Meh

There seems to be a rash of faux French brasseries popping up across London. Balthazar is not one of them. No, Balthazar is not a London take on a French institution, it is a London take on a New York take on a French ideal.

Oh yes, from the misuse of French on the menu (entrees means starters, not mains), those stupid half doors on the loos, the waiters (servers?) whisking individual plates away as finished (rather than politely waiting until the table is finished) and interrupting when you are trying to talk, it is clear that this is many stages removed from Paris or Lyon. OK, you could get that whole waiter interrupting thing in Paris, but nobody quite does it like a New Yorker.

The building is gorgeous; high ceilings, red banquettes, mosaics on the floor and mirrors on the walls. The buzz is reminiscent of the “original” in SoHo. The booking is difficult, the anticipation is high. Alas, it could really only go one way from here.

Having only booked on the day bookings open (30 days before bum meets seat), we didn't get a banquette, just a (too small) table. These are perfectly fine, if a little cramped, stuck as they are between the banquettes and the passage way down which the waiting staff carry huge trays of fodder.

The dinner menu (dissected by the Guardian the other day, to show how one is more easily separated from ones hard-earned) separates the oyster bar from the starters (hors d'oeuvres), mains (the absurdly titled “entrees” section) and a smattering of “Plates Pour Deux”. Why don’t they go the whole hog though, either US or French, listing dishes in American or in French? Instead, there is a mishmash of each, presumably taking the more common (escargot) and putting them in French, and the more esoteric (braised pork cheek) and leaving it in American (the poor lobster gets both: American as a starter and French as a main). It is pretentious in the extreme.

The oysters were really nice, the onion soup satisfyingly scalding, dripping with gruyere, the asparagus cooked well and the onion tart crisp and tarty. Mains too were perfectly fine; the dourade (sea bream in American) came boned and cooked well, the temptation to overcook not having been given in to; duck shepherd's pie (surely that is Parmentier? Or at least duck herder's pie: I mean, how many shepherds do you know who keep ducks?) a nice example. Steak was cooked as asked and as perfectly acceptable as you will get in any number of less fashionable places. Sides of frites and spinach were likewise perfectly acceptable, if nothing special. Where though is that staple of the Parisian brasserie; Choucroute? Why is roast chicken available only on a Monday and rabbit in mustard on a Sunday? The piles of steaks and hamburgers tell all you need to know: this is a tourist trap: get the Bridge and Tunnel crowd in, make them feel that they are tasting the real deal, and fleece them.

It is what Balthazar in New York has become: a safe destination; an uninteresting, middle of the road restaurant, with a great buzz but no pretentions on the food. If you want to spend twenty notes on a burger, be my guest. I'd rather go to Burger + Lobster for that, or MEATliquor and get three.

The constant free topping up of the mineral water is a very nice touch, but it is not cheap at over £40 a head without alcohol or coffee: for that, I certainly expect a lot more, as free water alone does not a cheap meal make.

Do go for the atmosphere though; go for the gorgeously designed space: whilst Balthazar may well become the new Ivy, it is never going to win any awards for the quality of the food on offer, so don't expect great things on the culinary front. That said, and to paraphrase the Daily Telegraph theatre critic when he panned that other New York invader this spring (the Book of Mormon), it doesn't really matter what I say about Balthazar; it is destined to be a huge success.

Magical food, ruined by the atmosphere

The Japanese consider us gaijin to be unco-ordinated, galoots; all bulk and noise, an anathema for the quiet, delicate Japanese sensibility.

Shiori is a small, delicate place. There are but six tables. The waitress is petite. The plates are tiny, delicate and subtle; each a miniature work of art. There should be a quiet tranquility to the place. There is not, courtesay of two tables: a threesome of Americans and a foursome of hoorays. Every bellowed guffaw, or shrieking “like totally” brought a wince to the waitress, who struggled to smile through the physical pain brought on by this rampant display of ignorance, this disregard for the food (let alone other diners). There is nothing wrong with getting drunk and being loud: that is what TGIF and Wetherspoons are for. This is a ton plus for a 12 course tasting menu; for goodness sake enjoy it.

In between the noise, the food is fantastic: as all Kaiseki style is, it is subtle and delicate, no more than a few mouthfuls of intricately nuanced food per course. To many it is too subtle; bland even. I love it: how often do you get to eat cherry blossom, both in a soup and in an ice cream (ok, more like a granita than an ice cream, but still)? How often do so many courses bring such sublime combinations?

As well as the cherry blossom, the razor clams in ponzu, the lobster and chu-toro sashimi and the simmering Wagyu all stood out. So the fermented rice might have been best left to turn into sake rather than overpowering a scallop, but it was still an interesting addition.

