NOSH BROTHERS

Peter Barnes Yoo

THERE is a delicious unfairness about being a restaurant reviewer. Every week, I craft original and thought-provoking analy- ses of British politics and public policy for the Economist — you should read them. Yet my regular fan club is limited to a pro- fessor of comparative politics, an anony- mous correspondent who expresses himself in green ink and block capitals, and a col- league whose e-mails congratulate me on 'daring to be dull'. Then, a few weeks ago, the editor of this magazine invited me to tell you about taking a blind date to a bad restaurant. Overnight, I find myself invited to more dinners than I can eat, I am redis- covered by wealthy relatives, and unknown girls at drinks parties thrust their telephone numbers at me.

Buoyed by this new-found celebrity, I put in a call to Sarah Fitzgerald. Sarah is one of those impossibly leggy blondes who could have been a supermodel had she not decid- ed to pursue a career in business. Normally, her diary is booked solid weeks in advance. This time, the words Spectator and restau- rant uttered in the same sentence magically freed her for dinner on a Friday evening.

We decided to try out the newly opened Nosh Brothers in All Saints' Road, that orphaned piece of west London below the Westway which has recently been adopted by Notting Hill. The Nosh Brothers (Mick and Nick) first opened a restaurant in Ful- ham in 1993, but this closed after mixed reviews. The new venture has lost one of the brothers but kept the name. Understand- ably, perhaps, as a singular Nosh Brother might sound misleadingly Caribbean or monastic.

The first positive sign came when I booked the table. Some new restaurants delight in humiliating potential customers

— they grudgingly concede you a table three weeks ahead, but only if you sound as

though you wear Versace, agree to eat at

7.15 p.m. and leave within an hour and a half. At Nosh Brothers, the voice on the

end of the telephone sounded welcoming and friendly, and cheerfully acquiesced when I called back later to adjust the time of my reservation.

I was a few minutes late in arriving. Sarah rose to greet me in black knee-length boots and matching micro-skirt. I explained that it was just the warm restaurant after the cold night air that had caused my glass- es to steam up. Nick Nosh himself wel- coined me in, and, without a h'nt of sartori- al criticism, relieved me of my trademark green anorak.

Sarah had already been impressed by the service. They did not stock cigarettes in the restaurant, but one of the waitresses had fetched her a packet from a local shop. By the time I arrived, she was comfortably installed at a corner table with a cigarette and a glass of champagne. The restaurant occupies a deep rectangular room, waisted by a bar and a stairwell, accommodating perhaps a dozen reasonably spaced tables. Decor suggests a brasserie — laminated wood tables, bare wooden floors and mini- mal decoration — but the noise level was much more bearable than such minimalism threatened. The clientele spanned a wide age-range and, unusually for Notting Hill, not everyone wore black.

To both of us, 'nosh', like 'tuck' or 'scoff, had advertised quantity rather than quality; food proclaiming its honesty rather than its ambition. But the menu, with half-a-dozen choices each for starters and for the main course, offered mouth-watering combina- tions of ingredients. From a list of 30 wines, including ten for under £20 a bottle, the waitress helped us choose a young but tasty Gamay de Touraine.

I started with a risotto of Jerusalem arti- chokes and winter greens, an interesting flavour with just the right al dente crunchi- ness, topped with slivers of deep-fried parsnips. Sarah's scallops with lentils, pars- ley and chorizo demonstrated superb tech- nique, the outside of the scallops caramelised, the inside still tender and fresh.

We were equally impressed with our main courses. My roast brill was a model of how fish should be cooked, and the simplic- ity of the preparation highlighted its fresh- ness. It came with a confit of potatoes and deep-fried capers. Sarah's pappardelle, with wild mushrooms, parsley and truffle oil was as exquisite as it sounds. The pasta had that yolky smoothness only achievable when it is freshly made. And the truffle oil accentuated rather than overwhelmed the flavour of the mushrooms. As a test, I asked our waitress to identify the mush- rooms, which looked to me like a mixture of ceps, chanterelles and trompettes de la mort. She did not know, but named the firm which supplied them and revealed that she had spent the afternoon brushing dirt from their gills with a paintbrush.

The puddings sounded irresistible and our waitress correctly predicted which one each of us would choose. Sarah opted for the chocolate pot of which I stole a spoon- ful. I cannot remember the last time I have eaten such good chocolate: rich, bitter, but- tery and offset by crème fraiche. I plumped for the intriguing orange, fennel and Cam- pari jelly, which held soft bitefuls of fruit and vegetable.

I had originally planned on a fairly quick supper. It had been a tiring week, I had a busy weekend ahead, and the weather was wet and cold. But our chairs were so com- fortable, and the surroundings so conge- nial, that we lingered, first over herbal teas and then over whisky, until after midnight, having arrived at half-past eight. For me, of course, a long evening with Sarah was hard- ly an endurance test; and she may have been glad to defer the hazards of a shared taxi ride. But not once did we feel hurried or pressured by the restaurant staff.

Often, I begrudge a 12.5 per cent service charge, but at Nosh Brothers it seemed fully justified. 'You obviously have to be slim to work here,' had been Sarah's initial verdict on the four waitresses, although the generalisation would have been harder to sustain if extended to Mr Nosh. But more importantly than being well-proportioned and good-looking — although they were both — the waitresses were enthusiastic, knowledgable and attentive. When they asked us if we were enjoying ourselves, it was with genuine interest, not, as some- times seems the case, to forestall subse- quent haggling over the bill. It was clear that everyone took pride in being part of a collective enterprise.

Our bill came to just over £100, but with- out the champagne and digestifs we could have got away for a little over £70. Not cheap, perhaps, but good value for a deli- cious meal in pampering surroundings. So should you eat there yourself? Definitely ' not. I plan to go back, and I want to be sure of a table.

Nosh Brothers!, 12 All Saints' Road, London W11; tel: 0207 243 2808. Open for dinner every day except Sunday.

Peter Barnes writes for the Economist.