Balthazar

One question often asked of best-TV-series-ever-made Buffy The Vampire Slayer was how the citizens of Sunnydale, a town unusually prone to attack from vampires, demons and the occasional robot, seemingly experienced collective amnesia after each new massacre. Die-hard fans however know that this was neatly explained very early on (Season 1, Episode 2, 'The Harvest') when Giles - Buffy's 'Watcher', or guardian - tells the Scoobies that, "People have a tendency to rationalise what they can and forget what they can't."

So with Giles' advice in mind I am writing this as quickly as possible - the morning after the horror of the night before - so that if, as I truly hope I shall, I forget everything that I can't rationalise about dinner at Balthazar, there will at least remain some record of it to warn others away from this Hellmouth of a restaurant.

Balthazar, a huge brasserie occupying the site of the old Theatre Museum just off the piazza in Covent Garden, is a near-carbon copy of the original Balthazar in New York. Why it was thought that what London really needed in 2013 was its own branch of a restaurant that was very fashionable when it opened in 1997 but nowadays is, by most accounts, strictly one for 'out-of-towners' is beyond me, but so are cooking rice and why people find Ricky Gervais funny - I don't pretend to understand everything.

I certainly don't understand what all the fuss is about the room at Balthazar, or the fabled 'buzz'; you will recognise the decor immediately if you have ever been somewhere like Bofinger in Paris, or Cafe Rouge. I am about the thousandth person now to compare Balthazar to a Cafe Rouge, but the comparison is inevitable when the shared 'I've-been-designed-to-look-like-I've-always-been-here' ersatzness is so stark. As for the 'buzz', fill a cavernous room with people and blast middle-of-the-road jazz over the speakers and of course they'll raise their voices to be heard. You say 'buzz', I say 'racket', tomato, tomato.

Already at our table when I arrived early for our booking, dinner-date Matthew explained that he had fled the adjacent bar because of over-crowding; an unwelcome import from New York is the notion that herding diners cheek-by-jowl into a holding pen before being allowed to have their dinner builds excitement, a theory as flawed as the belief that administering fear-hormone adrenaline to veal calves before slaughter will make the meat taste better.

To the eating. I cannot rationalise how a restaurant jointly operated by Keith McNally - a man who in countless, angst-soaked pre-opening interviews stressed how much of a 'perfectionist' he is - and Caprice Holdings, a company whose restaurants, almost without exception, I love, could allow such mediocre (and in the case of one dish genuinely inedible) food to be served. 

A basket of bread, from Balthazar's own bakery in Waterloo, had been brought thence so slowly or long ago that it was stale and flavourless. My starter of dressed crab was fine, likewise Matthew's chicken liver and foie gras mousse, although presentation was rather forlorn, my crab on a bed of tired lettuce with a tin pot of entirely superfluous Marie Rose sauce, Matthew's mousse a cone plonked on the plate straight from a catering mould. Accompanying red onion confit at least appeared to have been lovingly spooned from the jar.

But the main courses - oh dear, oh God. I ordered whole grilled dorade with Romesco sauce and herb salad, Matthew steak tartare with a side of frites. The fish had been grilled so long that all moisture had been obliterated, and the lemon and herb filling was so over-powering that the dorade tasted - the one mouthful I had before sending it back - as if it had been marinated in Toilet Duck. It was truly horrible, and swiftly changed for a salad Nicoise, which was OK. Matthew's anaemic, undercooked fries, too, had to be replaced and once done properly were far more enjoyable than his meagre portion of dull, dry tartare.

Unsurprisingly, we had no interest in desserts. Nor did we fancy ordering anything from the cheeseboard our waiter presented; would you want to pay £10.50 for brie or roquefort shown to you sweating under their clingfilm wrappers? I thought not. We did at least enjoy the perfectly pleasant mini cookies that came with our coffees. That at first an espresso was served instead of a macchiato came as no surprise; that our bill, for two courses (my replacement for my awful main course was still charged for), coffee, one cocktail, one glass of wine and service came to £92, did.