Yet there is still something that isn't quite right about this: it isn't the cooking, which touches on the genius; it is the place. So often in Japan, the most out of the way places open up to the most astonishing restaurants. Café Anglais aside, this particular area north of Hyde Park is renowned for very little by way of culinary delights. But it does not work. It is just wrong: the location is totally wrong; the room is set up wrong; the acoustics, the ambience, they are all just wrong.

I might be tempted to go back: the food is just so good, but I would be more tempted to book the whole place out, so that the food could star and the peace descend. Until I win the lottery and can do this, or they get enough space to have proper tatami matted rooms, I think I'll pass.

Should have gone to the Wolseley

A restaurant is always going to be on the back foot when the first thing your waiter says isn't hello, but "you have the table until 9.00″ when the booking is for 8.00. If I hadn't been meeting a client, I'd have said keep it and gone elsewhere.

I so wish I had but, as it was, I didn't have a great deal of choice, other than to decide not to come back. Which I swiftly did. This may be a perfectly accetable substitute when the Wolseley is booked, but whilst the Wolseley is all charm and sophistication, Automat is all American down to crap food and having the the bill brought without being asked, when they decide that it is time for you to sod off. Having got the worst of Americana, if only they could have got the best: the service. But no, surley waiters abound.

Avoid

Forget pop-up restaurants; they are like so last week. As for permanent joints based on the street food van-based original; I mean pleaze. That was literally Wednesday’s craze. No, the hippest thang now is the squatting restaurant. Not crouching down, but taking over a daytime place in the evening and doing something totally different.

Manze’s Eel, Pie and Mash (not to be confused with Manze’s Pie and Mash, or possibly even Manze’s Eel Pie and Mash) has been on Chapel Market for over a century, but opens only for lunch. So a group of chef-types with grand ideas and bags of energy has taken over the evening session, Wednesday through Saturday. And jolly well they are doing too.

Of course it helps if you offer corkage free BYO (or BYOB, as they quaintly put it. Presumably to distinguish it from BYOF), but this alone wouldn’t make it a great place to go. What does, is a combination of well thought out, well executed food, cheery service and of course that corkage free BYOB policy.

The place looks lovely: white tiles that have lined the walls for a hundred or so years (not recently applied by some floppy haired interior designer); booths with high-backed, church-like pews with incredibly narrow seats and a marble table top that is too narrow and just too far away. Maybe eel, pie and mash eaters have a different shape to the rest of us: no bums, but large stomachs. That would explain the rather uncomfortable eating position.

In other words, the place is a throwback to a different time. A Pathé newsreel, black and white London, with cheeky chappies in flat caps, tugging their forelocks, eating jellied eel and having a knees-up round the old Joanna. For all I know, that is absolutely what it is like at lunchtime. In the evening, it is full of a different crowd. Not full exactly, but nicely occupied. By a younger, hipper, cooler crowd. And us.

The menu is short and changes regularly, but focuses on game and fish. The group of six of us managed to try every dish. Of the starters, the smoked salmon was found to be a bit too strong on the beetroot cure, the Cornish crab (the claw meat only) was a lovely bite, with some lime and cherry tomato mayonnaise, but the standout was the venison. From the Highlands, pan fried with a parma ham risotto and a few wild mushrooms.

Mains too were good: a whole crab with garlic butter and a pair of nutcrackers to crush the claws. A finger-licking dish of the highest order. More fish came in the form of a crisp-skinned fillet of sea bass atop olive oil mash. The final main, and another gamey dish, was a thoroughly pink breast of wild duck on another mash; this one spring onioned. All very well done indeed.

Should you want to see the team that has created this ensemble, it is a simple matter of heading to the loo: through some health and safety defying trick, the loos are out past the open space that passes as the kitchen.

I have no idea whether the squatting restaurant idea will take off (TOWIE did for goodness sake, and that is just wrong), but the focus on fresh ingredients, excellent cooking and BYO deserves to do well whatever the format.

I like this restaurant. I don’t like, like it. I don’t even like it like. I just like it.

The reason that I say this is because in small places like Champagne + Fromage, you get to sit so close to your neighbours that you can follow the conversation. Mind you, even had we been several tables away, we could have followed the conversation from the corner table. I don’t know if the young lady liked the restaurant or not, but I know that she had just like come back like from her holiday, like. It had like rained literally the whole time, like.

What is it with the youth of today and the word “like”? Why use it (or “literally”, or “you know what I mean”)? OK, it has a use (as does literally), but not as a filler (“you know what I mean” has no use whatsoever and users of such phrase should be beaten around the head with a copy of The Longman Grammar of Spoken and Written English).

