BETWEEN SIX AND EIGHT
Peter Barnes IT may have been the Romans who invented the idea of dining with a view. Some clever amphitheatre entrepreneur, no doubt, decid- ed that bread-eating circus-goers would be attracted in greater numbers if there were Christians to look down on — particularly if a few lions were thrown in to provide lessons in table manners. In modem London, the Idea has been copied most spectacularly by the Oxo Tower, which offers breathtaking night-time views of the Thames. In a more modest fashion, both L'Odeon, in Regent Street, and Che, in St James's Street, offer visual attractions other than the food and the waitresses. Recently, they have been joined by Between Six and Eight, which from a tall building looks down over Leicester Square.
I had assumed that the restaurant's name referred to a time of day. Perhaps, I thought, they are trying to set a new trend in early dining. Or perhaps they are hinting at a clandestine assignation. In France, a 'MN sept' denotes a lover with whom trysts are conducted between leaving the office at five and returning to one's adoring family two hours later. Between Six and Eight, I reflect- ed, might be trying to import the early- evening rendez-vous to England, making allowance for our longer working hours or the relative tardiness of English lovers.
Any connection between such reflections and my almost simultaneous call to Mary Wakefield is, of course, entirely coincidental. Mary is the feared but lovely diarist of the Peterborough and Mandrake columns on the Telegraphs. The friend who had introduced us told me that Mary had a weakness for ugly, older men, which, he unkindly suggest- ed, I might be qualified to exploit. He refrained from commenting directly on my looks, but he estimated that the age-gap between Mary and me was of the size which makes men envious, women disapproving and mothers nervous.
Our first difficulty was finding the restau- rant. The management proudly claim their address as No. 1, Leicester Square. But both Mary and 1, arriving separately, made sever- al circuits of the square before discovering the entrance hidden in a sidestreet. The inferior floors of the building house a night- club and a members' bar, to neither of which diners have access. So we were accompanied by the doorman to the restaurant's entrance. As we emerged from the lift, the true expla- nation of the restaurant's name became apparent: Between Six and Eight is on the
seventh floor. People who make a virtue of simplicity might have been tempted to call the restaurant a prosaic 'Seven', but the periphrasis was doubtless preferred for its commercial advantages. It will be possible in future to host staircase parties without risk of breaching the Trades Descriptions Act. And customers who succeed in calculating the correct floor will celebrate their skill at mental arithmetic by being bolder than planned with the wine list.
We started with a drink in the bar that ran along one side of the restaurant. Recessed alcoves, padded in grey suede, alternate with black leather stools and cubic tables of pol- ished metal. The restaurant itself is similarly stylish, with 30-odd well-spaced tables deco- rated with catkins and orchids. But for both of us, although separately, the design high- point was the upstairs loo. An enormous orange chaise-longue dominates the landing,
and, inside, curvilinear walls contain wooden basins and futuristic water-closets.
The restaurant was fairly empty on the Monday night we visited, and we were shown to a table by the window. On mild days you can eat al fresco, on a narrow, raised terrace. On the evening we went, only customers immune to vertigo and frostbite could have enjoyed the bird's-eye panorama of Leicester Square. But, even from inside, the nightscape was stunning. Mary's view included Big Ben, the Millen- nium wheel and the spire of St Martins-in- the-Fields; my view included Mary.
The kitchen offers the style of cooking known as 'fusion', a practice better left to physicists than to chefs, which threatens a jar- ring discordance of ingredients. My starter, a mille-feuille of potato and foie gras, had been forcibly married to an over-dominant pineap- ple chutney. And my main course, some per- fectly cooked chops of venison, were marred by a 'seven-pepper linguini' that left me gasp- ing for air like a sabotaged sniffer dog. Mary chose better. Her chicken and coconut soup was a passable imitation of genuine Thai. And her duck was professionally executed, with a delicious accompaniment of wok-fried greens. To finish, the waitress made a strong pitch for the 'goat's cheese in three ways'. But we decided to share the chef's dessert platter — an interesting coconut semolina, a tuile basket of sorbets, some slivers of choco- late and, for me the star, a spring roll con- taining liqueur-soaked cherries.
Service was much better than both of us had expected from a staff attired in intimi- datingly fashionable grey uniforms. Our wait- ress set the tone by asking us as we sat down whether we would like a nice bottle of water, immediately setting us apart from other patrons served the nasty stuff. And when Mary, in a controlled experiment, knocked a full glass of red wine over the tablecloth, the dessert platter and my trousers, the waiter not only mopped up speedily and sympathet- ically, but offered us new puddings to replace those flavoured by Rioja.
Between Six and Eight is not cheap. Our main courses were each over £15, our Rioja was marked up to £27, and a 12.5 per cent service charge was added to our bill. In fact, in terms of cost, the restaurant should more accurately call itself Between a 100 and 150.
But if you are a bigger fan of fusion cooking than I am, and want to impress a date by taking her to a stylish restaurant with a spectacular view, then it could be the place for a special occasion. But don't blame me if it does not work. Mary made a successful getaway. As my taxi drove me home alone to the south London suburbs, I consoled myself that I must be younger or better- looking than my friend had thought.
Between Six and Eight, 1 Leicester Square, London WC2; tel: 0171 909 1177. Open for lunch Monday to Friday and dinner Monday to Saturday.
Peter Barnes writes for the Economist
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