To give credit where credit is due, our waiter and most of the staff we came into contact with were delightful, but it is humiliating for them and for Balthazar's owners that an army of floor-walking management - from New York, I'm guessing - are trying to train them on the job. If I felt embarrassed that a manager came to the table with our waiter when he was serving our main courses and hissed, "Position 2 for the fish" out of the side of her mouth, how must he have felt? I have heard rumours of a power-struggle between the New York side of the operation and the London team over how things should be done; I didn't expect to see it played out in front of me table-side.

Never before have I left a busy restaurant - and for reasons that cannot have anything to do with the food or atmosphere Balthazar and its veal-truck bar were packed - so inclined to stand at the door and implore people to go somewhere, anywhere else. The Delaunay is just round the corner and doing the grand brasserie thing a thousand times better; hell, Tuttons bang next door is superior by several powers, and that's saying something. 

Would that London were Sunnydale and Buffy could come along and plunge her stake into the heart of this blood-sucking horror of a restaurant; then it would crumble into dust and, not being able to rationalise the sheer dreadfulness of what we had experienced, we could all just forget it had ever happened.

Balthazar, 4-6 Russell Street, London WC2B 5HZ Tel: 020 3301 1155 www.balthazarlondon.com









Posted by +Hugh Wright

34, Mayfair

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!"

Scott's, Mayfair

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 Ivy, Covent Garden

Once upon a time, there was a restaurant so famous and so popular that you could only get a table if you were equally famous and equally popular - or so the fable went. Contrary to popular belief - a belief fuelled by nary a week going by without the Evening Standard running photos of various A-list celebs emerging through the instantly-recognisable square-paned doors - it was always possible to get a table at The Ivy; it was just bloody difficult. 

Sure, a BAFTA or two would see you ensconced behind the harlequin stained glass without the need to navigate the deeply unfriendly automated reservation system, but no restaurant is ever truly unbookable and The Ivy was no exception. Nonetheless, getting a table - or more to the point, telling everyone that you had got a table - was enough to elicit gasps of wonder and disbelief from one's friends and a story one could dine out on for weeks after the dinner itself. 

Then, a few things happened which made getting a table at The Ivy not only rather easier, but also rather less of a big deal. Firstly, Caprice Holdings - a group comprising, at the time, a handful of admittedly good but not hugely well-known restaurants of which The Ivy was indisputably the jewel in the crown - relaunched venerable seafood house Scott's in Mayfair, only to see it eclipse The Ivy in both celebrity attendance and critical recognition. Next, albeit late in the day compared to many restaurants, The Ivy started to accept online bookings, if only for pre- and post-theatre time slots, but given that these are actually rather nice times to eat at this was no bad thing and made the once seemingly-inaccessible accessible. 

Finally, a couple of years ago, Caprice owner Richard Caring decided that the three floors above The Ivy's landmark triangular site were wasted as offices and transformed them into the ultra-exclusive The Club at The Ivy - you can't even look at the website if you're not a member - and invited all his megastar mates and billionaire buddies to join. As a result, any star worth spotting is now not to be found dining on the humble ground floor with you and me, but in one of the two dining rooms on the sealed-off floors above. 

With its core celebrity clientele - and to many, unique selling point - gone elsewhere, The Ivy just doesn't have the same cachet as it had only five or six years ago. And yet when, in a recent conversation with two of my best friends and Alyn about restaurants, the question arose as to where was the one place in London they would most like to eat,  the answer was unanimous: The Ivy, of course. A table was - easily - booked and a couple of Sundays later we passed through those instantly-recognisable doors for lunch.

It didn't start well. Arriving a fashionable few minutes after our assigned 2.45 booking time, we were told - not advised, or apologised to for the fact - that our table was not ready and ordered to wait in the bar. Many's the restaurant that would offer diners in that situation a complimentary drink, but not so The Ivy; here, our enforced pre-prandial round was charged, and how - forty-odd quid for a Buck's Fizz, a Negroni, a G&T and a vodka and Coke. When we were seated - about fifteen minutes late - it was at a table wedged in so closely to those adjacent that our party of four had to split into two twos and approach it from opposite sides. And looking around at our fellow lunchers, the clientèle was - how can I put this? - more likely to grace the pages of Take A Break than Tatler.

