WHEN I was in publishing, every now and then, wading
through piles of unsolicited manuscripts, I'd come across something good, something actually publishable. Af- ter the first fine careless rapture, when I'd leap up from my chair and out of my subfusc, sun-denied office, and metaphorically — run naked down Goodge street shouting 'Eureka r , doubt would set in. Was this author really the next Graham Greene, or was it simply that the collec- tively abysmal standards of all the others had warped my judgment? I'm afraid it was mostly — as a disappointing second read- ing would prove — the latter.
It was with these sorts of thoughts running through my head that I paid my second visit to the Halkin. After my first visit, following, as it did, so close on my unhappy time at the Langham Hilton, I wanted to make sure the pleasure was honestly earned. It was.
The unsolicited manuscript analogy is not an exact one: Paul Gayler, the Halkin's chef, is scarcely unknown; at Inigo Jones he earned a reputation as one of the country's most talented chefs, admired by other chefs as much as by ordinary eaters. During my gratifyingly long lunch there the other week, the maitre himself, Anton Mosimann, came in to eat after his own service had ended up the road.
The Halkin shows Gayler on characteris- tic form: bringing together the pungent East and a kind of mellowed-down Franco- formality in resonant harmony. Extra- culinary factors are as harmonious: blond marble floor, a dining room luminous and elegant and splendidly Italian, all green glass, white linen and flashing, beautifully designed silver. Flowers are crammed into thick, clear vases: one is packed with white freesia, another with white hyacinth; on the well-set tables tower single arum lilies. If it sounds Casa Vogue, believe me, it works like a dream.
Gayler has been criticised for his failure to take in more recent trends, to turn his hand to the fashionable tavola calonica with its bean-heavy stews and bread-thick soups. But the thing is, when a chef is as good as Gayler is, fashion doesn't — or shouldn't — come into it. He cooks as he cooks, and if the delicate precision of his dishes and the subtle organising of the tastes he's trying to conjure up don't find favour any more, it's a pity. More than that, it's misguided: as Kit Chapman, guru-chronicler of contemporary English gastronomy, has written, so-called nouvel- le cuisine got a bad name because of the `opportunistic charlatans who abused its principles and methods'. Influences or traces of the real thing, in one of its rare manifestations, is not to be written off. (Incidentally, Gayler's exclusion from Chapman's Master Chefs of Britain is pretty shameful itself.) All the same, I do agree Gayler doesn't help himself with his cutesy-pooh-section- titles — `Curiosities of the Moment', 'In- spirations with Spices' — but once you start eating you stop minding about the mere writing. I started eating the cannello- ni of ox-cheek and, frankly, wished I'd never have to stop. The pasta, thin as filo-pastry, is a pate [pate: no accent on the e] imprime, with flat-leaf parsley rolled in it, and comes curled around ox-cheek that has been braised in red wine and horserad- ish, with a glace-like dressing of beetroot vinegar and raw beatroot juice reduced to a shiny red syrup and mixed with peanut oil and sherry vinegar. Light and yet infused with deep flavour, this is a beguiling dish.
I went on to the squab pigeon from the `Inspirations with Spices' section and I think, having tried three other main courses now, that it is far the best. The squab is blanched, then marinaded for two days in Gayler's own secret Chinesy con- coction of spices and unguents (called by him the lackay mix'), then roasted pinkish and served with a tangle of string-thin lengths of bean sprouts, carrots, mouli, pak Choi which have been fried in a ginger and garlic-soused sesame oil. The subtle, aromatic smokiness of this, the soft chunki- ness of the crisp-skinned meat and the uncloying, lingering sweetness of the sparsely administered amber-coloured sauce show Gayler at his impressive best.
These two dishes, along with an old ' Long, long ago, even before the Govern- ment first started discussing poll tax alterna- tives.' favourite which I had on my second visit a soft, creamy parfait of pistachio and liquorice — were all exceptional. As good was another starter, the medley of seafood — baby squid, lobster, scallop, red mullet, everything in fact — tender and yielding to the tongue, bound in a basil-sweet cream reduction, just tinted and deepened with tomato, with what are called 'wild rice gnocchi' but are in fact little sticks of choux paste to which parmesan and needles of wild rice have been added. Also-rans were the bouillon of wild mushrooms and celery (from the six-course vegetarian menu) and the saddle of rabbit with macaroni and smoked bacon, though in most other res- taurants they would be out-and-out win- ners, and by a good length.
All diners are given three or so little saucers of hors d'oeuvres to pick from as they look at the menu (a clever alternative to the miniature quiche and stuffed- brioche school of amuse-gueules) and the wine list is a satisfying document. At the cheaper end, the Marsannay rose at £14 was a great success: strong, dry and fruity and, at the same time, somehow creamy. Service, under the commanding charm of Irenee Maugouber, is faultless but not too coldly formal.
It is expensive, but not for what you get. Dinner for two will cost around £90, service is included and you are really not expected to tip, and there's a wonderful set lunch: (£16.50 for two courses, £20.50 all inc.) Rooms are exquisite, but astronomi- cally expensive.
Unfortunately, for the Halkin at any rate, Paul Gayler is around for only a few months more. In July-ish he's going to run the kitchen in the Lanesborough Hotel, a vast development on the old St George's Hospital site at Hyde Park Corner. I wish him well, and I'm sure he'll do well, but it would be a pity if the Halkin were to get knocked off the map because of his depar- ture. Finding the right successor will not be easy. So many young chefs already have their own places or are intimately identi- fied with the restaurants they presently operate from — Patrick MacDonald of the Epicurean or Simon Hopkinson of Biben- dum are, respectively, eligible examples from both these categories — that a replacement of sufficient distinction and freshness might be a longer time coming than the Halkin can afford. Let me, then, suggest Robert Ridley, once of Blake's, now of Frith's.
Anyway, I cross my fingers for later, but for now the Halkin is very much worth a visit. Obviously, if you want cuisine bourgeoise on a gingham tablecloth this is not the place to come. But there are many ways of eating well, and Paul Gayler's and the Halkin's sure is one of them.
The Halkin, Halkin Street, London SW1; Tel: 071-333 1234
Nigella Lawson
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