasteis de nata, accompanied by cinnamon ice cream: fine crisp pastry with a burnished gold custard filling – traditional and very good. And I’m an ardent fan of cinnamon, so the ice cream was highly pleasing too.

A full stomach hindered my speed in getting to the other desserts (I had to pass the camera round), but they were thoroughly enjoyed.

Coconut and Lime Mousse, Pineapple Coulis, Marshmallow and Miso Sauce:

Pudim Abade de Priscos and Strawberries:

We finished the meal with a round of fresh mint tea, and delicate and zesty lemon curd tartlets.

If you’re looking for the best duck in London, an urban chic oasis in the heart of the city, and delicious food with a Portuguese slant, go to Portal. Just don’t tell too many people.

Food: 8.5/10

Price: ££££

Ambience: 9.5/10

Service: 9/10

Loos: 9/10

Suitable for: smart dates, celebrations, business lunches, family, friends, private dining, chef's table

Hibiscus

About a year ago, I went on a truffle hunt in Tuscany.  All morning we followed a hound through brambles, along slippery river banks, and across soggy fields, zigzagging and doubling back on our tracks, now fast, now slow, until at long last he dug his nose into some mud and began to shiver with excitement, and out came a truffle the size of a thumbnail.  I am in no hurry to do that again, and luckily for truffle lovers there is Hibiscus, the restaurant in Maddox Street, which offers a Truffle Menu amongst its other menus. Alongside its double Michelin star award,

Hibiscus boasts a Relais & Chateaux plaque, five AA rosettes, and has been ranked at number seven in the Good Food Guide 2014.  However, as I experienced a few months ago at Gordon Ramsay’s supposedly Michelin standard Pétrus, awards can sometimes be misleading. With my guard resolutely up, I entered the smart, clean-lined, blue/grey velvet world of Hibiscus.  The Head Chef is Claude Bosi, and the menus reflect his sensitivity to seasonal and local produce.  Having decided to save the Truffle Menu for a special occasion, I and my companions chose from the Lunch Menu.

This arrived before starters:

Very tongue in cheek.

Hollowed out egg shells filled with curry spiced aerated coconut milk with a delicate mushroom cream.  Witty, innovative, bold and delicious, it did exactly what  a good amuse bouche should do: titillate the palate whilst providing a hint of what’s to come - in this case paving the way for Claude Bosi’s bold, modern and interesting twist on Modern European cuisine.

The starters continued to impress.  I had the pumpkin velouté, blue cheese royale, and buttermilk.

The sweet, perfectly smooth pumpkin velouté contrasted with the sharp saltiness of the blue cheese, and the pumpkin seeds and cubes of pumpkin added textural interest to the dish.

I also tried the cured Var Salmon with Celery, Blackberry and Wasabi.  It matched the high standard of the velouté.  The salmon was soft and delicately sweet with the additional ingredients working in perfect harmony.

My other dining companion’s starter met with joy too: pork belly and lobster Ravioli, paimpol beans, red pepper, and raspberry.  When my companion accidentally spilt his glass of water on to the ravioli as the dish was placed in front of him, it was swept away immediately by the waiter and replaced within five minutes without any sneering or snootiness.

For main course I chose the poached cod à la Grenobloise. The fillet was beautifully cut, and just-cooked, so that the flesh was soft and juicy.  The fillet sat on a nutty, browned butter sauce with crisp golden breadcrumbs adding texture, and the subtly vinegary capers worked as an astringent cutting through the creamy richness of the cod.

My companions thoroughly enjoyed the confit duck leg with chorizo, sweetcorn and gem lettuce, and the veal cheeks, parsnip and truffle, and sauce Veronique.

With such refined, innovative and bold savoury courses, dessert unfortunately fell slightly short.  I chose roast figs, whisky ice cream and raspberry.  Visually, the dessert worked very well, and spearing the roast figs with vanilla pods is a wonderful idea – one I shall definitively imitate.  However, there was not enough sweetness in the dish.  The restaurant was possibly relying on the natural sweetness of the figs since they were in season, but combined with the sourness of the raspberry, it missed the mark.  The whisky ice cream was very good though, possessing just the right balance between creaminess and alcoholic tang.

My companion’s burrata with parsnip and pear compote also failed to meet the high expectations that the previous two courses had created.  The pear and parsnip pairing appeared interesting on paper, and could have been made to work had the parsnip been roasted to draw out its sweetness.  Sadly, it was bland both in terms of colour and flavour.  A drizzle of honey as well as some sort of astringent was necessary to cut through the richness of the burrata.

When we left, we were handed little boxes of miniature freshly baked raspberry and pistachio madeleines which were delicious.

Overall, the ambience is good, the service impeccable, and although the desserts were somewhat disappointing, the savoury dishes were excellent- unfussy, innovative and clever.

Food: 8.5/10

Price: ££££

Ambience: 7/10

Service: 9/10

Loos: 9/10

Suitable for: smart dates, celebrations, business lunches, family, friends