111111111ffilliillill Kensington Place • -
I HAVE never been able to work out why Notting Hill is so badly served for res- taurants. Since I live there (or rather, in its more downmarket reaches) my interest is fuelled by more than professional curios- ity. But you would think it a prime location for ambitious restaurateurs. Despite the efforts of the ever-swelling ranks of loath- some estate agents, the place clings to its lively heterogeneity, but in the main it is an affluent neighbourhood boasting (if that can be the word) more than a decent number of newspaper and television peo- ple, practised wielders of the expense account and spurious aristocrats of the media age.
I cannot understand why so many res- taurateurs choose to settle in ghastly places like Fulham. Maybe it will all change: merchant bankers can't be considered such a safe bet now. And I'm hoping that Kensington Place, the recently opened brasserie-restaurant at the top of Kensing- ton Church Street, signifies an important new step. After all, one cannot live by 192 alone.
Kensington Place (01 727 3184) sits where once a particularly nasty fish res- taurant used to be, as far as I can remem- ber. Now it is all gleaming glass and space-age chic. To get into the place you enter through a steel capsule of a revolving door. You emerge in a deceptively expan- sive and cleverly designed room marked out at one end by an elegantly laden stainless steel bar (de rigueur these days) and at the other by a vaguely pastoral mural at odds with the urban smoothness and Manhattan snappiness the restaurant and its staff seem otherwise so keen to promote.
The catchment area — Holland Park, Kensington, Notting Hill and Dale — is promising, and the place is duly peopled by a not too impoverished variety of look-at- me types: bob-haired women clutching, bangle-armed, baby and briefcase; W. H. Auden look-alikes, those young men with lean faces and lean ties; greying, well- groomed men in expensive raincoats; semi- professionals who look as if they still dress at Kids in Gear; and those all too recognis- able, colourfully scruffy family groups.
You may find the clientele ridiculous, but the food is serious enough. What you get here is upmarket brasserie stuff: all the usual fashionable eclecticism, the only difference being that the foundations are there. Chef and patrons obviously know what they're about. At most restaurants I feel I want to stick to the starters, but the temptation is particularly strong here. The tagliatelle with pine kernels, tomato and basil is on the expensive side at £4, but is a sure triumph — and nothing can go so easily wrong in a restaurant as pasta. Another notable success was the corn salad with mussels. For the extravagant, there are truffles — sprinkled over scrambled eggs for £9, over a warmish potato salad for £8 — though as far as I'm concerned they would not be easily distinguishable from slivers of marinaded bark.
Regular main courses are on the simple, solid side: red mullet with citrus and olive oil (the olive oil they use here is very good indeed; for this reason the fish needs no other accompaniment, and I feel anyway that grapefruit is to be eaten au naturel or not at all); calves' liver; steak au beurre rouge; steamed coquelet with couscous (so nearly right, but the semoules and sauce should always be served separately); gril- led magnet of duck; and bollito misto. Specialities of the day offer more fanciful creations. Jonathan Meades says you get the best mashed potato in London here. I could have done with a bit less salt and more butter, but it is a pleasurable purée.
The small but responsibly selected cheeseboard is probably the best conclu- sion. Those with a sweet tooth might feel unable to resist the pear gratin or hazelnut charlotte. But be warned: portions are large. A good and sensibly priced wine list (house wines under £6 from Corney & Barrow) makes it all not too ruinous. Dinner for two will cost about £45, and you do need to book.
I have been going to a different res- taurant at least once a fortnight for the past three years. This makes me an object of envy, but subject to great misery. The problem is restaurant-fatigue; and it can jade more than the palate. So enough already, or at least for the time being: I am taking the next three months off. As the song goes, I'll be with you in apple blossom time — or soon after.
Nigella Lawson
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