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|Address:||438 King’s Road, London SW10 0LJ|
|Tel:||020 7349 1900|
|Price: £50.00||Wine: £25.00||Champagne: £50.00|
|Opening Hours:||Mon-Sun 12N-3pm 6.30-10.30pm|
1 of 1 people found this review helpful.
As Declan Mcmanus once said: I don’t want to go to Chelsea. I hate it. Not just the arrogant bunch of no hopers who have bought success with a total lack of class, but the whole damn place. It is so up its own arse, full of trustaferians and blacked-out-window-toting four wheel drives, driven by botoxed blondes, ears glued to their mobiles, braying about how well little Tarquin is doing at his oh-so-minor public school to some equally vacuous bint.
It is a shame then that there are some fine restaurants in the area. Medlar is certainly one. Indeed, Medlar is one of the best in London.
The food is good, at times great. The service some of the best around.
We'd booked a table for five, but then our friends were unable to get a babysitter, so three young kids joined us at the table for drinks before dinner. Not a fluster amongst the staff; further seats were found, juices for the kids and alcoholic beverages for the grown-ups procured, and the evening commenced.
Once the little darlings had been packed into strollers (they were American friends), the remaining grown-ups could begin the task of examining the delights on offer. And what delights: Carpaccio of bream; thick cut with seaweed puree (yum) and tempura prawns (nice enough, but not as crisp as could be); a whole fried duck's egg sat atop a light tart base, the heart of the bird lightly sautéed with it; and a slab of foie gras, with a tranche of light, melting brioche, big enough to hide Targuin's illicit porn stash under.
Mains too were lovely. Fish is clearly something that the chef understands, and the red mullet was perfectly charred and came with another nice tart and some smoked mackerel; the poussin was dissected to look nothing like the bird (although saving the hassle of having to take those tedious bones out) and came with spatzle; and the gnocchi was al dente and came with peas and artichoke, beautifully presented and perfectly cooked.
But then, after a good hour of forgetting where we were, Chelsea reared its ugly squat head, and some fog-horn voiced blimp in need of a gastric band and a voicebox tuck sat at the next table, making conversation at ours impossible, even at a shout. At this point, the staff went into overdrive: with no fuss, no fluster, no messing about, food and drink was magiced away and a new table (in the far more buzzy front of the restaurant) was arranged for us. And the cheese chariot deposited at the table, so that with every opening of the restaurant door, a great waft of cheesy aroma engulfed the table.
The cheese was as good as it smelled, and chocolate pavé got the thumbs up, not to mention the cringe-making embarrassment (for the rest of us at least: the perpetrator isn't yet 20) of being snapped on an iPhone by one of our number, but for me it wasn't solid enough: a chocolate pavé should be thick and solid. Like a Chelsea fan. This was light and limpid. More like a Spurs fan. The gold leaf anointing it looked good (and I'm sure made the photo look splendid), but had no taste and added nothing. A bit like a Chelsea fan's other half.
I apologise at this point to the three unfortunates who were placed at our long vacated table: on a visit to the loos, it looked as though they were in physical pain from the force of the fog-horn that they had been sat next too.
I would certainly return, as the food is so good and the price too keen, it seems a shame not to. I just wish that it would move to a nicer part of town. One that I would want voluntarily to go to.