BACK IN the 1960s there was a restaurant called The
Guinea and The Piggy in Leices- ter Square where you could eat as much as You liked for a guinea. They kept the place frightfully hot (to 'maximise bar profits'), but an uncle of mine managed to notch up 55 courses, and was asked to sign the visi- tors' book. I slipped up badly on the first circuit, though, after opting for a 'breather'. What I imagined was a refreshing mound of cold marrow turned out to be some very salty rollmops. I could not finish the plate- ful and was ignominiously shown the door.
Not long afterwards I heard about this paradisial pub in a mews off Berkeley Square which served nothing but charcoal- grilled steaks of Desperate Dan propor- tions. It sounded just my sort of place, but somehow I never went there; perhaps its name, The Guinea, made me nervous. Decades passed and steak houses went out of fashion, but then, the other day, I deter- mined to see if The Guinea had survived. It no longer features in the foodie guides (no bad thing), but it was still there all right, and the menu outside the late-Georgian Young's pub promised `Certified Aberdeen Angus Steaks'. Certified? Was this by any chance an allusion to mad cow disease?
I decided to take the risk. Asked to speci- fy a time, I hesitantly plumped for 8 o'clock but was firmly knocked back to 7.30. This didn't worry me unduly but it greatly exer- cised my fellow trencherman, Christopher Simon Sykes, the photographer, author and all-round entertainer who seemed to regard it as a terrible solecism to eat before nine. Seven-thirty! Seven-thirty!' he spluttered. They can't have put their clocks back.'
In any event, at the appointed hour the pair of us plunged in through the lounge bar of The Guinea and past an impressive array of raw beef to the restaurant at the back, a poky, plushy, slightly seedy time- Warp cheered up by a few Spy cartoons. There appeared to be more waiters Manuel types in red InterCity Sizzler-style outfits — than punters. `What did I tell You?' expostulated Sykes, who proceeded to monitor subsequent arrivals against the clock: `Eight-fifteen and half empty. Party from the Guinea Coast.' Eight-thirty and still masses of room. Is that Una Stubbs?'
Our tiny table was wonky. The alterna- tive menu to the 'certified' steaks offered `Seasonal Fayre' (sic — and we nearly were). This was turning into a disaster. The
admirable wine list provided reassurance. `Good magnums of burgundy here,' mused Sykes before choosing a reasonably priced second-growth 1987 claret from Leoville Barton (Irish Ascendancy family,' I mut- tered, trying to keep my end up) at £21.65. It was excellent: velvety and comforting.
For the food, we set our faces against the Seasonal Fayre, with its pretentious offer- ings such as 'fillet of lamb rolled in oats' (Dats!'), and stuck to the basics. 'Smoked salmon, sirloin steak (rare), chips and "leaf' salad,' said Sykes. I was happy to fol- low suit: sirloin generally has more flavour than fillet. The friendly waiter then asked what size we wanted the steaks. 'Oh, about sixteen pounds, I should think,' I said absent-mindedly. After an eerie silence, he smiled uncertainly as his eyes wandered to my ballooning stomach. 'Sixteen pounds!' shouted Sykes. `It would lap over the sides of this table.' I was tempted to brazen it out, but the Curse of The Guinea and The Piggy hovered over me and I owned up to my shaky grasp of arithmetic.
Our smoked salmon, spread (a little too thinly for my taste) right over the plate, had a robust enough flavour, though somewhat spoilt by an absurd 'garnish'. 'I don't mind the capers and onion,' pronounced Sykes, `but I draw the line at "floral" tomatoes.' There was more of what Sykes called `catering college crap' littering the steak platters — dinky potato baskets filled with button mushrooms -- and the tired salad, accompanied by a dressing of almost neat vinegar, was equally dispensable.
The steaks, however, saved the night: smoky, succulent and superlative, with irre- sistible fat. The puddings were of a very acceptable quality — fluffy treacle sponge with perfect, light custard and not-too- crunchy crème brulee — though the cling- filmed cheeseboard scored nul points.
The bill (about £65 per head, including cover and service) tended to confirm my impression that The Guinea is what a Sloane would call 'a tourist traperoo'. 'At that price,' snorted Sykes, 'we might as well have kicked off with caviar at Kaspia next door.' Yet the steaks were memorable and I rather regretted that I had not converted ounces into pounds — or is it guineas?
The Guinea, 30 Bruton Place, London Wl; tel: 071-4991210.
Hugh Massingberd
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