H IP 1 4111, 11111
Big Night Out
BIG NIGHT OUT does not, I admit, sound like the sort of restaurant you would expect to see featured in these pages. It may be of small comfort to find that it turns out not to be a garishly lit chicken-in-a-bas- ket joint on the M25 but Primrose Hill's newest bijou eaterie. Nonetheless, and for all its well-appointed location, the wine-bar naffness of its name is reflected, in muted and even modish fashion to be sure, per- haps even intentionally, in the buff walls and 1970s mauve gloss woodwork, the bentwood clutter and snailing spiral stair- case. A certain amount of aspiring towards Nineties elegance is evident, too. The place, you see, is meant to be cool. , The food is not innocent, however, of late Eighties archness. Thus we have not pheasant pâté but pâté of pheasant (or more precisely, a pâté of pheasant, smoked ham and pistachio); both turbot and seabass come pan-fried; the pasta dish is tagliatelle of lobster and clams, not, as grammar and sense would seem to dictate, with; and the final offering on the main courses is 'a seafood frenzy of various crus- tacea'. None of this would matter if the food were better.
Forget, for a moment, my sneers in the above paragraph; I had read my menu, for the best part, with enjoyable anticipation. Tuna (seared, natch) with sesame dressing sang sweetly from it, as did pigeon sausages with bubble-and-squeak and lobster ravioli with grilled endive and seafood sauce. Dis- appointment may be an occupational haz- ard but it hurts all the same: the seared tuna was flabby and bland, the pigeon sausages austere to the point of desicca- tion, the bubble-and-squeak no more than a squished and dried-up patty, the lobster ravioli entirely beyond the pale, the pasta seriously overcooked, the lobster flesh and seafood sauce uncharacteristically indeli- cate. The pan-fried sea bass came in a little two-inch-square snip, which sat on a puddle of parsnip purée which, in its turn, sat on a larger puddle of parsley sauce (here dubbed dressing) dotted with mussels.
'Wait a minute, all the cards say "Go to Gaol".' Sprinkled on the very top were little strings of deep-fried beetroot. I couldn't say this was a success exactly, but it was an interest- ing failure. Minus the mussels, and maybe even the lemon-balmy parsley sauce, we could have been on to something good here. Puddings encouraged appetite but didn't reward it. A rather expensive Fleurie (£20) tasted like the sort of wine meaner people take to parties. Dinnner for four of us came, before tip, to £120.
A greater bar to enjoyment than the heavy-handed food was the service. As I said, the place is meant to be cool and here they employ waiters with attitude. Actually, to be fair only one waiter seemed to take a head-tossing, surly pleasure in being above waiting on us, but that's enough to make one feel uncomfortable. Of the others one was jocular but inefficient, another merely gormless. It was hard work. At another time, I might have spared you this report. You see, in the normal course of things I visit quite a few restaurants that I decide against reviewing. In other words, I'd have gone here, realised it was a duffer and found somewhere else for your delec- tati on. This time, I felt Big Night Out had to be my last night out. I do not wish to embarrass any of you with intimate confes- sions but I am eight months pregnant, and although I was intending to keep going for another month, until indeed the moment of parturition, I've decided against it. This restaurant helped persuade me it was time to stop. My condition has not affected mY judgment or my palate, but simply my will- ingness to tolerate the mediocre. When the good guys are in the kitchen, the pleasure's as intense as ever, but I no longer have the energy for the also rans. Nor the appetite: as someone who has always eaten for about five or six it is rather galling to find that ever since I was supposed to be eating for two I have, especially on occasions like this, found it something of an ordeal even to eat for one. I can do it, but I don't love it, and that's when a restaurant critic should hang up her bib. I'll be back — and with renewed appetite — in the spring.
Big Night Out, Regents Park Road NW1; tel 071 586 5768
Nigella Lawson
Until Nigella Lawson 'c return, Hugh Massingberd will be writing the restaurant column.
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