The menu, which some would describe as 'eclectic', is something of a mish-mash, and reads uncomfortably. All the 'new traditional' British classics which The Ivy was once renowned for - fishcakes, shepherd's pie, sticky toffee pudding - remain, the legacy of one-time executive chef Mark Hix, but have been joined by a slew of Oriental specialities at the instigation of current head honcho Gary Lee, ex of Caprice's pan-Asian place Bam-Bou. 

Starters thus range from steak tartare to hamachi tuna sashimi, and mains from steak and kidney pudding to Thai baked sea bass. It reminded me somewhat of my sister's local pub, where the ambitious, and talented, chef likes to show that he was listening in every module at catering college by serving curries and stir-fries alongside the pie and chips and pints o' prawns. None of this however prevented us from having a thoroughly lovely time, and a very good meal indeed. 

The aforementioned steak tartare and sashimi were both excellent, although I suspect the tartare - my order - was prepared earlier and refrigerated rather than made a la minute. Our other starters, seared foie gras for Alyn and shellfish bisque for Paulie, were much enjoyed; the bisque is one of my favourite starters at also-Caprice-owned Dean Street Townhouse and was just as rich and cognacy here as there. The foie gras was classically presented, with glazed figs and toasted brioche, a simple but supremely luxurious combination and a generously-sized portion - as you'd want it to be for £16.50. 

For main courses we mostly went for roasts, it being a Sunday, one rib of beef with all the trimmings, one Moroccan rump of lamb with houmous, harissa and smoked aubergine, and partridge with braised cabbage and smoked bacon. All were fantastic, the partridge (mine) particularly so, although the beef looked a little too rare - and this from a man who had happily eaten raw beef for a starter. Our one non-roast choice, Alyn's steak and kidney pudding, was pronounced excellent by its eater who took a great deal of persuading to part with even a small mouthful for me to try. When I was allowed to sample it I was rewarded with flavours of sweet, light suet and a filling stewed to rich intensity; excellent indeed. 

Although it's usually unheard of for me to share a pudding - share anything, for that matter - I was more than happy to split a baked Alaska for two, flambéed table-side in a lovely bit of culinary showmanship. A scattering of Griotte cherries, in the syrup still hot from the pan, provided a bracing aigre-doux contrast to the cold sweetness of the dessert. The sticky toffee pudding, one of The Ivy's signature dishes, lived up to its reputation and was an exceptional rendition of this ubiquitous  sweet. 

We drank a bottle each of a warm, full-bodied and blackcurranty 2008 Artazuri Garnacha from Navarra,  and a 2009 'La Flor' Malbec rosé which showed that this grape, always reliable as a red, works just as well as a rosé. Both were priced at about £26, not too terrible but it's worth mentioning that there's not much available under that and the cheapest bottle on the list is £20.75. The pricing overall is rather on the lofty side, and even taking into consideration the drinks before lunch and a round of stickies after, I was still shocked when our final bill came in at just shy of £80 a head. A £2 cover charge struck me as greedy, 'covering' as it does only good-but-nothing-special bread. Service throughout - bar our initial shunting to the bar - was warm, polite and polished, although it aggrieved me that the policy of no mobile phones stated on the menu was not being enforced.

The experience as a whole was a very good one; a super meal with nice wine in a room which I'd go so far as to say is perhaps my favourite in London with its colourful windows and bold modern art. It's certainly easy to see how The Ivy has stayed in business in its current incarnation for twenty years and why people - famous or not - like it so much. But it's over-priced and thinks too much of itself in a time when there are better, cheaper and even more popular restaurants all over London. 

Famous places, trading on past glories and charging too much because they can, are known as tourist attractions. The Ivy is better than that, but needs to be careful that it doesn't end up being famous only for being famous. 

The Ivy, 1 West Street, London WC2H 9NQ Tel: (020) 7836 4751 http://www.the-ivy.co.uk

J. Sheekey

J. Sheekey, the fish and seafood specialist hidden just off St Martin's Lane, is the equally successful but never-quite-as-famous sibling of Scott's in Mayfair; Maggie Gyllenhaal to Scott's' Jake. It's also one of my absolutely favourite restaurants of all time, ever. 

