DEBORAH ROSS
San Carlo is the Italian restaurant that has been on Highgate Hill for as long as anyone can remember, if not longer. Having been brought up down the road in Golders Green (Golders Green, three miles . . . but to you, two, as the old joke that doesn't get any funnier goes), it's where we used to go for celebrations, particularly Mother's Day, so out of nostalgia, I guess, when my partner and son offered to take me out somewhere for a Mother's Day treat, this is where I chose to go. We did mean to go on the Sunday, the day itself, but, alas, forces worked against us largely because, having received the DVD of Love, Actually as my Mother's Day gift, which I initially thought was a vast improvement on last year's bath plug, and having watched it that afternoon, I was in no fit state to do anything. Talk about Crap. Actually. I think, in fact, it's possibly the worst and most cloying drivel I've ever sat through in my life. I felt afterwards as if I'd been beaten to death by a Valentine card. As for that Colin Firth, who is usually so delicious, he didn't even bother to act. He just sort of drove around a lot and typed. I have to say, though, that I would shag Bill Nighy, Actually. If I had the time.
So in the end we go on the Tuesday night, which isn't the best night for eating out or getting the proper measure of a restaurant, but what can you do if a movie sends you into a hypoglycaemic coma for a couple of days? Perhaps I should have walked out of my own sitting-room halfway through, but I didn't want Sheridan Morley writing to The Spectator to point out how utterly useless I am, largely because I'd find it impossible to disagree. (So please, please leave me out of it.) Whatever, we arrive at 7 p.m. to find that — horror of absolute horrors — the restaurant, which is large, and decorated with weird Dalf-esque paintings minus the melty clocks, is entirely empty bar the formally dressed, Seventies-style, scarily sailor-suited waiters who seem to outnumber us 20-to-one. Can there be anything more Spooky, Actually? Only those shops. I think, where you open the door and realise instantly that not only is everything in here absolutely hateful, but you have to go in and touch a few things before you can retreat, because there are no other customers and the four assistants are all fixing you with their bored and beady eyes. This, I'm sure you'll agree, is as good a reason as any for avoiding boutique-type places at all costs and only ever shopping at Next, Actually.
We're seated at a table in the window by
the Italian manager, who gets to wear a dapper suit rather than a sailor suit, for which he must be entirely thankful. 'How long exactly has San Carlo been here?' I ask. 'Since the 1974. It used to be Austin showroom,' he replies. 'You should have called it the Austin, then. You know, like the Wolseley,' I say. 'Beg your pardon?' he says. 'You know, the Wolseley, named after the Wolseley showroom?' I say. 'Beg your pardon?' he repeats. I think it is safe to say that San Carlo has never bothered to keep up with the modern restaurant scene, for which, in a way, I'm rather grateful. Although it doesn't seem as glamorous as it once did, it hasn't changed an iota since I was little, and I find that rather reassuring. My son, meanwhile, begs me not to engage in any more conversations with the staff. He says it's very Embarrassing, Actually. I say, 'Listen, kid. Last year it was a bath plug. This year it was the worst film ever. Until you have satisfactorily purchased my affection with pearls, for example, do what I bloody well like without any consideration for your feelings whatsoever.'
Certainly, this place is caught in the most delicious Seventies time warp. The bread comes with iced-butter curls. When was the last time you saw iced-butter curls? I thought the iced-butter curl had run off with the melon ball years ago, never to be seen again. Yes, there is avocado with prawns on the menu. And, yes, I do know that at some point there is going to be a major bigpepper-grinder moment. I just hope, though, that there are not going to be any offers of 'a rose for the byootifool laydee', although in these instances I usually find that 'Oh, piss off shows that, whatever else you are, you are certainly no Laydee, Actually.
So, Seventies food and a Seventies atmosphere but not, alas, Seventies prices. Although there is a two-course special set menu for £12.99, which isn't too expensive, the a la carte seems rather on the high side. To start with, the avocado and prawns, for example, would cost a rather whopping £7.50. To follow with grilled Dover sole would cost £22.50 and that doesn't include vegetables (at £2.50 a throw). Still, we go for the a la carte, and I start with the zuppa di pesce. There are good fat chunks of fish in it — squid, cod, all very fresh and pearly — but I find the broth a little too thin and greasy. My son has the prosciutto e melone which is, well, Parma ham and melon, of which there is little more to say — it's hardly a dish you can get wrong — beyond the fact that he totally wolfed it down. But that's growing boys for you. Take, take, take, take, take. My partner goes straight for a main course — the tagliolini rucola e granchio (thin pasta ribbons with crab meat, rocket and chilli) — as he has to leave early to get to a concert. My partner is a major pasta lover but finds he is rather disappointed. 'It's all right hut not great. A bit bland and flavourless. I can't taste the crab meat. I can't feel the chilli.' My main course — carre cl'agnello (best end of lamb ovenbaked with rosemary and garlic) — is absolutely delicious, though. Pink, melt-in the-mouth, juicy meat that's blissfully garlicky. By now, I should add, we've had several major pepper-grinder moments, with the waiters queuing up to twist the bloody thing because, frankly, they've little else to do. Plus, every time we take a sip of wine — a Chianti which, alas, doesn't come in a baskety thing and so will not make a nice candle-holder once finished — they rush to refill our glasses. This makes me a little Uncomfortable, Actually. Pudding? The sweet trolley, of course, and a chocolate pear that might have been knocking about for a little too long.
I'm not sure what to say about San Carlo, except I do think it would be much better to go on a Saturday, when I have driven past and seen it heaving. It does what it does and what it's always done, and you have to admire a place that sticks to its guns whatever the fashion might be. After my partner has left, my son and I carry on sitting in the window, which is where I used to sit as a child. 'Isn't this nice?' I say, because despite the dearth of decent gifts, I'm really quite fond of him. 'Can we go home now to watch the football?' he says. I guess if I had him adopted, I'd have a lot more time to shag Bill. I've gone off Colin, Actually.
Ristorante San Carlo, 2 Highgate High Street, London N6. 020 8340 5823
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