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`I MEAN, OK, I understood there was a recession on,' I overheard one man say to another in the Groucho Club the other night, 'but I didn't believe it had got this bad: do you realise you can get a table same day — for lunch at the Caprice without booking?'
I think this alarming state of affairs is exaggerated, but the fact remains, how dif- ficult it is to get a table at a smart restau- rant is probably as good a measure of eco- nomic health, or otherwise, as you can get. Still, suffer as some of the big names might — and the Caprice, you can be sure, is not among these — at the moment, few if any of them, I suspect, will go under. When times are bad, it is the small, not yet estab- lished restaurant that gets frozen out. This is perhaps an unkind way of introducing Rose's. I do not mean to imply that this new, hopeful little restaurant is not long for the Finchley Road, but that the proprietors cannot be thanking their lucky stars for having chosen to open when they did.
On the night I went to Rose's, only one other table was full for dinner, which was a sad sight. I'd heard good things of the chef, so I kept my spirits up and ordered with optimism. A large basketful of warm Ara- bic bread aided the process, although I was sorry that the butter to go with it was salt- ed. This is always a mistake.
The first courses revived my mood. Although the restaurant has a rather old- fashioned air (a great deal of dark green, brass, reclaimed tiling and clutter of this and that) the food is, if not modern, cer- tainly markedly different in character from the cosy, almost cute, and traditional set- ting. It's sort of California-ish, which means a spiky eclecticism and a hot-headiness which, done well, is simple perfection and done badly is simply ridiculous.
Starters, I am happy to report, fell into the first category. Egyptian felafel with Greek yoghurt and lemon, we chose, and goat's cheese ravioli with roasted red pep- pers and tomato sauce. Calling felafel Egyptian is rather like calling lasagne Ital- ian, since Egypt is where it was invented. What it indicates, however, is that the felafel is made with white broad beans rather than with chick-peas — the Israeli variant which has made it over here and which, consequently, everyone erroneously thinks is the ur-recipe. These little ground- bean croquettes came in crisp, cumin-
scented spheres with, to the side, one salsa of tomato and another of mango, both speckled with onion and coriander. A-plus: the smooth yoghurt, smoky hot falafel and sharp, raw salsas making, together, the per- fectly balanced mouthful. The ravioli were slippery fresh, the acerbic smoothness of the white cheese with which they were stuffed providing a resonant and sharp con- trast with the basily sweetness of the toma- to sauce.
Main courses supported the theory that the chef sure knows how to cook, but indi- cated, also, that planning is not one of his skills. The poussin which, the menu promised, was 'roasted in an Algerian marinade with grilled vegetables and coriander-flavoured sour cream' would have been no disappointment at all — far from it — had we ordered different starters. I feel rather that we should have been told, on ordering, that the poussin, deliciously lemony-astringent and golden- crisped as it was, came with the felafel, coriander etc. of our earlier starter. I know I said it was good, but that still didn't mean I wanted to eat it twice in one night. The other main course we tried, roast duck with hash browns, was slightly too fatty, even for me. The small dice of red, red peppers and potatoes were soaked through to limpness with oily juices.
Puddings were the only instances of out- and-out unsatisfactoriness. However, the bananas in the banana crème bailee were so over-ripe they were fizzy, i.e. inedible, the whole anyway misconceived, and the chocolate fudge cake, even with its pecan and bourbon sauce, lacked the requisite voluptuousness.
I felt so sorry for them all at Rose's that I tried to make it up to them by ordering one of their more expensive wines. I was not rewarded for my efforts and all I can say is, don't touch the Fleurie.
Dinner for two came to around £50 with tip. I yearn to eat the salsa-prinked felafel again, and I'd urge anyone to try it. It's early days still for the restaurant and I'd like to think it was going to have the time to consolidate, but I'm afraid it's probably a case of good chef, bad timing.
Rose's, 515 Finchley Road, London NW3 Tel: 071 431 2199
Nigella Lawson
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