IT can't have escaped many people's atten- tion that many
of London's newer 'dining experiences' are little but nightclubs mas- querading as restaurants; post-modern gin- palaces that also attempt to sell food. The Metropolitan Hotel in Park Lane, which opened a few years ago, is cool to the point of being hypothermic, while the people who front its restaurant — the American import Nobu — seem to have inherited their atti- tude from the members-only Met Bar beneath. The food is exquisite (if someone takes you, try the blackened cod), though the service is execrable. Why is it that these places charge thirtysomething prices when offering only twentysomething service?
If I was in my twenties I'm sure I would appreciate being made to wait, to feel uncomfortable and to thank my lucky stars that such a trendy emporium had opened its doors to me. But not any more. I am a thirtysomething with thirtysomething tastes and expect thirtysomething hospitality.
Last week I went to lunch at St M, one of two restaurants in the celebrated American hotelier Ian Schrager's new guest-house, St Martin's Lane, and again was made to feel as though I were lucky to be there. First there was a problem when we arrived, bang on 1 p.m., with the maitre d' denying all knowledge of our booking, even though it had been confirmed that morning. Could they fit us in? Seeing as the restaurant was barely a third full you would have thought so, but even this became the subject of a heated debate between Mr D, two waiters and a partly completed booking sheet.
After five embarrassing minutes, during which we shuffled about feeling silly while they found us a table, and a further two When we asked to be moved to the window, we were allowed to sit down, only to be Ignored for a further five. Then — aston- ishingly — when we finally ordered, we were made to feel uneasy because we chose only main courses. With no wine! What amateurs we were! Plates were removed; glasses swiftly airlifted off the table and cutlery swept from under our arms. It was made very clear that we obviously weren't taking the place seriously enough.
St M would have saved itself some brownie points if the food had been exem- plary, but I have to say it was little more than mediocre (and not cheap). I devoured a lukewarm plate of grilled halibut (at 1.40 P.M. I would have eaten a second-hand Big
Mac), and my guest made his way politely through the corn-fed chicken. We polished off our water, sunk two small espressos and then waited an eternity (oh, all right then, ten minutes) for our bill, all £50-plus of it. A minor restaurant with major intentions, St M would be well advised to start treating its patrons with the respect their wallets deserve.
There are so many bad new restaurants in London that one wonders why anyone ever goes anywhere else but the Ivy. So many restaurants are intermittently right; the Ivy, for its sins, seems to be right all the time. It is often called the best restaurant in theatreland, and with good reason. The dining-room is immaculate, the service faultless, the atmosphere impeccable. Even the food is good. Every time.
I've eaten at the Ivy ever since it opened, nearly a decade ago, and for the last nine months have been going there three times a week. I started my new job in March and needed an irreproachable restaurant to entertain the great, the good and the unconvinced. So 1 chose two, the Caprice
'Of course our dirty linen is washed in public, where else?' and the Ivy, two sisters who seem to age with intriguing grace. The men got the Ivy, the women the Caprice. And so far I've had no complaints (not even from the accounts department; not yet, anyway). Thankfully, the Ivy is as stuck in its ways as a tram. And I'm lucky to eat there.
I went again this week with a much val- ued contributor, and neither of us was dis- appointed. 1 ordered a large bottle of still water (does anyone still go fizzy?) and the famous loin of blue-fin tuna (with spiced lentils and wild rocket), while my guest had two small glasses of Brouilly and the fish and chips (deep fried haddock with minted pea puree and tartare sauce). No melange of capers and Creole aubergine, no larks' tongues in aspic, no contretemps of scal- lops and artichoke hearts on a bed of lin- guini and ding-dong beans. Just grade-A comfort food delivered to your table almost without you noticing. The bill came to £60, as it usually does, including coffees and service.
As most people know by now, the Ivy's clientele is deafeningly, blindingly star- studded. Actors, chat-show hosts, newspa- per editors, above-the-line soap stars, a ver- itable petri dish of power. It's been called some kind of secret society, although it's really not so secret any more. Some people go to the Ivy to stare, and, while I suppose it might be comforting to eat your risotto Nero next to Robert De Niro, that's not the point of the restaurant at all. The Caprice may still attract those of a double-decker persuasion (and that's not a criticism), but the Ivy is an egalitarian restaurant, with not a hint of snobbery or unctuousness. (Chris Corbin and Jeremy King, the men who run these two restaurants, do not seem to seek the type of publicity that has turned entrepreneurs like Marco Pierre White and Gordon Ramsay into household names, When a Sunday supplement recently tried to profile them, not only did they not co- operate themselves but none of their cus- tomers did either.) Does the Ivy have any faults? Well, the sashimi is always too wet, and occasionally the salads can be over-garnished. Also, if you're new to the restaurant, and male, the gents' loo can be mildly disconcerting (where other places have open kitchens, the Ivy has an open 'convenience', conve- niently placed at the bottom of the stairs). But this is quibbling.
I sometimes think I should stop eating there, because it's impossible not to put on weight. And I'm loath to end up like one of those power-lunching suits whose necks disappear down into an aureole of fat. But I'm not going to. I'm going to take up squash.
St Al, St Martin's Lane Hotel, St Martin's Lane, London WC2; tel: 0171 300 5544. The Ivy, 1 West Street, London WC2; tel: 0171 836 4751.
Dylan Jones is the editor of GQ.
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