The latest member of Russell Norman’s group of Soho Italian small-plate specialists; although already the recipient of at least one ‘rave’ review, it struck us as fairly unremarkable.
Russell Norman, as we all now know, is the very incarnation of the spirit of the age. He is what Sir Terence Conran was to the ’90s, and Gordon Ramsay was to the Noughties. He is the man who single-handedly brought downtown Manhattan to London. He made Soho a hip place to eat again. Hey, he now even has his own TV programme’
So, is his latest venture – a (re-)launch of a notionally Venetian-style ‘bacaro’ – anything special, or just a re-tread of a concept that’s he’s now been around several times? A rare five-star review in the Evening Standard suggested the latter. Such a ‘rave’ surprised us, as our annual survey has tended to suggest in recent times that Norman’s restaurants (together with his business partner Richard Beatty) have now generally settled into a decent ‘cruising’ mode, rather than offering anything particularly spectacular on the food front.
So, when we found ourselves strolling down Berwick Street one surprisingly sunny day, at early-lunchtime, we seized our chance to find out whether we too could see the stardust.
Initial impressions are of a remarkably tightly-packed but nicely fitted-out space, long and low, where the helpful waiting staff – like the chef, if the pictures are to be believed – have all been unusually blessed in the looks department.
The food was pretty good too, but we couldn’t quite persuade ourselves it was in any way special. Ciabatta was of good quality, and came with some impressive olive oil. Mussels (all eight of ’em) were plump and tasty, and came with cannellini beans in an interesting broth. A maple tart was technically accomplished, and the coffee was impressive. None of these dishes really scored a ‘wow’, though, and some others just didn’t do it for us at all. Perhaps our taste lacks the necessary subtlety, but we didn’t find that accompanying Burrata with agretti (or saltwort, to give it its English name) made for a particularly interesting dish, even if it did have a dash of novelty about it. And one game faggot (served with celeriac) was really just a pink ball of nothingness (and for £12 too). We had a pleasant-enough meal, but one which was – ultimately – no more than the sum of its slightly variable parts.
Perhaps we’d have felt a little more excited if we hadn’t known this place had been so strongly tipped. On the basis of our own lunch, we could it award five stars only as the epitome of The Way London Eats Now.