From my first visit about eight years ago with my then boyfriend to last night's brief but wonderful visit with my gorgeous friend Caroline, it's never disappointed, and while the prices might occasionally cause a sharp intake of breath - I'm still in therapy from the time I blithely said to mum 'Now don't worry about the prices, you just order what you like' only for her to 'like' half a lobster and the roasted mixed shellfish -  there are some comparative bargains to be had.

During July and August, if you eat pre-theatre as Caroline and I did - Sheekey's is perfectly located for it - their superlative fish and chips and a glass of house wine can be had for just £15.75, about the same as at Brown's just across the courtyard except at Brown's there isn't a top-hatted doorman to greet you. From the a la carte menu, the justifiably famous fish pie is a very reasonable £13.50 and is pleasingly biased towards the piscine side of the filling/topping axis. At weekends, there's a set lunch menu offering three courses for a very fair £25.50.

What I'd really recommend however is that you save Sheekey's for those special occasions - anniversaries, birthdays, BAFTA wins - when you or whoever's paying feel inclined to blow the budget and you can indulge yourself in the full array of sparklingly fresh oysters, perfect crustacea and finest fish caught that day, along with a bottle or two from the excellent and not-too-terrfiyingly-priced wine list. 

As well as superb food you'll enjoy superlative service, handsome decor and, if star spotting's your thing, no doubt a glimpse of a theatrical dame or motion picture knight or two. Booking's a bugger but worth persevering at; if you can't stand the struggle the more informal Oyster Bar next door doesn't require (but accepts) reservations and keeps some seats free for walk-ins.

The smart wood panelling, contemporary art and black and white photos of stage and screen stars through the ages make Sheekey's a very grown-up place (although children are welcome I've never seen any) and if there's anything to criticise about it - and I really do struggle to think of anything - it's that the atmosphere might at times feel a little too hushed and the general ambience a little too formal for some tastes. While there's always a sense of celebration in the air here, as a venue it's neither suited to nor intended for boisterous parties or casual dining; it's a serious place serving serious food, and photography - of others or of one's meal - would be as welcome as a bone in the filleted Dover sole.

Other restaurants might be more fun, or creative, or accessible than J. Sheekey, but very few indeed are actually better. I hope that you'll try it, and that when you do you'll love it as much as Maggie loves Jake.

J. Sheekey, 28-32 St. Martin's Court, London WC2N 4AL Tel: 020 7240 2565 http://www.j-sheekey.co.uk 

Hoxton Grill, Shoreditch

I seldom (though by no means never) write about breakfast. When it comes to your wakey wakey eggs 'n' bacey there's really very little that separates the fantastically good from the dreadfully bad and even the most talented of writers - which I naturally do not pretend to be - would have a hard job of making something as quotidian as, say, boiled eggs and soldiers sound exciting (Nigel Slater's tear-jerking food memoir Toast being a notable, must-read exception). That said, I think it's important to recognise places that do what they do well, and Hoxton Grill does an extremely decent breakfast.

Located in the lobby of the ultra-hip Hoxton Hotel on Great Eastern Street, Hoxton Grill is an all-day affair opening at dawn's crack for brekkie and closing only when the last hotel resident or asymmetrically-coiffed visitor has disappeared into the night. It's visually appealing with ample red leather banquettes (echoing its first-cousin-once-removed, Dean Street Townhouse), dark wood furniture and the bare brick walls considered de rigeur for this part of town. The breakfast menu reflects the style of the lunch and dinner offerings, namely familiar Brit and European staples done stylishly and well at premium but still good-value prices.

On the first of two recent visits, both with my sister (who, incidentally, makes a Full English of such stupendous quality that any restaurant would be proud to serve it) I tried the eggs Benedict royale, which were excellent - good eggs and muffins, lovely sharp Hollandaise and ample butter-soft slices of delicious salmon. On visit two, needing something salty and substantial to counter an unexpectedly severe hangover, I wolfed down a plateful of superb corned beef hash, using the superfluous but very welcome toast it came with to make a sandwich of the accompanying fried egg. Sis on both occasions ordered and enjoyed creamy scrambled eggs on toast with bacon, declaring it all good except, first time around, for the unnecessary sprinkling of chives (which she likes about as much as Reeves & Mortimer's mate Les).