But I digress. C+F is basically a deli with a few tables. To ensure that we secured one of the few tables, we booked. All the tables were full, so we were offered a high chair in the middle of the shop. Not ideal, or even what we had booked for, but a couple soon left and we swooped on their table.

As noted by a previous reviewer, C+F basically does what the name implies: it serves champagne and you can eat cheese with it. (If you want to read a wonderfully snobbish rant about how C+F would be a good restaurant if it served proper food and some wine, then go to Trip Adviser. I know that I shouldn’t plug a rival on the SM page, but I love TA; I always go to the places least recommended, as they generally turn out to be the best. That, in this case, the owner saw fit to take time out to respond, politely pointing out that champagne is a wine, only makes it more fun to read).

But I digress once more. Having sat and ordered, I noticed something deeply annoying: I am a lover of small, grower champagnes. Forget the big brands, these are the (often) family owned places, turning out interesting champagnes, rather than the homogenous stuff punted out by the big houses. And they do have some lovely ones here, ones I had never heard of (Collin, Furdnya, Waris-Lamandier anyone? You have to be a real wine wonk to know these ones). I checked before we went, looked at the prices, thought that they were reasonable, and then got to the restaurant.

The prices quoted are for purchasing in the deli. If you want to sit and eat, the prices rise. Not by a few quid. Not by the added VAT. No, they double. That is wrong: it’s not as if they have to be specially stored, they are plucked from the chiller, where anyone can pluck . At least the food has been chopped or cooked: the whole roasted Mont D’Or with sliced meats for two was rich, oozing and artery clogging. It was gorgeous. I downgraded from the champagne I’d pre-picked, to a lesser (although still lovely) Furnya.

Service too is a let down: our waiter was French, and acted it to a T.

So overall, nice food, nice champagne, but I like it even more as a deli.

When this year’s Zagat review came out, it (or rather, for this is the point really of its crowd-sourcing style, it’s readers) rated Le Gavroche the third best food in the capital. It is not hard to see why, yet this left some of the twittering classes agog. How could a restaurant in the heart of Mayfair, a restaurant that has been churning out the same style of food for nearly half a century, be amongst the best food in London? London is about Shoreditch; it is about pop-ups and concepts. It isn’t longevity that counts, it is newness, freshness, pushing back the boundaries of what you can do with a single ingredient.

Well maybe because:

(a) you can book;

(b) they can cook; and

(c) the concept of service is not a concept like “up-market hot dog”, but a way of ensuring that the diner is made to feel at ease; made to feel relaxed, not made to feel lucky that they have been able to dine at this week’s greatest restaurant of the decade, having stood in the rain for the last two hours at a location tweeted to them that morning.

I first came to Le Gavroche some twenty year’s ago, and some things haven’t changed at all. The unassuming front door still leads to a small bar area (although one can no longer linger over a digestif and a cigar); the menus for the guest have no hint at the prices; and those prices are still higher than a Baumgartner skydive.

Whilst sipping a cocktail at the bar, the vast menus are proffered, an even vaster, leather bound wine list arrives and orders are taken, before you then descend to the main room. It isn’t what you would call bright. Not gloomy, not unwelcoming, just not showy: unpretentious. You are left in no doubt that here, the food is the star.

And what food – flawlessly executed, deeply flavoured and beautifully presented. The boudin noir came with a perfect piece of crackling, which may well once have been attached to the suckling pig that was the shared main course. Soft and melting in the way that suckling pig should be, this came with raisins soaked in marc de gewürztraminer. Sweet and strong, the perfect accompaniment.

I am sure that the desserts are as expertly prepared as the rest of the food, but when faced with a cheese chariot as huge and smelly as this, why bother with dessert?

Service is excellent in an old fashioned way; unobtrusive, unsycophantic, although we were somewhat thrown by the vibrantly red haired waitress who seemed to be everywhere, until we realised that there were two of them: twin sisters, who seem to have evolved to be identical in their taste for eye wear, earrings and hair colouring products.

But at the end of the day, is all just a little too passé for London? Yes, it was cutting edge in 1967, and has lead people like Pierre White, Ramsay and Marcus Wareing to blaze a trail through the Milky Way of Michelin stars, but isn't it all a bit past it now; a little tired?

No, not at all: in an age of instant gratification, when we are all told that we have to seek out the three night only pop-up above some bar that is so cool you will never know about it until it is no longer cool, in some far flung reaches of the East End, serving a single cut of meat from the hind quarters of a free range, rare breed ocelot, served on glutton free, organic, artisanal sour dough toast, there is something deeply soothing about the familiarity of Le Gavroche, as it sails a course through culinary fashion.

