11111.1 1111 U 111111111R HAMPSTEAD must have a greater con-
centration of serious eater-outers than any- where else in London, and yet, for all that, its restaurants have never been up to much. Perhaps, though, the mistake is to consider Hampstead part of London at all. For Hampstead is only in part an elegantly con- structed rus in urbe; for the rest, it is a rather fine example of elevated provincial- ism. And it is this provincialism that lies at the centre of the restaurant problem: which is to say good restaurants are bad in the way they are on the Cheltenham-Chich- ester axis; they stifle with their effortful, smug formality, all curlicues, coral napkins and too many ingredients for too much money.
Keats, the late and by me unlamented restaurant which used to stand on the site of the newly opened Beth's, epitomised the
&mode swank of the genre: one felt exhausted just standing outside reading the menu. Beth Coventry, chef/patron of its successor on the street, is, however, a woman to be trusted about food. Until recently she was the chef at Green's in Marsham Street, producing good English food of the sturdy rather than old new- wave mimsy variety.
Her restaurant is kitted out with confi- dence and a good eye, rather than hushed good taste. It has a certain slapdash opu- lence in its theatrical, almost boisterously original use of colour: walls are a watery caramel, ceiling and lobby Seventies pur- ple, curtains come in indigo-lined aubergine and a splashy pink large-checked gingham; you could almost call it grunge LaCroix. But whatever, it works.
The food, modern English of a sort, eclectic but not dauntingly so, reveals, how- ever, an alarming quality: inconsistency. Beth's has been up and running for a scant month, so rough edges are bound to make themselves felt for a while, but those who pay to eat in restaurants cannot afford to be patient.
Starters need most work on them: the rocket, aubergine, parmesan and plum tomato salad was fine, but it didn't sing; warm duck-breast salad with pine kernels was a bit too 1986 and similarly undistin- guished; the ceviche, chunks of raw salmon marinaded in lime and dill, tasted rather as if it had been poached in bleach. But the soup (it changes daily) of courgette, bacon and mushroom was intense and smoky, strong-flavoured but light enough to be summery; and smooth chicken-liver pâté came in a cool, pleasurable slab, perfectly, and familiarly, offset by sweet, hot brioche.
With the exception of a chopped steak which looked and tasted like something one might find in the street after a nuclear strike, the main courses did more to show Beth Coventry's form. True, the fishcakes, something of her signature dish, were far
'Their father did contribute to my upkeep in a way.' too potatoey and generally less notable than I remember from Green's, but I rather think I was unlucky as both times I came Beth herself was not in the kitchen. Chick- en with garlic and honey was too sweet for me, but, perhaps more to the point, delight- ed the person, stung by my criticism into defensive protectiveness, who actually ordered it. The swordfish with oriental vinaigrette was a triumph, the often fibrous flesh a miracle of tenderness, soused in soy and sprinkled with pungent coriander and scissored spring onions. But Beth's master- piece, undoubtedly, is the steak, kidney and mushroom pudding — rapturous beyond the telling. Even if we have a hot summer ahead, I hope she will not consider taking it off the menu. Normally I would prefer more gravy coating and binding the meat, but the moist, unctuous suet crust here made such an addition unnecessary.
One thing, however, interfered with and detracted from what was otherwise superb: it's to do with the service. I asked, naturally enough, for English mustard. Not only did I have to ask again, but even after the apolo- gy for having forgotten it was made there was a further long wait until it was brought. This is not a minor point. It is crucial. If you can't eat something except with English mustard, not having it ruins everything, as many of you will understand. And I was not wholly convinced by the Englishness of the weak and vinegary mustard that eventually arrived. Further investigation under less desperate circumstances is needed.
Worse was to come at the pudding stage. Apple fritters with Calvados sauce and crème brulee were both excellent and eaten up with relish; a small cherry tart was left after a couple of bites. The waitress clearing the plates asked whether we had liked the cherry tart. I stepped in here, since it is easier for the host than the guest to complain about the food, and said that no, actually, the pastry was soggy and unap- pealing. She testily informed us that the pastry wasn't soggy but was lined with 'mas- carpone [pronounced as in Al Capone] cheese'. A few minutes later the woman I presume was the head waitress came out to grill my hapless guest as to what exactly was wrong with the tart. I told her. She listened, smiling chillingly, and then, still smiling, icily told my guest that it may not have been to his taste but it was as it should be. With that she clattered off with some cof- fee cups.
As I said, Beth herself was not in that night or I'm sure it would never have hap- pened. I was appalled. But I trust it will not happen again. An enjoyable wine list is arranged somewhat eccentrically like an estate agent's list, under blocks of prices. Expect to pay about £25 a head for three courses and a decent amount to drink.
Beth's, 3a Downshire Hill, London, NW3; teL 071 435 3544.
Nigella Lawson
Previous page
