RESTAURANTS AS THEATRE

J. SHEEKEY', said our friend's father, when we told him where we were going to dinner that night. 'I remember going there the night my wife gave birth to our first child. I ate a delicious potted shrimp and Dover sole while she was in labour and returned bearing a whole lobster.'

His wife chimed in, 'After 36 hours' pushing, the sight of that red shell made me sick. So the lobster went into the fridge and we ate it to celebrate the next day.'

Eccentric stories are part of every institu- tion and J. Sheekey, the 102-year-old English fish restaurant in Covent Garden, is no exception. So when Jeremy King and Chris Corbin of Le Caprice and The Ivy took it over they took care to retain the name, the lobster and the old celebrity photos.

Everything else has been gutted. Instead of plush red velvet, there are now cream walls and brown ribbed plastic banquettes (sound disgusting, actually quite stylish, only they might be a bit sticky for bare legs in summer). The windows are frosted, the bar serves caviar and blinis and there's no more grey fish looking like school knickers.

My husband and I weren't being fair when we went to review the new Sheekey's. It was a freezing Sunday night. We'd returned from the Caribbean that morning where they're supposed to consume lob- sters like we eat fish fingers and we were jet-lagged. But the Caribbean island had mostly served caesar salads and goat-water stew. It suffered the same fate as many Greek islands. The fish is such a commodi- ty that the best is shipped straight off to Tokyo, New York and London.

So we'd spent two weeks watching the sea without actually eating much fish and I had started dreaming about a lightly poached sea bream or a roasted sea bass. `Let's go to Sheekey's when we get back,' Ed said after one too many straggly island chickens. 'It may not be on the sea but at least it's close to Billingsgate.'

The first omens were good. After years of watching restaurants having their innards ripped out, this architect has kept four small rooms, scattered with inspired pre-war art. Although the restaurant was only half full, it didn't feel empty, just inti- mate.

The old clients were still there. An Irish man with an eye patch and whiskers to match any Dublin bay prawn's was sharing his dinner with an elegant lady dressed in beige pleats, pearls and a broach. But now he was joined across the aisle by two hip New Yorkers in trainers and combat trousers, and a chain-smoking music PR girl.

The waiters still wear bow ties, only instead of being grouchy old Spaniards, they are now smooth, young British (an almost extinct species in most London restaurants). They slither around like excit- ed eels, rather than scuttle into their holes like old crustaceans.

Two perfect kir royals arrived within minutes of sitting down, along with some nutty brown hunks of bread (no namby- pamby limp bits of sun-dried tomato hang- ing off them). The wine list had eight white wines by the glass (perfect for lunch).

When I asked how large the whole Cor- nish cock-crab was, one was brought to my table without ceremony. At £9.25, it was £4 cheaper than the crab out of its shell, but as the waiter pointed out, it takes a lot of energy to crack a crab and I was exhausted so I feebly chose the prim 'dressed' version.

Truffled mixed artichokes, risotto nero and grilled baby squid with creamed polen- ta sounded more Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman than the colonel and his wife. The salmon fishcakes with sorrel sauce and Bel- gian endive salad were straight lifts from The Ivy and Le Caprice. But jellied eels, pickled herrings, creamed salt cod and crab bisque with cream and cognac made our man with the eye patch smile. 'Cockles and parsley, that's what I'll have. But what's this fettu . . . stuff, sounds foreign?' he said to his companion. 'It's pasta, sir,' said the waiter. 'Then it's the potted shrimps for me, young man,' the eye patch replied.

Ed also chose the Morecombe Bay pot- ted shrimps. Opinion is divided on this old English starter. There are those who insist that real potted shrimps need to be sunk in an ocean bed of solidified butter. They will `I'm the sinking man's crumpet.' be disappointed by Sheekey's version. Here fingernails of prawn are tossed in cayenne and Worcestershire, and just a hint of but- ter. With slivers of brown toast, they tasted divine, much more juicy than any drooping French crevette dowsed in bright pink may- onnaise on shredded lettuce.

My dressed crab was a sublime cake of white fleshy meat, as spoiling as only eating the white meat on a Christmas turkey. It came with just a sprinkling of egg and the right kind of pale pink sauce.

After that Ed ordered moules mariniere and chips. 'Very Belgo,' said the waiter. 'All the staff went for a bonding dinner there before we opened.'

They'd obviously learnt from the mis- takes of that hideous restaurant that shares the same proprietor, Luke Johnson. At Belgo's the waiters are made to dress up in monks' habits, the moules take so long to arrive that they could be cooked one by one, and not having a drinking competition is letting the side down.

Sheekey's moules were nothing like its brash younger sister's. They were squeaky fresh and plump and the light broth brought out, rather than drowned, the flavour. My smoked fillet of cod with col- cannon and a poached egg was exactly what I'd dreamed about in the Caribbean. The cod was moist, solid and flaky (quite a feat). It contrasted neatly with the mushy mashed potato and cabbage and stabbing a perfectly poached egg is always a pleasure.

The pudding menu of spotted dick, rice pudding, treacle tart, baked Alaska and sherry trifle was only spoilt by the addition of chocolate-chip cookies and brownies Corbin and King wouldn't add tortilla chips and salsa to their starters, so why dumb down the puddings? Ed hates custard and I hate meringue, so we shared a floating island with creme anglaise, which was divine.

There were hardly any quibbles. Tomato ketchup is vital for fish and chips, but red plastic pepper-pots are not. They jar with the thick white napkins and heavy cutlery. The silvery-blue paperweights are revolt- ing, like those snow-filled tourist baubles. Every guest should do their best to drop one accidently on the floor. And the chips were soggy.

Other reviewers have sneered at the place for its over-efficient waiters, star- studded cast and traditional menu. I can't tell you what it's like on a weekday when you might be jammed between George Melly and Sir Terence Conran, but on a quiet Sunday night it was bliss, the perfect combination of glamour and comfort food. I'd choose this restaurant as my desert island luxury, and I'm confident that in 50 years' time new fathers will still be going to J. Sheekey to celebrate the birth of their first-born.

I. Sheekey, 28-32 St Martin's Court, London WC2; tel: 0171 240 2565. Dinner for two with wine f90.