Restaurant: Chez Nico
Cthez Nico is for those who take eating ‘,.....,seriously. It is in Queenstown Road, between Chelsea Bridge and Clapham Junction, the most dismal of places: those never-ending streets of grey-fronted ter- raced houses; the raw wind hurtling across the Thames; those low-lit drawing-rooms peeping out beneath their festoon blinds. More than anything, it's the tribal pull that mindlessly draws all those downwardly noble here that is so depressing — and no amount of beautiful Georgian squares can make up for this wilderness of monkeys.
Two taxis failed to turn up on time, then both turned up together, so I arrived late. I'd warned them first, which was just as well as they have very little time for the unpunctual: 'We know you expect a lot from us,' their squiggly menu threatens; 'in return can we ask just a little from you: please be on time!'
The first thing that strikes you on enter- ing the restaurant (you have to ring the bell and be let in — very intime)is its smallness (it seats 31) and relative plainness. Despite its frilly reputation, Chez Nico is pleasingly inelegant. Stripped pine boards skirt suedette and Laura Ashley sprig; the ruling trends of high-tech or Interiors-tasteful don't get a look-in.
The menu is similarly unfussy, though not without its flourishes. To start with, I had the mousseline de sole et de crabe au gingembre nappee de crème de sauternes — a fragrant, cream-coloured mousse stuf- fed with the thinnest juliennes of crab and covered with the lightest of sauces, more like a grapy, unsweet sabayon. Another starter I can recommend is the terrine de foie gras with a salad of lamb's lettuce. The terrine was soft and rich and bordered with a beautifully flavoured golden jelly.
All the main courses were appealing: &lice de turbot en feuillete, sauce legere de langoustine, supreme de poulard de Bretagne au riesling et aux morilles, carre d'agneau au romarin and les deux cailles farcies au fumet de truffes were the most tempting. Our choices — the rosy-pink lamb with a beurre blanc flavoured with rosemary and garlic and the quails, stuffed with chicken's livers, chicken breasts and bacon under a glossy, chestnut-coloured sauce of veal stock reduced with madeira and truffle juice — were impressive rich, but not heavy. I'd've been happier still if the vegetables, nouvellishly slithered and splintered as they were, had been treated even more simply: the cream on the potatoes and cheese on the leek- shavings were unnecessary.
Cheese comes at £5 for one person, £10 for two or three. The £5 plate, however, would probably feed about four people even without a starter and main course beforehand. It consists of a very generous plateful of about eight cheeses including, at least the day I went, three different types of chevre.
A chefs puddings are like a couturier's ball-dresses — an opportunity to dazzle and be just that little bit vulgar. Nico's biscuit praline au coulis de framboises was the most wonderful — and refreshing — mixture of tastes and, I'd have thought, the finest on his sparkling list.
The wine list is trim, if not short, and not at all bad. The mark-up is marginally less violent than in some places, though you won't get much for under £15; for that price I had a 1982 Cotes de Beaune Villages, which was quite delicious. I do think, however, that £3.50 for a glass of Muscat de Beaumes de Venise is pushing it a bit. I should have preferred the chance of a glass of sauternes.
Now for the crunch: this charming din- ner for two, plus a couple of glasses of chambery, set me back £89. Given that a session at the local Italian would cost about £35, Chez Nico is worth it if you've got it. But nearly £100 is an awful lot of money.
But if you're interested in really good food Nico Ladenis is a chef worth saving up for. Be warned though: he has a reputation for being somewhat temperamental and dictatorial. There's no salt or pepper on the table, not the remotest possibility of a well-done steak. You eat his food as he intends it to be eaten or not at all.
Artists are allowed their temperaments, but I put my foot down at his head- waitress. Monumental in her cardigan, she reminds me of an unpopular teacher who minds desperately about being unloved but couldn't be charming if she tried. When I asked her about the food she disappeared ungraciously into the kitchen and came back with the barest of replies. In fact, I had to ring up M. Ladenis the next day just to talk to him about what I'd eaten. He made manful excuses for her, but I hope that when he moves to smart new premises in Chelsea in three months' time (in pursuit of his third Michelin star), she'll soften her manner.
Nigella Lawson
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