I know, I am one of those (almost) 50 something City bigwigs (without, alas, an expense account the size of Mars) so sniffed at by the Guardian, but so what – London is a polyglot city, a melting cesspit of ideas, cultures and experiences: the great charm of the city is that we can have the aforementioned pop-ups pushing the boundaries, whilst letting the likes of Le Gavroche serenely go about its business. There is ample room for both and, whilst I do like the occasional ocelot steak, I am equally as happy relaxing into the plush banquettes and premier crus of Le Gavroche.

We arrived as walk-ins to the restaurant one sunny Sunday lunch. The maitre d' sized us up immediately; one of us in shorts the other in a hoodie. Perhaps we would prefer the grill?

Sure: it is one room, separated by those silly screens that Victorian ladies would modestly derobe behind. So far as I could tell, the only difference between the grill and the real restaurant is that the latter has white table cloths. Otherwise, same room, same staff and strikingly similar menus.

The room itself is a stunner; high, high ceilings, double height windows and cracking views of Hungerford Bridge. I guess it is better at night, with twinkling lights that don't quite illuminate the detritus of the South Bank.

The menu is standard grill nosh, with terrines and salads to start and steaks, confited duck and the like for mains.

Having just been to the aquarium next door, we had to have the fish. In fact, I wonder if the aquarium isn't really a holding pen for the restaurant: as soon as you walk in you are met by lobster, langoustine, spider crab, cod and all sorts of tasty looking piscine delights. The cod (yes I KNOW, but come on, it probably came from a sustainable source. Next door in fact) was as gorgeous a piece as I've had for a while. Crunchy skin, firm white flesh atop chorizo and chick pea. As lovely a fish dish as you'll find in London bistro land. The other dish, a linguine with wild mushrooms, was pleasant too; properly al dente, but a cold poached egg on top didn't really add anything.

Foregoing the dessert, we instead had a dessert cocktail; a Jaffa martini, which was a Jaffa cake in a martini glass, with orange and chocolate liqueurs. In fact, the bar looks pretty fine too, and turns out a good array of cocktails, with a good number of wines by the glass or half bottle too.

An odd place to find such a good restaurant but, if lost on the South Bank feeling peckish, it is worth negotiating the nightmare maze that is the Festival Hall to find what is, by a country mile, the best place to eat on this stretch of the Ping Pong and Yo Sushi infested river front.

If you are going to do breakfast there is only one dish that you have to get perfect. Forget museli. Forget Granola. Forget poached pear and honey with Greek yoghurt. Please, please, please forget the oxymoronic abomination that is an eggwhite omlette. No, if you want to do breakfast well, you have to get the bacon roll right.

Not a bacon sandwich, which is perfectly ok if nothing else is available, but isn't the real thing. No. You need a roll. Toasted. Crunchy on the outside, yielding within; a counterpoint to the softness of the bacon. You need good quality bacon. I prefer streaky, here it was back. Cooked perfectly; a little charing on the fat, not too crispy. Again, by preference I'd go for smoked, here not, but none the worse for it.

So the service sucks: it really cannot take three goes to get a latte, and I am still waiting for the bread basket ordered, but the bacon roll is the reason to go here. It is a joy to behold. Not perfect (see above), but one of the finest that you will find in London, hence the world.

Our tactical error here was to arrive late, but not late enough: at 8.00, the queue was down the stairs and out the door of the pub over which the restaurant sits. By the time we sat down nearly two hours later, there were spare seats at the tables. To compound our error, we spent the time in the queue drinking (it is above a pub, and there is sod all else to do), so were pretty smashed, and in need of food, by the time we reached the top of the stairs.

The place is not going to be around long enough for us to make this error again as, this being Shoreditch, it is a pop-up.

This is trendy. There are beards. There are tattoos. There are trousers with gussets warn down by the ankles. I should have taken my 17 year old niece; I went with my 40+ year old mate who, still clinging to the last vestiges of youth, has bought a pretty amazing triplex (he’s American) in the area, with vast sweeping terraces, that reminds him of New York. I’m not sure that the right comparison isn’t Soho rather than SoHo, but the area does have an up and coming feel about it. Which means it is over: the hipsters, the artists, the vegans; they’ll all move on now to somewhere that really is edgy, and the forty-somethings with money, Apple Macs and an edgy side will move in.

Having finally mounted the stairs, we entered the waiting area. A bar. More drinks – cocktails now. Nice cocktails, and, at £6 a pop, way beyond reasonable. So we could hardly stand by the time we were seated. Yes, yes; I know that this is our fault, but don’t make such bloody good cocktails and make us stand around for ages, with nothing to nibble on but some popcorn. Nice popcorn I should add.