Service is efficient, fast and nicely formal, respecting the likelihood that valuable business might be being conducted over the granola and fruit platters. It's a nice contrast to the forced over-mateyness which blights so many of the area's eating spots. The price reflects the quality, location and attention to detail - tea is served in smart individual silver pots with strainers, juices are freshly squeezed from primo fruits - but is far from expensive; on both occasions our bill came to about £12 each including food, tea, juice and 12.5% service.

My time with my sister is limited and therefore precious; our breakfast get-togethers came about as a way of making sure we see each other on her increasingly less frequent days working in London. It follows that where we spend that time has to be somewhere a little special, that adds a sense of occasion to the otherwise fairly mundane practice of breaking our fast. After several trials and errors, I do believe we've found it.

Hoxton Grill, 81 Great Eastern Street, London EC2A 3HU Tel: 020 7739 9111 http://www.hoxtongrill.com/

The Mount Street Deli

As the regular reader - go on dear, wave so we can all see you - of this blog will know, I'm a huge fan of, and something of a pro bono brand ambassador for, Caprice Holdings. Until very recently I'd never found a restaurant I liked more than The Ivy; the place which stole its place in my heart, though only by a very narrow margin, was its stable-mate Dean Street Townhouse. There's nowhere in town I trust more to look after my precious mother than J. Sheekey, and I return time and time (and time) again for gossipy, glamorous nights at Rivington Grill. My affection for the company was further cemented last year by their generous support of an event I organised for my beloved Crusaid.

You can imagine then that I was rather excited to hear that the group has opened its first retail outlet in the form of The Mount Street Deli, just opposite another of the jewels in its crown, Scott's. I was asked along as a guest, on the second day of opening, to sample some of the products on offer, and from what I saw (and tasted), Caprice have another hit on their hands.

For the uninitiated, Mount Street is a very elegant thoroughfare (albeit currently blighted by seemingly incessant roadworks) running from Park Lane to Grosvenor Square. Always popular with the extremely well-heeled residents of Mayfair for its galleries, restaurants and specialist shops - gunmaker Purdey occupies a corner plot across from haute china supplier Thomas Goode - in recent years Mount Street has become synonymous with luxury fashion and is now home to many of London's highest-end boutiques, attracting wealthy local and international shoppers. The Mount Street Deli brings something genuinely new and completely suited to the mix - a delicatessen-cum-cafe stocking produce of sufficiently impeccable quality as to appeal to the street's very discerning clientele.

The food offering falls into two main categories, each of which has clearly been very thoroughly thought through. The eat-in offering - there's seating for 16 inside and 8 on a cute terrace - majors on fresh, home-made, seasonal and organic cafe staples, mostly British but including some smashing Italian salumi alongside menu favourites from some of Caprice Holdings' restaurants. The take-away selection is focused on the ne plus ultra of ready meals; dishes prepared in the kitchens of and usually only served in the members-only environs of the private clubs in the Birley Group, itself now a part of Caprice. There's also a lovingly sourced and carefully edited selection of preserves, chutneys, breads and confectionery ideal for giving as gifts or impressing dinner party guests.

From the cold counter I tried a variety of treats including plump, nutty jewelled cous cous, a few slices of silky salami and moreish mortadella, a mighty fine sausage roll (which I'll admit I would have preferred hot) and some lovely plump, briny olives which would have been perfect had they come wrapped in a vodka Martini. The hot dish of the day was a boldly savoury beef hot pot of which every spoonful spoke of slow, patient stewing, stirring and seasoning. A selection plate from the afternoon tea and puddings menu enabled me to sample the Deli's carrot cake, chocolate brownie and millionaire's shortbread out of which not just the latter will delight the area's super-rich.

The faultlessly enthusiastic manager Hannah Gutteridge is very proud of her coffee and an accompanying latte was excellent. What I really would have liked was a glass of wine; alas for the time being at least The Mount Street Deli is unlicensed meaning one can only browse and possibly take away the interesting and very reasonably priced wines on offer (a 1997 Pauillac at £75 caught my dipsomaniac eye). Although that remained on the shelf, I did leave with an armful of some of the quirkier goodies from the deli section including  a star anise and pink peppercorn mustard from Henshelwoods and some addictive chocolate lime biscuits from Island Bakery Organics.

