I CAN'T think what the burghers of Battersea have done
to deserve it, but they have been given an uncommonly good new restaurant. The thing is, will they appreci- ate it? This doubt is not the mere express- tion of West Londoners' distrust of the dingy south-west: remember, this is bread- roll-throwing country. At 246 (246 Bat- tersea Park Road, 924 1287) they are sensible enough not to provide bread rolls, but you can be sure if they did there would be some well-connected and striped- shirted arm ready and lustily willing to throw them.
Not — and you may be relieved to hear it — that this is the image 246 either suggests or desires. The place (opposite The Latchmere — very handy for the Observer when it arrives) is owned by that Anthony Andrews of English cricket, Phil Edmonds, and run by Ben Wordsworth, who used to preside, with celebrated charm, over 192, Notting Hill.
And it's not just the name here which may remind you of the other place. Once inside the steel and glass door — even outside — the similarity is evident. At the moment, the atmosphere is more muted, though still waiting for their wine-bar licence (now you have to eat when you want a drink); no doubt when it arrives the air will be thick with the clunking of Rolexes against the steel bar. There has always been more the feel of a club than a restaurant about 192, mainly because most of its clientele are locals who know one another. It's difficult to tell whether 246 will go that way — one hopes not, given the locals.
So here you are, upstairs, the steel bar, handsomely loaded with jugs of recondite fruit juices, to your left. The walls are baby-bootee blue, hung with architectural the Deux Magots of drawings. The restraint has paid off: any pictures or decorations and all would be lost. Small, square, straw-coloured tables line the room; on them sit the chic-est ashtrays in London: thick dark blue glass like the silver mustard-pots. The front half of the room is more subdued — chairs and stools are navy (as they are downstairs), while at the back, giving on to the kitchen, a black wooden trellis covers the walls, against which rest banquettes the colour of Heinz tomato soup.
The menu looks like 192's in format (though more fun has been had with typefaces) and in culinary style. They've done something most restaurants don't seem to think very important these days and got themselves a really good, genuine- ly talented chef. Martin Teplitzky (the son of the Australian cookery writer, Greta Anna) has, like Ben and some of the waiting staff, come via 192; before that he ran his own restaurant, Bon Cafard, in Sydney. His cooking style is relaxed and assured, which means he doesn't mind throwing in the odd, unexpected ingre- dient, but won't bombard you with exotica.
His menu changes daily, but if the deep-fried squid with hollandaise is one of the starters when you go, you have to have it: golden rings, so light they're almost fluffy, of sweet-fleshed squid with a hollan- daise made as light as a sabayon by the addition of an egg-white to dip them into. Duck consommé with baby corn and spring onions and a salad of quail with black olives, cornichons and mushrooms give a taste of other starters.
All good restaurants should have a good steak on the menu. Here you can have an excellent charcoal-grilled sirloin with a quirky 'béarnaise' (mustard and a reduc- tion of port and red wine are added) and the best chips I've had since Amsterdam. They've obviously got a first-rate butcher, and the lamb cutlets with bay leaves and rosemary provided further evidence. The calves' liver with button mushrooms and seed mustard was a difficult one to resist; for non-meat eaters, the steamed monkfish with coriander and ginger should do the trick.
Puddings are a real triumph: the choco- late fudge mousse with a raspberry coulis was perfectly judged — not too sweet, not cloying and, for me, a surprising success and the warm nectarine cake with logan- berries and crème fraiche was all too eatable, the moist (hideous word, but the right one) sandy cake contrasting perfectly with the cold, sharp fruit.
The menu is backed up by a good wine list, though you'll do just fine even if you stick to the house wines (Vin de Pays le Vaucluse, £5.75 a bottle). The waitresses manage to be efficient and nice, and Ben Wordsworth has the bedside manner of an erudite and worldly veterinary surgeon. Expect to pay around £20 a head, and you won't regret it.
Nigella Lawson
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