The Diplomat; Martin's
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HAVING been bombarded with literature from a public relations firm, followed by telephone calls extolling the restaurant, then more letters and menus for 'A Taste of California' where the 'dishes are specifi- cally designed to complement the wines instead of vice versa', finally vouchers to eat in the place, I eventually went to lunch at the Diplomat, which is situated in the London Marriott Hotel on a corner of Grosvenor Square, London W1 (Tele- phone 493 1232).
The door was bolted and barred so I had to go round to the main entrance to get in. I had arranged to meet my stable compan- ion, Clare Asquith, there. We found one another in a deserted, unattended cloak- room, where we hid our belongings and then when leaving were soundly ticked off for having done so by some impertinent crosspatch. However, we finally made it to the restaurant, scooping A.N. Wilson up in the hall. I was amazed to find that the menu had nothing in common with the one I had been sent with all the co-ordinated wines; in fact a rather pushy wine waiter tried his best to bully us into having a £25 bottle of red which I refused and plumped for the house wine, which was a C6te du Rhone at £10 (very noble as I was on this kindly gift voucher).
Clare began with a warm salad of Napa Valley goat cheese and sun-dried toma- toes, I had marinated fresh tuna with avocado and topped with what they choose to call golden caviar (lump-fish roe to you, dear), both presented well and good to-eat. Poor A.N., who had chosen ravioli, was faced with three pinkish leather purses which had apparently been sun-dried too.
Clare- won on the next round with a Western corn-fed beef fillet steak, Cajun style, which was excellent. A.N. had per- fectly good swordfish swimming in a much too sweet sauce of mango cream with linguini, and I chose steamed angler (monk) fish on green onions with an orange and ginger sauce which turned out to be a replica of Kia-Ora fruit squash, a really disgusting experience, ruining tilt fish. These dishes were accompanied by bowls of nice little vegetables: baby sweet- corn, tiny turnips and carrots and the ubiquitous raw potato. Why can't these chefs learn to cook a potato?
A depressing sweet trolley was then trundled in, which we declined to partake of, settling for coffee the colour of tea. Sad, sad, sad. A.N. had half a bottle of the house white and we each had an aperitif before lunch. Had I been paying, the bill would have been £90.05, without service charge.
Martin's Restaurant, 239 Baker Street, London NW1 (Telephone 935 3130/0997), open for lunch and dinner all week except Saturday lunch, is nearly opposite the lost property office. The moment you walk in you feel this is a proper eating place pink and cheery with a lovely glass con- servatory roof, good, comfortable furni- ture and well spaced tables.
I took an old friend, Tom Hartman, who edits Leo Cooper's histories and Jilly Cooper's mysteries. He is no great tren- cherman but kicked off with quails' eggs Maintenon, which arrived most appetising- ly in little pastry cups, bathed in an excellent hollandaise sauce and mollet within. I had crab-stuffed ravioli in a strong crab and wine sauce, which was novel and perfectly delicious, succulent and satiny. The Diplomat could take lessons.
Tom wanted Barbary duck but it was finished so he had medallions of venison with spaetzle, tender as a baby's bottom, juicy, in a good reduced wine and juniper berry sauce and served with a little mound of whole sweet cloves of garlic, which was a brilliant idea. I went for the tian of lamb provericale, good slices of pink, perfect lamb set over ratatouille, ravishingly pre- sented and quite excellent, accompanied by sizzling sautéed potatoes; relief at last. Tom had a crisp, browned wedge of rosti potato and green beans, both good.
There is a tempting list of desserts but I can't imagine why a gratin of fresh fruit should cost £1 extra. I fell "for a praline ice-cream with hot caramel sauce, heart attack stuff and scrumptious. Tom had those pretty mixed sorbets in a biscuit tulip, which seem to appear everywhere nowadays, none the less good for that.
With coffee and the red house wine, a Roodeberg 1983 KWV at £6.50, and drinks beforehand the bill came to £66 including a 15 per cent 'voluntary gratuity'. The greatest compliment I can pay this res- taurant is that my guest ate every morsel of his food: a very uncommon happening. The service was impeccable.
Jennifer Paterson
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