Overall, I liked The Mount Street Deli  as much as I like its sister restaurants and bars and will definitely be back both to eat in - especially when the veal ravioli from Daphne's is on the menu - and to pick up some of what must be the poshest ready meals in London. The ultimate seal of approval however comes not from me but from the wonderful, elegant American lady who struck up conversation with me over coffee. Lucky (and, clearly, wealthy) enough to live 'just over the road' from The Mount Street Deli, she had already taken home dinner from it on day one and was now back on day two for coffee, a bite to eat and to meet her equally elegant husband. That the locals have taken the place so enthusiastically to their hearts before the paint is barely dry is a sure sign that Caprice Holdings have, yet again, got it absolutely right.

The Mount Street Deli, 100 Mount Street, London W1K 2TG Tel: 020 7499 6843 http://www.themountstreetdeli.co.uk/

Dean Street Townhouse

Pamela Mitford, the least well-known but no less fascinating of those six remarkable sisters, had a particular gift for remembering menus from luncheons and dinners that she had attended, even many years after the event. Almost every letter to any of her sisters (available in this fascinating book) includes at least some culinary reference. This was a source of great amusement to her siblings who, having little else to tease her about - Pamela having chosen a life rather more ordinary than they - would playfully mock her almost photographic recall of what had been consumed by whom on occasions that they could not even remember.

I envy such anamnestic ability; while I am passionate about food, and (I hope evidently) in writing about it, it's rare for me to actually remember what I've eaten at a particular meal for particularly long. The fact that even now, several days after dinner at Dean Street Townhouse, I can still remember not just everything I ate but everything my companion ate, is exceptional – which pretty much sums up my experience of this Soho newcomer.

Dean Street Townhouse - as well as the restaurant there's an affordable boutique hotel - occupies a large corner site which, if my memory serves me well, used to be a Pitcher & Piano. Entrance to the restaurant  is via a very discreet doorway, supervised by an improbably handsome young doorman who gives new arrivals a lightning-fast, almost imperceptible once-over just to ensure they're not unaware of the change of ownership and direction. It's a nice conceit; one's made to feel rather in the know for even being there, and that's before setting foot over the threshold.

Once in, the buzz of the room almost knocks you off your feet; it's not loud, or overbearing, there's just a very palpable air that this is a place for conversation and animation, not sotto voce plotting or culinary navel gazing. The welcome, from maitre d' Gina Glennon (ex-Scott's, J. Sheekey and Le Caprice) is effusive and sincere; here is a woman who knows how to make total strangers feel like old friends. 

One side of the large main room is dominated by an imposing dark wood bar, while the other side accommodates banks of red leather banquettes and about two dozen tables for twos and fours. There's a couple of booths at the back of the room for larger groups, and separated from the main room by heavy curtains is The Parlour, an altogether cosier space featuring rather racy wallpaper and comfy armchair seating. Adorning every wall is a fine selection of monochromatic modern art ("Is that a Mark Titchner?" I asked Gina as she led us to our table; "Oh yes!" she replied with evident pride) and the lighting is subtle and just right - as well as neo-Gothic chandeliers overhead, tall candles in Wee Willie Winkie-style brass holders adorn every table. It's altogether a very agreeable place to be.

What's also highly agreeable is the complete lack of pretension of the menu. The food is solidly, unapologetically British - not even modern British - with just a few concessions to American and European palates. Nothing needs translating or explaining, and although provenance is clearly important it's not gone into in excessive detail, so crab is identified as being from Dorset and the rib steak from Bannockburn, but without any tiresome attribution to a particular net, field, farmer or fisherman. It's the kind of food which one could, and most likely does, eat at home, but with the convenience of being cooked - superbly as it turns out - by someone else.

To start off, PV went for fried duck egg with wild mushrooms and I chose twice-baked haddock souffle. Both were as delicious and comforting as they sound; a slice of toasted brioche added sweetness to PV's rich, soft egg and bosky mushrooms, and my adeptly seasoned, light-as-parfait souffle came swathed in an indulgent chive beurre blanc.

