Mews of Mayfair. The very name is presumably supposed to reek of sophistication, an impression intensified on entering the first floor dining room, which has the sort of very light décor which – in a house – you might be invited to enjoy only after taking your shoes off. We didn’t find it especially welcoming, and, when winter comes, it’s difficult to imagine that it won’t just look drab and tatty.
Or perhaps they just propose to redecorate monthly? When our lunch for two effortlessly breaching the £100 barrier, the prices would certainly seem to allow for such an extravagance.
So what did we enjoy for this princely sum? First up, some rather hard and waxy bread rolls: we declined the offer of a second. Then starters of deep-fried courgette flowers and cold soup. Neither impressed. Then a wait: the sort of wait during which you become conscious that you’ve nearly finished your bottle of wine, and there’s still no sign of the food. Just as we despaired, our main courses arrived: some slightly greasy tuna rolls and some grilled sea bream. We finished both out of duty rather than pleasure.
Puddings provided a modest uplift. You might hope, though, for rather more from a £9 brownie. In fact, it turns out that it’s not a brownie at all, but rather the sort of chocolate fondant that’s available for roughly half the price in any competent gastropub. Ice creams passed muster, but then it was a hot day.
So is there anything nice we can say? Well, the service was very pleasant. Otherwise this seems the sort of place which, up North, they would describe as ‘all fur coat and no knickers’. When the WAGs hit town, it’ll surely go down a storm.