Having finally got seated, we ordered straight away. Not difficult, as there is only one thing on the menu: steak. The unfancied skirt to be precise (the rumour that wagyu was going to be on the menu for the last few nights proved to be just that: a rumour). This comes with a salad, for a mere ten notes. As if that’s not good enough, dripping fried chips are thin and crunchy, and the roast aubergine as good a dish as you can find for the purple fruit outside of the Middle East. OK, so they forgot to give us knives, but what the heck: the juicy meat, cooked perfectly to your specification, comes on a wooden board pre-chopped, so not at all a concern.

There are wines listed on the menu, but by this stage it was cocktails or nothing. So cocktails it was: make your own Bloody Marys. These come as the raw ingredients, to be assembled by you to your liking. And what ingredients: fresh tomato juice, smoked vodka, beef stock, freshly grated horseradish (one member of staff seemed solely to be grating the stuff, on a big grater sat proudly in the middle of the (by now, almost empty) dining room), rosemary salt, lemon, as well as the more usual Worcestershire and Tabasco sauces.

Service is really friendly, and, once seated, swift and efficient (knives aside).

There is no doubt that the skirt steak is unfancied for a reason: let’s be honest, it isn’t the best of cuts. But it is still a nice enough one, one cooked nicely enough here; were this to be a more permanent pop-up, I’d go back. But at 6.00 or 10.00, not at 8.00.

I love Italian food. The spread of the paper thin slices of exquisite air dried salted pork products; peppery extra virgin oil to dip fresh baked, herby bread into or to preserve sweet vegetables; al dente pasta; sloppy risotto; crispy pizza, the base popping with bubbled dough, blackened in the wood fired oven; veal Milanese etc. etc. The list is all but endless. So why oh why is it generally done so badly in London?

Cotidie has promise; Briciole could be ok if it get’s the waiting staff sorted; Bocc de Lupo has jumped a whole school of sharks and Banca (it used to be a bank: geddit?), well it is just plain wrong in every conceivable way.

I know that this is Mayfair, and I know that Mayfair actually occupy’s a different place in the space and time continuum the the rest of London, one where the Glass-Steagall Act was never repealed, but still. Service matters. The food matters. The atmosphere matters. Murano is in Mayfair and it is the polar opposite of Banca in every aspect.

I got there before my companion and was offered a choice of three tables. This should have warned me. The first Bad Sign: one of the tables was next to the Big Group on a Big Night and the other two by the naughty step of the service counter. This has to be the worst designed dinning room in London: squeezing through to the table was fine when the room was nearly empty, but near-on impossible when full. When sat, one is at buttock height for the waiters wishing to pass. If the food had been any good, I might have been put off it.

Having been seated, there came the next Bad Sign: “would sir care for still or sparkling water”. Well actually I’d like tap water, and I don’t want to feel cheap for asking thank you very much.

This was swiftly followed by the next Bad Sign: “would sir like an aperitif?”. No, just that tap water would be fine. “Is sir SURE that he wouldn’t like an aperitif?” Yes pal; water. From a tap. Now. Please.

Of course, when my companion arrived, the same inquisition took place of him. Then of me. Again. Please, please stop: I know that you’re Italian, but no really does mean no.

My companion caved, and a bottle of still was ordered and a glass of prosecco. Our waiter seemed mightily relieved, replacing my glass of tap (a single glass, devoid of a jug) with a flourish.

The menu is long. Very long. And expensive. Very expensive. It has anti-pasta, starters, pasta, mains, grills etc. We asked for help. What was good; what would the maitre d suggest? Well pretty much everything it seems. Which isn’t that helpful when you think about it. Although more helpful than the sommelier who, even knowing what we had ordered, seemed incapable of recommending anything, eventually settling on one of the more expensive offerings, before being gently guided up the list, and down the price range.

We decided on a shared starter, a couple of pastas and a couple of mains. We should have known that this would not have been approved of. Were we SURE that we didn’t each want a starter? Yes. We sodding well were sure thanks.

We should have been warned off the tempting sounding deep fried courgette flowers stuffed with prawns by the fact that our neighbour left them almost untouched. I can see why: the “prawns” were conspicuous by there absence. The batter was light enough, although the “flowers” were but two, the rest of the dish padded out with deep fried courgettes. The real problem was that the dish was utterly dominated by the oil, which was as extra virgin as Madonna.

The highlight of the meal was a delicious tortelli, cooked al dente, stuffed with a legume mousse. The low point came with it: a lasagne so utterly bad that my companion left it almost untouched, which went unnoticed by the waiter, who’s enquiry of “was everything ok?” was met by us in that oh so British of ways with an embarrassed nod in the affirmative, averted eyes and a polite grunt. We should have said no, at twenty notes I don’t want Findus, I want perfection. But we are both British, so that was never going to happen.

