Robert Hardman

CONVENTIONAL wisdom dictates that, after the food, the most important key to a successful restaurant is the location; or `location, location, location', as property developers like to say. You can knock up the perfect lobster ravioli but the punters need to be able to find it.

A clutch of new London restaurants are gamely trying to disprove the theory by locating themselves in a cobbled enclave which is not actually on the map. Lancashire Court is a pretty, renovated alleyway tucked behind Bond Street and Brook Street, just up the road from Claridge's. But few taxi- drivers will know it. Even when they pretend that they know it while secretly rummaging through the A-Z at traffic lights, they will not find it. That is because it was called Horseshoe Yard until the other day, when the developers and Westminster Council decided that wasn't posh enough and renamed it Lancashire Court (`riame, name, name', as one of them must have said).

It is a place with a past. Handel appar- ently overlooked Horseshoe Yard. The neighbours were woken up by a lot more than the 'Hallelujah Chorus' many years later when the narcotically challenged Jimi Hendrix moved in with his guitars. In recent years, it has been best known as a taxi refuelling depot.

Now the place is coming to life again through food rather than music. On one side of the little courtyard is Hush. It may have been a name calculated to win round the council's noise-obsessed licensing mag- istrates but it was lively enough when I dropped in on a Saturday night. Despite being off the map, Hush was teeming with a largely international crowd who appeared to have bought their clothes from the same place as the restaurant. `Hush uniforms by Donatella Versace', says the menu. There is no mention of who cooks the food but at least due credit is given to the creator of the staff's Star Trek livery.

Upstairs is a comfortable bar in modish grey-brown shades with a much sought- after alcove resembling the aft cabin of a tycoon's motor yacht. The James Bond feel is not coincidental. Hush is co-owned by Geoffrey Moore, son of Roger. Next to the bar is a small, 'fine dining' area with room for about 35 people and traditional Mayfair prices (roast turbot: £21.50, wild mushroom risotto: £15). I cannot vouch for this food because all the tables were taken and we were seated below stairs in the larger, low- lit 'brasserie' area — 'bohemian business dining', as the manager explained.

There the menu is simpler and cheaper: modern British with an Italian streak. Sophie opted for the champagne risotto with a cheerful degree of cynicism. As founder and boss of the London caterers, Sophie Douglas-Bate, she knows a thing or two about risotto and was intrigued by the use of the word 'champagne'. By the time risotto has been cooked properly, it is high- ly unlikely that much champagne has sur- vived, and so it proved.

`I can't taste any champagne but it's good comfort food anyway,' she said. There was little comfort to be derived from my seared sesame tuna on lettuce and ginger, a watery disappointment with minimal flavour.

Sophie enjoyed the 'hush cake' which fol- lowed, a combination of potato cake and monkfish in a chive beurre blanc sauce. But she was unimpressed by Hush's attempt at that modern staple, the rocket and Parme- san salad. 'Rather fizzy', was her verdict on the dressing, which was top-heavy on both balsamic vinegar and lemon. I have never much liked rocket anyway. One forkful of this brought back distant memories of a lotion designed to stop children from chew- ing their fingernails. My pan-fried rump of lamb was full of flavour and accompanied by a vast dollop of tomato mash, but did not require the oppressive olive tapenade which surrounded it all.

Service was sporadic — long periods of neglect interspersed with over-attentive fussing, and those licensing magistrates drive a hard bargain. Hush is presently restricted to pub hours with a few hawk- eyed local residents ensuring that not a drop of booze is served after 11 p.m. But at £120, including a £15 bottle of Pinot Grigio and an £18 Morgan Shiraz, it is not exces- sive by Mayfair standards, and people- watchers will enjoy watching the Eurotrash watching out for Roger Moore.

Given my dislike of rocket, I had my doubts about another Lancashire Court restaurant which I tried a few days later. Fortunately, Rocket is not a celebration of that loathsome lettuce. It offers plenty of salads but is really a glam pizza joint with an eccentric feel. A vast skylight and a huge photograph of a dog look down on well- spaced wooden tables, bright red armchairs, a pizza oven in one corner and, in the other, a pianist with a mainstream repertoire that contains neither Handel nor Hendrix.

Initial signs were promising. The bread was excellent and the wine came immedi- ately. Interestingly, every wine on the list none is more than £20 a bottle — is avail- able by the glass. My friend Stephanie, a fine cook when her job as a barrister per- mits, was in the mood for salads. While I started with some crisp chickpea and coriander fritters, she embarked on a large roasted beetroot and onion salad which she regarded as 'workmanlike'.

The second course was upon us in sec- onds. I had gone for a grilled Mediter- ranean vegetable pizza and wished I had not. A thick, undercooked, greasy base arrived with a few mixed veg on top. The pizza chef, it turned out, had walked out the day before and his replacement had yet to start. He had better start soon.

Stephanie fared better and enjoyed salad number two, a hot couscous-encrusted chicken number which, she said, she would happily order again. To round things off, we shared a decent-sized plate of baked bananas and toasted pannetone (which filled the pizza void) and two glasses of pudding wine.

Pizza notwithstanding, I enjoyed Rocket. It had been open for only three days when I visited and will, I feel, improve. The emphasis is on straightforward food in a stylish, laid-back setting — hence the arm- chairs — and the staff are a friendly bunch. None of the dishes costs more than £7.50, not bad for this territory, and the place is already busy, despite the non-address.

One boisterous group in an adjacent room had certainly not had any problems finding it. It turned out to be the office party for the property developers. It was not really the moment to ask them why, why, why it had been necessary to take the place off the map.

Hush, 8 Lancashire Court, off Brook Street, London W1; tel: 0207 659 1500. Downstairs open for lunch and dinner, Monday-Saturday; Sunday brunch 12 noon to 3 p.m. Upstairs, as above but closed Saturday lunch and Sunday. Rocket, 4-6 Lancashire Court; tel: 0207 629 2889. Lunch and dinner Monday-Saturday. Closed Sunday.

Robert Hardman is a columnist and corre- spondent for the Daily Telegraph.