Main courses were also expertly rendered. My pan-fried ray with capers and lemon was a butch, thick-cut slab of fish accompanied by just the right quantity of well-judged caper butter and PV's salt beef with caraway dumplings and pickle was a generous, colourful bowlful of thick tranches of tender meat, with carrots and new potatoes as well as the advertised dumplings and gherkins. We ordered a side dish of creamed spinach more out of interest than necessity; it was also very good, one of those rare examples of a side dish actually adding something more to a meal than bulk.

Though all the puddings sounded appealing - good old British favourites including apple pie and queen of puddings - from the moment we saw it on the menu we knew we had to have the sherry trifle for two. The brilliance of this dish lay in its being completely unbastardised, a huge traditional glass coupe filled with layers of fruit in jelly, real vanilla custard and an abundance of whipped cream, all topped with crumbled meringue - home-made I'm sure - and flaked almonds. Oh and sherry. Lots, and lots of sherry. Superb as it was we struggled to finish it; the kitchen at Dean Street Townhouse holds no truck with stingy portions.

From the fairly concise and ungreedily marked-up wine list, we chose a 2008 Roberto Sarotto Gavi di Gavi which provided enough dry apple fruit to complement my fish choices while being robust enough to tackle the richness of PV's duck egg and beef. The list is almost exclusively Old World with a strong bias towards France, although there's a handful of New World choices in the mid price range. What's delightful about the list is that it starts low - at just £15.25 for the cheapest white and £16.50 for red - and peaks at (and I use the next word  relatively) only £140 or so, with the climb from bottom to top coming in manageable steps. This means that, whatever your wine budget might be, you will get a far better bottle at Dean Street Townhouse for your money than you would at many another restaurant playing at the same level.

Service was, at all times, attentive, friendly and polished; drinks took at times a little too long to arrive (our dessert wine came only when we had all but finished the trifle) but that was the only, minor, hiccup. Importantly, every single member of staff we came into contact with seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themself, and determined to ensure that we should too. There are very few places that one can say that about.

Which, neatly, brings me back to my initial point and the point which will ensure that Dean Street Townhouse thrives: it is truly exceptional. You're treated like a VIP whether or not you're a celebrity or media mogul, of which there were several on the night we visited. You are served unintimidating, unpretentious, but excellent food and wine, and charged very fairly for it. You're served by staff who are polite, professional and who clearly love what they are doing and know exactly when to be at your table and when to leave you alone.

You have fun at Dean Street Townhouse - and believe me, everyone at every table was smiling. When you leave, it's with a sense that not only has your visit been greatly appreciated, but that you would be very welcome to stay the night - a note on the menu advises that rooms start at a bargain £95 - and that if you really must go, then everyone would like it very much if you were to come back soon. And come back soon I most certainly will; Dean Street Townhouse falls into the rare category of being a restaurant that I can't wait to return to. 

Pamela Mitford once mused that were she ever to write her memoirs, they would be all about food. Although the likelihood of anyone ever wishing to read (let alone publish) my memoirs is remote to say the least, that theoretical volume were I to write it would, too, contain a great deal about food. And there, in the chapter entitled 'Memorable Meals', would be at least a paragraph or two on Dean Street Townhouse. 

Dean Street Townhouse, 69-71 Dean Street, London W1D 3SE Tel: 020 7434 1775 http://www.deanstreettownhouse.com/

Rivington Grill

My first visit to Rivington Grill, about five years ago, was memorable for all the wrong reasons. It was not long after the place had opened - to rave reviews - and a fashion-savvy, early-adopter girlfriend had booked a large table for Saturday lunch to celebrate her birthday.

It should have been an exciting opportunity to try out the coolest new place in town - Shoreditch was still very underground in those days - but alas I had tried out rather too many of the uncool places in town the night before, drunk myself rotten, made it to the restaurant only by the grace of God and four Nurofen, and was feeling absolutely fetid.

A 'medicinal' Bloody Mary did me no good at all and it is with shame and regret that I remember to this day my starter of braised calf's cheeks and beetroot shoots coming back up looking pretty much unchanged from when it had gone down. Given that at the time the head honcho in the kitchen was none other than cooking deity Mark Hix, this less-than-favourable emetic reaction to the food was akin to blaspheming in church. Rivington and I did not get off to the best of starts.