The mains, which had been enthused about by the maitre d, were perfectly adequate veal Milanese, cut thick, we were told, to ensure that they were juicy (they were not). One is tempted to think that this was actually how they could get away with charging over 30 notes for them.

The wine eventually decided upon was lovely, although the glass off the shortish ‘wines by the glass’ section, not so much, and when the still water was finished, we switched to a jug of water. Tap water. The look of contempt from our waiter was worth not paying for water for.

Risking the wrath of the maitre d we skipped deserts and finished with a single, beautiful espresso. Not so good as to make me want ever to come back, but good enough to show that, deep down, there is an Italian soul in there somewhere.

So thanks, but no thanks. Thank heaven for the likes of Murano, Locatelli and, above all, Semplice. Places where food, service, wine, and not just the espresso, all matter.

Standing at the bar, trying to get the attention of the barman (half of those behind the bar are merely there to wash the glasses, so look blankly at you when you try and get a cocktail from them) you feel as though you are in some far more exotic locale than then 38th floor of a modern, soulless block on the eastern fringes of the City.

The fake tree in the centre of the giant U shaped bar is orange and festooned with fairy lights; the skirts are short, the heels tall; fake tan as orange as the tree is splashed everywhere; half the crew is Essex girl chic, the other pissed City boys. It just needs a cabana and a naked prince fully to give the illusion that this is Vegas.

Once the superfast lift has whisked you to the 39th floor, you emerge into the upstairs dining room. Downstairs, via a vertigo inducing red, see-through spiral staircase, the Vegas-like bar offers superb views here over the Olympic Park and Canary Wharf, rather than Venice and Paris. There is an inside sushi counter and a cavernous main room, with further great views, across the (empty) terrace (it was summer, so raining), the Thames and south London. In fact, pretty much any way that you looked out, the views are superb.

Staff less so: it isn’t as if there aren’t a lot of them but, like those washing glasses in the bar, it is hard to tell who actually does what. When you first arrive, by way of a small side entrance to the Heron Tower, through being spewed out onto the 39th floor, there are lots of orange clad ladies to help you get through, but they lead you to bar or table and then disappear, leaving you to work out who to turn to for a glass of something or perchance something to eat. There is a lot of standing around chatting. And a lot of dropping things: along with the Estuary English, the most common sound is that of breaking glass.

Once we had found our waiter, he was very pleasant; chatting about the style of the food, which is Japan by way of Brazil, and the number of plates to start with. Japan-Brazil fusion may sound odd, but it is not as bonkers as you might think; Brazil is home to a sizeable Japanese population, and both cuisines have an affinity for raw fish. Thus, along with the sushi and tempura come the seviche, the taquitos and the tamales.

We had a good mixture of both, with yellowtail taquitos and octopus seviche along with rock shrimp tempura, wagyu gyoza and a lovely uni nigiri. All were nicely done, it is just that many are done better elsewhere: the tar-tar chips at Dinings knock spots off the taquitos, and Nobu Berkeley’s version of rock shrimp tempura is the benchmark for all in London to aspire. OK, so you don’t get the panoramic views in these places, but for the price, atmosphere and quality, they are both far, far better.

There is a long list of sake but, not being an aficionado, and with no offers of assistance from the myriad staff, I can’t tell you anything about it. The cocktail list is short, but the ones delivered were perfectly ok; at these prices, however, they need to be far better than ok.

I don’t think I’ll be back, although the restaurant will do just fine without me. It is perfectly suited to the City, a metaphor for the Square Mile: it is brash, it is soulless and it floats above the rest of London, not really caring what anybody else thinks, going about its business of making money by fleecing the great unwashed. Good luck to the place.

Being in Soho, it should come as no surprise to find this lovely little tapas bar next to a place where they “specialize (sic) in intimate waxing for men and women”, but don’t let that put you off (or if you go for the waxing, pop in here afterwards, to sooth the soreness).

Copita is a small bar, with bar stools around high bench like tables that has the look and feel of a San Sebastian bar. OK, I am sure that there is some health and safety reason why hams aren’t hanging from every available part of the ceiling, but there is a small list of small plates, beer on tap, cider in bottles and a short, all Spanish list of wines and sherries, available by glass, carafe and bottle.

The shortish menu has such delights as smoked anchovy fillet on pork crackling, which really did taste as good as it sounds. There are slices of ham, cheese plates and croquette: today’s being a (so, so) mussel one. Roast shallots came with sobrasada (chorizo like sausage) and parmesan, the pork belly roll with courgette and chilli jam (a sort of slider really) and the standout dish of smoked haddock with a perfectly cooked egg yolk and spinach.

