BACK IN 1974, Jade Grigson remarked, with asperity, 'We in
England have devel- oped a most Athenian characteristic. We are always after some new thing.' If it was true then, it is even truer now. Luckily, nov- elty is not something this critic is obliged to pursue, else why would I be dining in the Savoy? I know Anton Edelmann, maitre chef des cuisines at the Savoy, called his book Creative Cuisine, but that is not neces- sarily cause for alarm.
It was one of those clear, inky-skied nights when I went, the huge window along the river illuminated in Chagall stained-glass colours. I hadn't managed to get a window table. You have to book at least a fortnight ahead for that, probably more for a weekend, and it helps, I was told afterwards, if you say it's for a special occasion or that 'you're entertaining peo- ple from darkest Africa'. Still, the view of the band, maracas aquiver, in their little shrine to music at the other side of the room was better where we were sitting.
The best view of all, though, is available wherever you're placed. I mean, my dear, the people! It's all just too riveting: the hideous clothes, the strange pairings. Much patterned silk, naturally, in evi- dence, but not exclusively by a long chalk. One party on that night consisted of men in various types of ill-advised evening dress, one red-headed woman in a too tight, black lurex cutaway affair, the shoulder straps cutting into her white freckled shoulders like a cheese-slicer, an aging Swiss maiden, hair a plaited ice- blonde edifice on her head, in a long white spangled dress (Grecian-style), and a woman who'd obviously been a beauty in the 1970s but hadn't since managed to rehabilitate herself. She was large, with long greying hair, dyed a harsh blonde, straggling down her back, in a rainbow- striped dress, utterly transparent, nothing on underneath, and a fur tippet over her shoulders. I mean: fur. In July. The clien- tele's pretty strange generally: part grand, part Crossroads.
I had gone with the intention of having the summer menu, a tasting menu of five courses, each with its own glass of wine; what I wanted, I felt, was a series of exquisite mouthfuls. But when it came to it, I persuaded my guest to have it and went for the diner au choix myself. For some rea- son, I felt a particular longing for the ricot-
I fill to gnocchi. These came in a rocket sauce, which was less peppery than one might pre- sume it would be; the gnocchi, unfortunate- ly, were a great deal saltier. Like short fat corks, these gnocchi had evidently been shown a grill after cooking: they looked like those sweets I remember called toasted tea cakes, rather like marshmallows with a tan hide. The venison I had to follow — with wild mushrooms and a few chopped, unsweet cherries — worked well. It wasn't earth-shattering, but was distinctly better than the meat on the summer menu, a tournedos on shallot purée, extremely so- whatish.
Still, what preceded the beef had more going for it: a sparsely leaved salad with some properly meaty quail and sweet, fat goose liver, with the perfect wine, a fruity, honeyed Tokay; some scallops, tender, just right, deeply pleasurable, but accompanied by an oversalted sauce confection of leeks and onions, with a bright glass of chardon- nay which did have a helpful neutralising effect; and a superb jellied fish broth, which didn't at all need the little balls of veg dotted in it, but was, I think, jollied along by the caviar-speckled sour cream dolloped on top of it.
Puddings of neither menu really entranced. I couldn't resist the trolley, though: not only because it reminded me of being a child (not something for which I'm usually grateful), but because it seemed to fit in with the mood of the place. Crème brulde I always like, and this was a bit cold but otherwise ambrosial. The strudel I greedily had with it was a disappointment. As was the peach melba number from the summer menu.
Dinner for the two of us, with great ser- vice, attentive but not cloying, every bit as one would expect of a place like this, came to just under £120. I did think that the food wasn't as marvellous as it might have been, too much in that expensive hotel, overreduced sauce mode, but I did love the evening. Better for gawping than for gluttony maybe, but I don't regret the visit.
River Restaurant at the Savoy, London WC2; tel:• 0171 836 4343
Nigella Lawson
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