OPENING A restaurant in a woman's dress shop in Bond
Street is suffused with the brittlest of ironies. After all, it is a pre- requisite of most fashionable clothes that you can fit into them only if you hardly ever eat. Nicole Farhi is probably the one designer I can think of who can just about get away with it since, despite her own ele- gantly etiolated form, her clothes are not just for the food-deprived. They are, there- fore, ideal restaurant critic's wear; they even saw this restaurant critic through pregnancy and continue to drape the post- partum bulk. I adore her clothes; I went ready to adore her restaurant. Something went drastically wrong.
Well, in fact I know exactly what went wrong, and it's probably not what the staff think went wrong. I'm sure that anyone working there will say that the disaster occurred because the computer went down. But that's not it: it's how they dealt with it.
Before you've even sat down — I'll get to the computer crash later: I'm carping in chronological order — the first big error is committed. You come in out of the street into a wonderful space. All is wood, leather, light-soused elegance, like the Via Spiga but with elbow-room. The greeter standing at the entrance seems a bit inhibit- ing: in a shop one wants, after all, to browse, not to feel browbeaten into pur- chase. Down the stairs you go to the restau- rant, and this is where there should be someone stationed. What does it say about the English character that so few restaura- teurs understand the importance of greet- ing the customer? I joined a straggling queue of would-be lunchers left hanging about feeling spare, while the staff clutched their heads, exuding stress and panic.
We were eventually shown to our table and seated — just plonked there. It must have been a good ten minutes before any- one asked us whether we wanted a drink. I ordered a glass of prosecco, and a tomato juice without ice. Another ten minutes passed before we could hail someone. Oh, yes, the champagne and the tomato juice. The prosecco, we pointed out. Apologies were made, and — not straight away — the drinks finally followed, the tomato juice a shipwreck of ice.
During this 20 minute wait no one thought to give us a menu. We at last man- aged to ask for one, but that was difficult enough. Staff seemed to think that it was a clever waiterly trick to keep their heads bowed as they marched harassed past our table, studiously ignoring our beseeching eyes and empty glasses. I know things were pandemonium. I could also see that they were understaffed (not my problem, as they say in Manhattan where they do know how to run a restaurant), but I don't care how many computer systems have gone down, no one should be employed as a waiter if they are able to walk past a table with peo- ple sitting waiting with empty glasses — or, as happened later, dirty plates.
What makes this sort of unprofessional service so irritating is that it completely eats into the time one is having. It could be possible, even with a far too long wait for food, to have a good time and be relaxed. But only if one's not forced into muttering about it to one's companion over the emp- ties: Why can't they just give everyone a drink on the house, or make an announcement, or both? Why are they ignoring us? Do they think we don't notice? I kept hissing. Con- versation was thus impossible. And I noticed exactly the same thing going on at the tables either side of me. I must only presume all the other tables I couldn't overhear were dominated by just such furi- ous remonstrances. All except one table: Nicole Farhi and Steven Marks, her part- `Darling, he's just said his first word . ner, were in with their spouses, and evi- dently having a very jolly time. They sat down about half an hour after we did. I noticed they got their food at the same time. This doesn't look good.
I always thought designers were neuroti- cally perfectionist about everything. I wouldn't have thought it possible to sit down in your own restaurant and ignore the clumpfuls of unhappy customers about the place. One could simply not imagine Jeremy King of the Ivy, for salient example, doing this. He'd be round every table to explain, apologise and pour soothing drinks before it had got to such a pitch.
If I cannot spend as long as I might like, and ordinarily do like, elaborating on the food, it reflects my mood on eventually being served it on Saturday. When one is so angered, one cannot easily slip into sensual, lyrical or even baldly appreciative mode. But I will say that it is right in concept, though execution of some dishes could be improved upon: broth was far too watery and salad bore the weight of too much oil (this latter may be simply because it was waiting and wilting a long time in the kitchen; the serrano ham with it had also dried to leatheriness). Liver with polenta was excellent; pumpkin risotto was perhaps over-zealously cheesed, but otherwise impressive and gloriously all'onda. A honey and walnut tart was rewarding, chocolate- soufflé crêpes came filled with a chocolaty mixture, but I couldn't describe it as bear- ing even a passing resemblance to soufflé. This didn't matter too much.
What did matter a great deal is what fol- lowed. We asked for the bill. Fifteen min- utes later, a waitress said she was sorry, the computer had gone down and everything had been so hectic, the lunch was on them. I might add that by this time they had realised I was a restaurant critic. Naturally, I declined their offer. Ten minutes later they were back again: the computer had gone down — what was it we had again? They said they'd pay for the drinks then — or three of them, at least — which thought was right and proper. Eventually the bill came, with the 12'/2 per cent `optional' service included. I am a fearful coward about this sort of thing and would have cravenly and resentfully paid it, but my husband said rather strictly, 'I think this should go, too, don't you think?' Apologet- ic agreement and much crossing out fol- lowed. Then the credit card slip came back, the space by 'total' left outrageously blank.
I fairly reeled out of the restaurant. I was going to have gone shopping upstairs after lunch. In the event I didn't have the time nor, frankly, the desire. I shall return and report back within the quarter.
Nicole's, 158 New Bond Street, London W. 1; tel: 071-499 8408. Three-course lunch for two with wine would cost £50-60.
Nigella Lawson
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