None of the plates are large, none of them more than a fiver or so, but lots of fivers can add up.

Service is fine; a bit slow considering how few people were in, and the atmosphere a little flat (same reason); I can imagine that this livens up a lot.

As well as the inside bar, there are a couple of outside tables, which are a lovely way to watch the world go by. Alas on our visit, a lovely summer’s afternoon, a guy took one of the tables outside, had a glass of water and his own food. That is not cool. Especially when there is smoked anchovy fillet on pork crackling on offer.

Rumour, as Adele might say, has it that in 1888 Jack the Ripper identified his victims at the Ten Bells. Indeed, on the wall of pub is a list of JtR’s alleged victims (although argument still rages as to whether it is six, as listed, or only five that he disembowelled). What Jack would have made of the current trend setters in this part of Shoreditch is anyone’s guess: mine is that the list would be a lot longer than five/six victims.

Go up the stairs behind the door marked “no entry” and you find yourself in the restaurant. A small bar one side, some ornate chandeliers, a few tables with mismatched chairs scattered around and some a la mode art on the walls: a neon entreaty to “keep me safe” on one wall, a (frankly creepy) rendition of “Gabrielle d’Estrees and one of her sisters” with the sisters replaced by two nakedly smiling gentlemen, on another.

So the place is cool. So cool that my 17 year old niece, who we took along for a late evening out of the rain, thought it was cool. And, vintage leather jackets aside, she is hard to impress in the coolness stakes.

I’m not so sure about the profusion of facial hair on the staff, but maybe this is their schtick, much like the profusion of tattoos at Spuntino (again voted cool by the 17 year old who knows): to work here, you must sprout a beard. I was pleased to see that the waitress had not got that memo.

White peach fizzes got the evening off well. The arrival of the food meant that it continued in the same vein: I would generally always chose a dish that has bone marrow in it, but call me old fashioned, I just don’t get meat with fruit: why put blackberries with bone marrow? It did look good mind when the next door table had it. Instead, a playful assembly of diced razor clams (another “must have” if seen on a menu) and Indian spices came to the table, to have a courgette soup poured over and around. A truly sensational combination. The poached egg, cheese and gherkin ensemble also worked excellently well.

Lamb came with anchovy (always a good combination with Baa Baa), spinach and a potato rosti. The skin of the beast had been cooked to a crunch, yet the inside was beautifully pink. The best lamb the 17 year old has so far enjoyed. Smoked belly of pork was as excellent as it sounds: soft smoky meat, crackled skin, accompanied by oat groats and some sliced radish. Simple, superbly prepared and masterfully presented.

The wine list is short and fairly priced and the service exemplary: friendly, efficient and unobtrusive.

I am sure that the 17 year old would rather have gone on to Callooh Callay, Casita, Nightjar or one of the other uber-cool Shoreditch joints, but sensing that our old bones couldn’t handle this, she was gracious in letting us depart. We will be back, as uncool as ever, perhaps with a patina of coolness bestowed by association with hanging out with the coolest kid on the block.

It may be a cliché, but it is true: you never get a second chance to make a first impression. Given the gushing praise from others of the service, and specifically the front of house, I too had expected to be wafted through reception by an obsequious, yet sincere, immaculately groomed person, treating us like royalty.

Alas, it could not have been further from reality. Having been propelled into the room via the wildly spinning door, there was nobody there to greet us. No worries, it was but a trice before Sam or Eddie (sorry, I can’t tell them apart) appeared, at which point we should have been greeted and wafted through reception like the royalty we so clearly are not. But no: somebody who had come in after us bounded in front, barging us aside and greeting Eddie or Sam like a long lost relative. Instead of acknowledging this with a quick “hi” then getting on with sorting us out, Sam or Eddie returned the salutation and disappeared into the restaurant with the beanie wearing bounder before we could say: “hi I have a reservation in the name of….”.

It seems that this sycophancy to the regulars isn’t restricted to Eddie or Sam, as the chef too (serving a cheese plate when we arrived) spent more time glad-handing with a table of hysterical ladies-of-a-certain-age than behind the stove. Now I know that you have to keep your regulars happy, they are after all the mainstay of your establishment, but I eat out a lot, have spent more than my fair share of both mine and the marketing department’s budget at Fino and Barrafina, so how do Sam or Eddie expect me to become a regular if there is so clearly a two tier dining structure: those who we know and the rest?

