WHEN I was younger and more selfish, I wouldn't countenance
reviewing 192. I spent the best part of my youth — the grown-up, earning, independent part, in my early twenties — in this restaurant. I practi- cally lived here. But I kept it from you, putting pleasure before duty. Now, the place was always too full and too hip to allow me to think I was guarding jealously my own little discovery, but it was my local, indeed remains so, and I think one is understandably, if not quite justifiably, inclined to a protective reticence about anywhere up the road one goes to often and in mufti.
But the enduring modishness of 192 ren- ders such an excuse untenable. And now, 11 years since it first opened, that it is expanded and reopened I can't honestly think of a good reason to keep stumm. 192 has always been the hang-out of le tout Not- ting Hill, which I imagine is somewhat more amusing if you happen to live there yourself. But I suspect, also, that the atmo- sphere that greets the outsider is not as hostile, cliquey or impenetrable as one might fear, if only because 192 has never been just a hang-out for locals. With wines supplied by one of its co-owners, John Armit (the two others being Tchaik Chas- sey and Tony Macintosh, in other words, the triumvirate later to forge the Groucho Club), and a history of employing young, talented chefs before they got famous, 192 has always been, in terms of style and ambi- ence, rather more along the lines of a loose-limbed Caprice del West.
It used to occupy the ground and base- ment floors of one slim house in Kensing- ton Park Road; now the place has been expanded into next door and it is an immense improvement. Tchaik Chassey has changed it while keeping it the same. He has always made sure it feels both contem- porary and jazzily retro. Most of all, his ease with the design of the place conveys itself in the mood of the room: it may be fashionable (and, if Tchaik Chassey does it, it is by virtue of the very fact fashionable) but it is casual; you can flop into it rather than having to dress up for it. Though it must be said much of the relaxed atmo- sphere comes from the trickle-down effect from Tony Macintosh, gentleman-restaura- teur and someone who manages to hide essential pernicketiness under a laid-back manner. The redone colours are ail-end Ameri- can deco, 50s rather than 30s: lilac and lemon, with slabs of acid green and muted turquoise. The banquettes and chairs are as they always were, in a shade somewhere between terracotta and burgundy, and the tables are the same too, shining with a beetroot glaze, more 70s and early 80s than anything else.
The wood of the old bar has been replaced by a curved slab of petrol-blue resin, within which you can see glimmering a spangled network of tiny lights, like fire- flies trapped within. It is difficult not to have too high expec- tations of the reincarnated 192, given its old form. When it opened, a young unknown called Alastair Little was in the kitchen, with Ben Wordsworth front of house; then came Adam Robinson with Kate Harben (who went together to start the Brackenbury); followed by Angela Dwyer (who went on to The Wilds and is now at the Groucho) with Martin Saxon (who, having run almost every trendy joint in London, now has his own place, The Lexington); after whom came Maddalena Bonino (holder of cookery schools in Italy and now at Bertorelli's) and it is her sous- chef, Josh Hampton, who runs the kitchen now. Although it is commendable that they should still go for a young chef yet to make a name, if I'd been them I'd have tried to woo Angela Dwyer back from the Groucho — though since that would have meant poaching from themselves I can see the dif- ficulties. His menu's not bad, but on pre- sent record I'd have to say Josh Hampton isn't of the stature of his predecessors. The food's good enough, but you wouldn't go especially for it. Perhaps that's fine. I can see that no one really goes to 192 just for the food, after all, but I thought the expan- sion plans were partly to turn it into a more serious eating, rather than drinking and talking, restaurant.
Fish and chips and vegetable risotto, thick and creamy and studded with peas, velvety broad beans and shards of leek and parmesan, are particular successes. And one can eat happily in one of my favourite ways, from a jumbled collection of starters. My favourite dinner there comprised three starters (chorizo-stuffed squid, mushrooms soused and sauteed with garlic and parsley and an admittedly rather botched Baba Ganoush) between the two of us for a first course, another starter each (small portion of the risotto and a cos salad, herb-sprin- kled and dusted with parmesan, with one order of chips) for a main course and a nut tart with butterscotch ice-cream between us for pudding. Together with a couple of glasses of wine and an elderflower spritze each, and a bottle of water between us, the bill, without service, came to £44, which really is not bad.
The drink, of course, remains sublime. I am in fairly modest form as regards drink- ing, so haven't tried as much as I might like, but I am bowled over by the Grand Cru Emilion (1988 Château Rolland Maillet, £14.75 a bottle, £3.05 or £4.90 a glass) which is gloriously deep, soft and smoky. And for £2.15 or £3.50 a glass, £10.50 a bot- tle, there's a lovely Bordeaux (Château La Croix de Roche, 89): but these are just snippets and the wine list deserves a serious wallow.
Service is slick and friendly on a good day, annoyingly distracted on a bad. The required mood of glamorous efficiency is fostered and maintained by Mary Lou Stur- ridge, back here again on leave from the Groucho.
There: I've told you.
192 Kensington Park Road, W11; tel: 071 229 0482
Nigell a Lawson
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