Fast forward to summer 2009 and Rivington and I have reacquainted ourselves; I now work in no-longer-as-cool-as-it-was Shoreditch and my bestie Kate lives in so-hip-it-hurts Dalston, so it's handy for both of us and we've paid two visits recently, the second because the first was so damn good. Mark Hix may have moved on (to set up on his own just round the corner, so there's no danger of him taking revenge for the calf's cheeks debacle) but his signature style of simple cooking of seasonal, local ingredients is indelibly stamped on the Rivington's menu.

On visit one, I was delighted to see gull's eggs with celery salt and mayonnaise on the starters as I'm a complete egg addict and had been dying to try this variety, new to me but very much a late-Spring delicacy. I wasn't disappointed; the large-ish egg had a distinctive, rich flavour and unctuous creamy consistency that amply demonstrated what the fuss (and price - £5.50 per egg) was all about.

On our next visit I opted for the delicious-sounding chilled beetroot soup with horseradish cream; velvety-smooth and slightly-sweet - my guess would be that chicken stock is used - it was a light, refreshing earthy delight. Kate liked her first course of Evesham Beetroot and St. Tola goat's cheese salad so much the first time that she had it again on the second, on both occasions pronouncing herself very pleased with it, particularly the tangy freshness of the cheese.

Main courses offer a wide variety of meat and fish dishes (nothing for vegetarians I note, but that's not for here) and of the four we tried over our two dinners, three were excellent. I loved the breaded rose veal with mushrooms and wilted nettles, the huge, finger-thick escalope eating wonderfully with the tiny ceps and herby leaves; Kate was similarly enthusiastic about her dived Lyme Bay scallops with wild garlic and bacon, both dishes politely allowing the main ingredient to shine with the imaginative accompaniments simply adding polish.

Grilled lemon sole with sea purslane and brown shrimp butter was equally good, the excellent - and substantial - fish swimming along most agreeably with the salty, fleshy herbs. The only slight disappointment was the Barnsley lamb chop with kidneys and bubble and squeak; the generously proportioned and undoubtedly well-sourced chop was sadly not well-sauced, crying out as it was for say some redcurrant or mint jelly, neither of which the kitchen was able to provide. This isn't to say that the dish was at all bad; it just wasn't quite as good as the other three triumphs.

Despite the sheer size of the main courses (and my having successfully kept everything down), we nonetheless managed to sample the cheeses and desserts. Whereas some restaurants which generally do well on locality and seasonality can rather give up when it comes to puds, Rivington does not, and everything we tried made the very best use of the season's best fruits: gooseberry pie with Jersey cream, Eton Mess, and raspberry burnt cream (I love the fact that Rivington's Britishness extends even to eschewing the use of 'creme brule'). For me though, as a fromageophile (yep - totally made that one up) the real highlight was the cheese plate which as well as a lovely Gorwydd Caerphilly featured one of my personal favourites Harbourne Blue - a rare, pasteurised goat's milk blue which has all the punch but less of the saltiness of many cow's milk blues.

There's an excellent wine list starting at a very reasonable £15.00 and not going too dizzyingly high after that; it's French-biased but also offers a variety of New World choices to suit every palate and wallet. On our first visit we opted for a terrfic 2007 Picpoul de Pinet, a lovely off-dry fruity white and an undeservedly under-rated grape which I've been enjoying of late, and on our second we embraced the summer and picked the Berry's House Rose Vin de Pays de L'Aude, a complete bargain at fifteen quid and as good as you'd expect from anything Berry Bros would put their name to.

This very fair approach to pricing extends to the food too; prices are all absolutely reasonable to the extent that neither of our bills, both for three courses, wine and service, exceeded £100, unusual these days at this level of quality. Combine this with excellent service - just the right side of informal, unfussy and friendly - and truly stylish decor (there's a Tracey Emin neon on one wall for Chrissakes!) and you can see why this is still a hard-to-beat hit in a neighbourhood which, unlike when Rivington opened, now has a wealth of high-end fashionable restaurants for diners to choose from. I might once have been sick in Rivington Grill, but I'll certainly never be sick of it.

Rivington Grill & Bar, 28-30 Rivington Street, Shoreditch, London EC2A 3DZ Tel: 020 7729 7053 www.rivingtongrill.co.uk