RESTAURANTS AS THEATRE
LINDSAY HOUSE
Alice Thomson
THE BEARS arc loose in London's kitchens, according to George Trefgarne, writing in The Spectator last week. The first casualty of any economic downturn will be the casually incurred cost of a £100 meal for two. Although this may spell financial trouble for a few over-ambitious restaura- teurs, it has a far graver consequence for the rest of us. We may have to start going to dinner parties again.
We can all remember the horror. Aban- doned by an increasingly sweaty host and hostess for most of the evening, the guests are finally ushered ceremoniously into the dining area, to be confronted by over-ambi- tious starters followed, some considerable time later, by overcooked main courses, unripe cheeses and bought-in pudding. All washed down with cheap wine brought by the more knowing guests (nicer vintages disappearing into a cupboard).
So I was dreading the next few years. But two events have made me start rolling the word recession round my mouth in glee. The first was a disastrous meal in a restau- rant, the second a spectacular dinner at a friend's house.
The restaurant was Lindsay House, run by Richard Corrigan, an offal obsessive var- iously known as the chef's chef, or the foodies' favourite. I'd come to do an inter- view with Liam Fox, the Scottish GP turned MP, who has single-handedly achieved the impossible — making the Tory party look cool. From the moment we arrived at the 18th- century townhouse in Soho, it was clear things were not rosy in the land of tongue and tripe. The Regency rooms were painted a calming white. The menu sound- ed tantalising. There was carpaccio of raw calf's liver with slices of black Perigord truffle and slivers of Parmesan, soft black pudding on a bed of nutty, finely-diced pig's trotter, and roast calf's tongue on home-salted cabbage The water was delivered quite promptly, but the glass of champagne took another half an hour, and the waiter was already so frazzled that he let it slip through his sweaty hands. A chicken cappuccino arrived unasked as an 'appetiser' half an hour after that. It tasted sublime, but the stock was definitely lobster. 'This soup's fishy,' Liam said to the waiter. 'It's chicke- ny-fishy,' came the sharp retort.
None of this really mattered. But when there was still no sign of our first courses after an hour and a half, I enquired politely about their estimated time of arrival. Even- tually the manager, with a face the con- stituency and colour of an ashen Cornish goat's cheese, appeared.
`Excuse me, but we still haven't got our first courses,' I said. 'Why didn't you tell us? Can't you see how busy we are?' he snapped. The restaurant was half-empty. Beads of perspiration were running down his neck, although all the windows were thrown wide open. He rushed off to the kitchen, only to return grovelling. 'Your order fell into the deep fat fryer, it'll be with you in 15 minutes,' he explained.
At 11.02 pm, Liam was still manfully cracking jokes. The starters finally emerged at the same time as the main courses. Two waiters held our lamb shank and scallops aloft, while we wolfed down our red mullet and lobster. A third waiter plonked down I now realise that I'm totally unworthy of this restaurant. I must leave.' the mashed potato on top of my tape recorder. The food may have been deli- cious (although I seem to remember the scallops were an off-putting grey), but we no longer cared. At 11.18 both courses were whisked away, and some lukewarm Earl Grey tea arrived. The manager appeared triumphant, mumbling, 'Of course, we won't charge you for the first courses.' The bill came to over £100, the starters had been included and so had the `optional' service. But I was too exhausted to grumble.
So my defences were down when a friend rang to ask my husband and me to a dinner party. The host, Peter, is a distinguished journalist on the Economist. But that's just his hobby. His real job is cooking for his friends. Peter's parties are legendary, cul- minating in a 'Rachel' dinner — five Rachels and the host. The single women are guaranteed to be stunning, a mixture of red-heads, brunettes and blondes. The men are a heady concoction of politics and money. And the cooking is inspired by Marco Pierre White, Gordon Ramsay and Nico Ladenis.
We arrived extremely hassled. That night the world economy looked like collapsing. A serene Peter met us at the door, having filed his copy hours before, and handed us two Kir Royales. We were then introduced to Davinia, Isabella,Venetia and Miranda. `You're the odd one out,' Peter smiled. I'd never met any of them before, but I could have spent a week's holiday in Milton Keynes with them and raved about it.
The first course was a simple noisette of lamb from his butcher, Rendells, cooked in bay leaves. It was so succulent and so plain that no one spoke for ten minutes. The sec- ond course was fennel sorbet, made from puréed fennel, lemon juice and sugar; sub- lime and very Raymond Blanc. The main course was coquilles St Jacques facon oudille — three scallop shells that had been bought live from Cox's fishmongers three hours before, presented on a large white plate. The outer shells were sealed with puff pastry and inside each was a plump white mollusc on a bed of carrot and celery twigs. The epousse cheese was accompanied by home-made quince jelly.
But the real triumph was the raspberry and chocolate soufflé, so tangy and tart and bitter, that everyone was using their fingers to scrape it out. Not Blanc, or White, this one is totally made up, Peter admitted as he poured out the fresh mint tea.
We ate a course roughly every half an hour, hardly noticing our host's saunters into the kitchen. I've been told that Peter can occasionally get it wrong. A friend once felt obliged to eat raw monkfish. But when we left at 2.00 am to pack for our flight at 7.00 am the next morning, we felt that Peter Barnes of Fulham was easily the best gastronomic discovery of the year.
Lindsay House, 21 Romilly Street, London W1; tel 0171 439 0450. Dinner, £100 for two.
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