A comfortably relaxed ambiance, an attentive hostess, a table striking with it's vibrant cover plates, and a menu that makes me smirk in anticipation.... and my dates fate is sealed. We are so going to be indulging in the tasting menu.
Appetiser
Winter vegetables
Pickled, celeriac infusion, almonds
English Quail
Chargrilled, sweetcorn, bacon popcorn, red wine essence
Icelandic poached Halibut
Jerusalem artichoke texture
Grain fed Beef Rib Eye
Chargrilled, ox cheek, horseradish, olive oil Bearnaise
Pre-desert
Mango and pineapple
Soup, lemongrass, basil, olive oil
Dessert leaves me dubious, so inquire after the possibility of a savoury replacement and am indulged. A tantalising tray of crisp slivers of battered salmon skin, potato, baguette and something else utterly delicious makes an appearance along with our aperitifs, soon to be joined by thick slices of farm brown and a generous pat of butter. But I'm hooked, and the lovely lad brings another tray of munchies which I demolish with abandon, pretending to be interested in Taks' ill fated adventure with the likes of Priya Dutt and whatnot....
A dainty cupful of orange is set before us, and I share his look of dismay. Carrots? How can this be good. A tentative dip of the spoon, and it's edible.. a deeper swirl yields bitty chunks of carrot, combined with a teasing whiff of ginger and a crunch of almonds. Oh my. I make sure to scrape out the bottom leaving no bits unturned. Then, conversation comes to a complete halt as my palate is seduced by the most perfect quail that was ever slayed for my pleasure... Halfway through and I unblushingly ask if I can have that instead of dessert, but apparently, the chef has other plans for me that involved crab and lemongrass.... I think I might weep. This perfectly pink, succulent, flavourful mouthful rimmed with the crunch of sweetcorn is a masterpiece. There is a confit shaped like a slim aubergine on the side, but the innocent, moist breast of that silly bird, was without a doubt, the best bit of quail to have ever passed my lips, and my brain wars with the instinct to prolong the pleasure and the desire to greedily consume it ....the moment passes, and I'm left to exchange leaving maike looks with Taks, womanfully controlling the wobble of my lower lip.
Poached fish, and I gird my loins for well... a bit of bland Icelandic halibut. It arrives in a soup, and I console myself with the bird from heaven the preceded it. The first mouthful is interesting. It's poached to perfection, and the hint of artichoke and something indefinable makes me pick up the spoon.... it's exquisite. Delicate, subtle and delicious. The perfect poach is followed by the grilled ribeye, confit of ox cheek, horseradish, a dollop of something else and home fries :). Wasn't expecting that, but it's delicious, and unashamedly I ask if we can get more.... and we do. While the meat is done just right, it's a poor third, actually, fourth.... in terms of flavour, texture, creativity and just delight to the palate.
By the time the pre-dessert comes around, we've run though South America towards the end of 2010, freaky Beatrice's proclivities and are now debating whether it's just him and not the women he picks... I'm charmed by the wispy smoke that escapes down the sides the bowl, like a magic waterfall in Lord of the Rings. The perfect romantic oooh and aaah getter; dry ice. The last time I'd come across this it had been cunningly embedded in a kettle and the steam pouring out had utterly captivated me. This was even better as ever tilt make new patterns... I stole most of Taks' raspberry granita as mine was too health engendering and then calmed the butterflies in anticipation of the chefs surprise for me. Cornish crab with coconut ice shot through with a hint of lemon grass. Superb. Fragile and fresh, I now know to ask for the chef to replace the beef with the ocean. Taks invites me to try the dessert, and its vibrant, and someone in that kitchen has clearly mastered the use of lemongrass... the sorbet gently reminding you of it, tempering the tartness of mango and passion fruit. A dessert I'd have been happy with!
We're loath to leave, so ask for espresso and a light Darjeeling, both of which arrive with a selection of petit fours. Crisp edged madelines, cinnamon swept meringue, truffles with a hint of cardamom, a caramel brittle spoon and those mini fake burger things whose name escapes me. I should have stopped at the tea... the first cup. By the time we convey our heartfelt gratitude towards the kitchen to the maitre d', say our goodbyes and stagger outside, I feel heartily sick. That however doesn't stop me from wondering who else I can drag to this new discovery. The Dutchman, DDM/J, Sonia... oh God, I feel sick!
An absolutely fabulous evening, warm, friendly and impeccable service, sublime food, a gracious and welcoming ambiance... I can only gush. But that can be quite revolting, so I've picked something to be aggrieved about.... the taps in the loo have freezing cold water and the charming sommeliers propensity to lean towards the male of the sex as an authority on wine at the table... !! What can I say, All Hail Agnar Sverrisson!
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