11111111111E1111111111,11 I HAD meant, this week, to go to a
Mexi- can restaurant. Wait: I can explain. For some reason I've just been reading too much, and very minor, contemporary American fiction recently. On the whole, this has been a dispiriting exercise. Most of the books have been just about OK enough to make me carry on reading, if reluctantly, but bad enough to make me wish I had never started in the first place. I'm not sure, actually, if the only thing that kept me reading them wasn't the food. Characters kept going off together for huevos rancheros, quesadillas and frijoles refritos, and I got hungry. Admittedly, some might argue that Mexican food is better on the page than on the plate; but that, I would insist, is the Cisatlantic experience talking.
One can see why. For it is impossible to find any good Mexican food over here. At least, I've found it impossible, even after deep consultation with a lady from the Mexican embassy. She was as sadly stumped as I was. An American once told me that there was meant to be a halfway decent place in Liverpool, and the lady from the Mexican embassy told me she'd heard tell of somewhere outside Glasgow (she thought), and I must have tried out half a dozen or so supposedly Mexican restaurants in London, but I have yet actu- ally to find anywhere worth writing home, or at least in these pages, about. So if there are any Mexicans, or Mexican food afi- cionados, out there holding vital informa- tion on this front, I should be grateful if they would come forward. But I don't want one press release from any of those ghastly Tex-Mex chains. Is that understood?
Actually, on the way to Bentley's in Swal- low Street, my eventual destination, I passed Down Mexican Way (on whose menu I noticed a tequila cheesecake — muy autentico), then gladly and hurriedly pressed on. I did not, however, feel alto- gether reassured to find myself in Bentley's, a somehow sad relic of the past now, which, in its management's own words, has been 'revived under serious new ownership'. It is resoundingly empty, a dead place. Perhaps this is not always so — lunchtime must surely be livelier — but on the evening I went a stifling silence was broken only by a few Japanese tourists and a couple of provincial shoppers in town for the day sitting stiffly on machine-woven, tapestry-effect banquettes. Upstairs, the
booths echoed forlornly with sparse con- versation. I can't help feeling this must be a good location for adulterous dinner dates: one feels marooned in invisibility.
The person I feel most sorry for is the new chef, Richard Corrigan. For here he is, cooking like a dream, and all but in obscu- rity. He comes via Stephen Bull and Mulli- gans and must surely be used to a bit more of a buzz. And he deserves a joint that jumps, not this desert.
At Bentley's, he has left part of the menu more or less alone. The oysters, smoked salmon, dressed crab and the like remain (under, unfortunately, the heading of 'Clas- sics', which smacks a bit too much of the image-consultants for me), added to which there is a list of Corriganised 'seasonal' dishes. I tried one thing from the time-hon- oured Ur-menu, not that I'm altogether convinced of the 'classic' status of deep- fried cod in a parmesan and basil crust. Nor did I like the way the cheese infused the glassy flesh. Your regular batter is what's needed. The chips, proper fat ones, were good, though. But £14.50 for cod and chips, whatever the curlicues, is going it.
From his seasonal menu, Corrigan's lob- ster consommé, deep-tinted, deeper- flavoured, was ravishing. I'd have preferred not so much of the ravioli — or, rather, raviolone, this being one great big flying saucer of stuffed pasta — and more of the divine broth. Cured salmon with scallops and red onion was cool and beguiling. For a main course, I wished I'd had the steamed sea bass with squid, limes, black beans and ink pasta (very West Coast) rather than the cheesy cod, but never mind: next time. The baby lobster, which sat in a puddle of buttery egg and lemon sauce, beans (french rather than broad as adver- tised) and macaroni in a smoky, truffle- soused sauce, was perfectly pulled off.
For pudding, I'd advise the treacle tart — the real palate-thickening thing — with clotted cream. House wine is not actually offensive but is not recommended. Expect to pay around £35 a head. Corrigan's cook- ing demands to be eaten, but this just isn't the place you'd want to go to eat it. But try: he is worth it.
Bentley's: 11-15 Swallow Street, London W I . tel 071 734 4756.
Nigella Lawson
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