And I could well have become a regular: I have eaten here a couple of times before, both in its MPW days and the Early Hart Period, but, with the arrival of the most excellent Jeremy Lee at the stove (well, sort of), the cooking is the best that it has ever been here.

Having eventually made it into the bar, it is clear that the room too has grown up; it has lost the Damien Hirsts that cluttered up the place, is lighter, airier, the tables are spread out sufficiently to allow space to talk without interference.

The menu is pared down, St John style, with the names of the ingredients and no fuss: “ox liver, sage, onion”, “artichoke vinaigrette”, “onglet”, “middlewhite” etc. There is even a helpful weather forecast: it being summer, ours was “fine and deluge 16°C”.

The squid and samphire salad, Linconshire Poacher with asparagus and the crab soup starters were all excellently prepared, extremely moreish and showed a superb understanding of ingredients. The saltiness of the samphire complimenting the mild flavours of the perfectly cooked squid; the richness of the crab bursting through; the strong cheese a perfect accompaniment to the asparagus: a British answer to the more usual parmesan.

Mains too continued the theme: Ox liver a stronger version of calf, flavoured with long cooked down onions and some sage; lamb’s sweetbreads not overpowered by the accompanying almonds, offset perfectly by peas and mint.

Whilst we couldn’t go the whole hog on the desserts, we had to try that ‘80s throwback: St Emilion au Chocolat: a pure chocolate slice, anointed with crunched up macaroons. No, of course we didn’t need it after all those chips, but it was bloody superb nonetheless.

The wine list isn’t long, but is very well priced. In fact, even though you have to order sides separately, as none of the dishes comes with much more than the main ingredient identified, the total bill, whilst hardly a bargain, did not elicit the usual sharp intake of breath when it arrived.

Along with the food, the standout advantage that QV has over all of the other (often more trendy) places popping up around this part of Soho is that it takes bookings. There is the de rigueur time restriction on how long you can sit, but at least you don’t need to bring a sleeping bag, thermos and umbrella to ensure that you don’t die of hyperthermia, starve or get soaked to the skin whilst waiting to be granted an audience with your food.

If only I could be a regular, then it would be perfect.

Low key restaurants, with stools around a small kitchen, maybe a few tables, a relaxed booking policy and a menu studded with lots of sharing plates are all the rage in Soho at the moment. Which is why it is odd to find Donostia, a Spanish tapas restaurant that wouldn’t look out of place on Greek Street, on the Middle Eastern restaurant enclave of the Edgware Road.

OK, technically it is the Marylebone side, but it seems miles away from home.

The restaurant is what might be called “contemporary”. There is much use of wood (floor and walls), white wash and beige. The kitchen is open and has lots of shining stainless steel and a hot plate. The obligatory bar is there; marble topped with high stools. Even the till has been done away with and replaced by an iPad.

The high stools are immovable, which makes sense, provided that everyone plays by the rules of keeping your elbows in to allow your neighbour to tuck in. Not really the restaurants fault, but having asked my neighbour once to be given enough room to actually eat my food, I shouldn’t have had to ask a third time. Oh well, perhaps we should have moved to a table, but where’s the fun in that? Perhaps the bar should have been a couple of feet longer. Or perhaps (like the people who pick dishes off the conveyor belt at kaiten sushi places, inspect it and then put it back) some people just have no manners; no thought for their fellow diner.

The atmosphere is loud: it is a small place and mix in some Spaniards, some Americans and pack of ladies on a night out and the decibel count soon skyrockets. Service is friendly, efficient and fast, with the dishes being whipped up in front of you.

The style is tapas, so the jamon is carved in front of you, the croquettas are dropped in the deep fat not a yard away from where you sit and, off to one side, the tortilla can be seen being flipped. Now the mark of anywhere that wants to be thought of as serving the best tapas in town isn’t the foie gras on toast (although one lady at the bar declared this to be the best thing she’d put in her mouth; ever), but the classic tortilla. A mixture of potato and onions in an egg binding. Browned on the outside, runny on the in. Donostia does a pretty fine example, with the liquid centre oozing out at the first cut, but the rest firmly cooked together.

Cod cheek and beef tongue are two dishes that you’ll find in the Basque region, but rarely over here, and it was the former of these that was the standout for me. Nice firm meat, enveloped in a glutinous unctuousness. If they don’t give you one, ask for a spoon to finish off the juices.

The wine list is short, with some well priced bottles and a few big hitters; the Tremendus Blanco that we had was a zesty, citrusy affair that cost but a score.

With Vinoteca opening a branch on the same street, Roti Chi, Briciole and the new 28-50 all opening close by in the last few months, maybe this part of Marylebone will become the new Soho. I would pay to see the look on the faces of the locals if Madame JoJo’s was the next to open up.