RESTAURANTS Deborah Ross
SO, off to the newly-opened 'kosher gourmet' restaurant, Six-13, on Wigmore Street. Six-13? Yes, because there are 613 rilitvos, or Jewish rules for living, which, I believe, start with: 1) If you can't find anywhere to park on Golders Green High Street, double-park.
2) If you can't double-park, triple-park.
3) If you can't triple-park, don't quadru- ple-park, because by that time you're prac- tically on the other side of the road, which rather defeats the object, and you might have to do something awful like actually walk across it, which means using your legs, and this is said to be quite tiring.
These rules, by the way, were initially laid down by Moses who, one day, was in a rush to get to Chinacraft to buy a cut-glass punch bowl with six matching glasses for his par- ents' 50th wedding anniversary. He had to triple-park the Jag, with the hazard lights on, or he would not have got home in time to lead the Israelites though the wilderness that Is M&S now that they've rearranged every- thing and gone all fancy in an effort to revert their declining sales.
You may wish to order a copy of my own history of the Jewish people, Growing Up Poor and Miserable with Chronic Conjunctivi- tis in Ireland (just to suck readers in), which is Much better and more scholarly than Paul Johnson's. Actually, I am giving away copies to anyone who will pop round and, at the same time, take away a lot of poetry antholo- gies and the entire print-run of How To Eat by Denisella Ross, just so that I can get back into the garage again.
Anyway, I go to Six-13 with my mother and my mother's cousin, Norma, who shares my fixation with Nigella Lawson =although she sometimes does things so unkosher that my hair stands on end' — and her husband, Harry, and their niece, Sima, who is visiting from Israel. Norma and Harry and Sima are all observant while my mother and I are rather lapsed. Still, we are all rather excited you would be if, to date, the only Jewish timing-out experience has meant Blooms. Blooms! Where, as Harry puts it, 'the inso- lence of the waiters knows no limits'. He once asked for mustard to go with his salt beef. The waiter brought it but then whisked it away again almost immediately. Harry asked that it might be returned. 'What? For a second time?' asked the waiter. Still, I quite like Blooms for the way they serve chopped egg. Actually, they don't so much serve it as Contemptuously shoot it at you from an ice- cream scoop. There is always this fantastic moment of tension as you wait to see if it is going to land on your plate or in your lap. Or the floor. 'Sorry, but my chopped egg seems to have landed on the floor.' So?'
Into the restaurant, where the decor upsets everyone instantly and, as it transpires, irreparably. It is very minimal. White table- cloths, pale-green walls, green velvet ban- quettes, bare floor. This is a mistake, I think, because 'Jew' and 'minimal' just do not go together. Jews need to see what they are get- ting for their money. Jews have never really got to grips with the 'less is more' philosophy. With Jews, more is more and a lot more is a lot more and, if you have a lot more, show it, wear it, drive it, dress the kids in it, dress the dog in it. It is very . . . unadorned,' announces my mother, unhappily. 'A bit of patterned carpet would have been nice,' adds Harry. Later, when the bearded man at the next table introduces himself as a director of the restaurant, Harry repeats, 'A bit of pat- terned carpet would have been nice.' 'Do you know,' replies the director, 'what patterned carpet costs these days?'
It's a weekday night, but busy. Well, three quarters full. Harley Street is just around the corner so it will probably do well with doc- tors, at least. My mother, however, just can- not get over the (lack of) decor. 'No flowers,' she sighs. I tell her it's meant to be minimal. `But, you'd think, one picture,' she continues. My mother, by the way, said she'd only come if I didn't write about the fact that she washes up paper straws. Of course, I promised immediately, and, as I'm known for keeping promises, she was wholly reassured. Harry, it then turns out, washes up paper straws, too. `And can you tell me, between sneers, what is wrong with that?' he asks. 'I also wash out paper towels and put them on the radiator to dry.' He says it's not about being mean, it's about not being able to abide waste. He isn't mean. He'd get taxis, if only Norma would let him, but she won't. 'Especially not now we've got our free bus passes,' she says, adding, `The day Harry got his free bus pass he went on seven buses.' It's true,' confirms Harry. 'I kept changing buses like a maniac.'
To the menu, created by Steve Collins, a non-Jewish chef, formerly of Quaglino's and Circus, and who has proved himself jolly inventive considering he's had to observe all the kosher rules which, basical- ly, can be summed up as: dairy-free, no pork, no shellfish. He has aimed for a mix of 'international modern dishes' and 'Jew- ish classics', from which category we all rather fancy the chicken consommé with matzo balls (i.e., chicken soup) to start with. Tragically, though, they've run out. What, by 8 p.m.? 'Yes. Sorry.' I think this a bit naughty, I must say. I mean, a Jewish eatery without chicken soup?
Still, we settle for alternatives. Harry and Sima go for the barley soup with butter beans and beef (£5), while my mother opts for the grilled Provençal vegetables (£5.50). Meanwhile, Norma chooses the wild smoked salmon (£15.50) while I choose the tame smoked salmon (£8) to see if either of us can notice the £7.50 difference. We can't. 'How's the soup, Harry?' 'The spoon is too small,' he complains. My mother likes her choice. 'My provincial vegetables were very good.' Provincial? Are they from just outside Leeds? My mother always gets everything one beat wrong. My mother recently asked me if I knew anything about `corn dot' companies.
The main courses? Harry has the salt beef with herb and horseradish dumplings (£16). And? 'The beef is thick-cut, with a good tex- ture. But it isn't salty enough. It's too bland, with no fat. And, as any salt-beef expert will tell you, fat is the delicate part.' Sima has poached halibut with crispy ginger and Chi- nese-style stock (£18.50). She pronounces it `very, very salty'. We all have a taste. She is right. In fact, it is inedibly salty. We mention this to the waiter who says, sympathetically, `Oh dear. I'll tell the chef,' but takes no fur- ther action. This upsets Harry who recalls taking his nephew out to dinner in America, his nephew sending a tough steak back and getting a replacement dish, without being charged for either. Harry thought this great, `especially as I was paying'. Still, I enjoy my fillet of sea bream with hummus (£14), while my mother enjoys her chargrilled rib- eye fillet steak (£17.50). Norma does not enjoy her fillet steak so much, though. 'A bit salty, too,' she concludes.
We share three puddings between us including an odd pavlova shaped like a Zep- pelin — and, all in all, with one bottle of wine, the bill comes to just over £200. We agree we've had a good time but could have done with a few more frills. Something to nosh on while waiting for our first course, perhaps. Bread left on the table. A cafetiere of coffee rather than titchy, individual cups charged at £2.75 a go. 'And flowers,' adds my mother. 'And maybe a picture.' Appar- ently, 40 per cent of customers thus far have actually been Gentile. 'And how can you tell?' we ask the maitre d"They say every- thing is wonderful,' he says.
Six-13, 19 Wigmore Street, London W1; tel: 020 7629 6133.
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