RESTAURANTS AS THEATRE
Alice Thomson
HOW DO you write restaurant reviews without ending up as fat as a quail stuffed with foie gras and white truffles? The answer is Sharon. She first came to my res- cue five years ago when I became a political correspondent and discovered lunch. After six months of eating fish and chips at the Ivy with new Labour ministers and omelette Arnold Bennett at the Savoy Grill with old Tory peers, I surrendered to a local gym and explained my problems to the glam- orous girl on the next stool at the juice bar. Sharon decided to take me in hand. Within a week we were running up and down the steps outside the Athenaeum before press conferences. Within a month I had graduat- ed to press-ups against the railings outside Buckingham Palace, and by the end of the Year I'd finished my first marathon.
On our runs round Hyde Park I told Sharon the truth about everything in my life except what I still ate for lunch. Then I became a restaurant reviewer and she start- ed reading about my eating habits in The Spectator. There were the three courses of souffles at Marco Pierre White's, the six- Course dinner at Anthony Worrell Thomp- son's and the tartare of sea scallops with Creme fraiche and caviar at Gordon Ram- say's. I tried to explain to Sharon, who likes soya milk cappuccinos and wheatgrass shots for breakfast, that it was healthier to have three meals a day than to snack on strawberry and white chocolate muffins from the Seattle Coffee Company. She remained unconvinced, and each Week I could guess her opinion of my latest review from the number of laps we did round the Serpentine. So I decided we should do a restaurant review together. My husband Ed and I turned up at the Savoy's American bar one Friday night ready to Prove that eating out could be a 'healthy Option'. The massed banks of businessmen suddenly swivelled towards the door as the red-haired vision in black leather trousers an down the stairs. Sharon was closely fol- 'Owed by Shane, a six foot four chaperone, mahogany hair flowing, who had a similar effect on the corporate wives. Shane was a cameraman/producer who had come straight from filming Noel's House Party, a punish- ment for which he deserved a good dinner. But would Sharon allow us to drink? 'I'll ll have a glass of champagne,' she said. 'Make that four,' we all replied, slightly too quickly. I love the Savoy but had promised that we'd go somewhere so new that the china still had its labels on it. So we crossed the Strand, already heaving with weekend revellers, to a discreet entrance in the Aldwych.
Axis is not the right establishment to take an elderly relative. The name of this new ilberrestaurant can only mean one thing for any pensioner: Hitler's alliance with Mus- solini, and then Hirohito. The theme is 1930s Berlin, and in case you still don't understand the menus are printed on the South Morning Post 1936 and the waiters involuntarily click their Wannabe shoes. This is a fascist fetishist's dream. But in this post-modern age where wasabi rubs shoul- ders with sauerkraut and rice pudding, ide- ology is no match for gastronomy, and most diners care more for the petits fours than for politics.
The entrance is at the side of the new five-star hotel, One Aldwych. A wrought- iron clanking door leads down to several marble steps that deserved a longer dress than I was wearing. Our 9.30 table still wasn't ready, so we perched at the art deco `deck bar' watching the diners below and surveying the lurching skyscrapers in the Vorticist painting by Richard Walker.
We were talking about how rude waiters can be, when four glasses of complimentary champagne appeared. Every five minutes the manageress would arrive, smiling mani- acally and apologising for the delay. When we finally got to our black leather seats, three waiters were there to cope with our demands. The staff were so punctilious that for a moment we were back in that pre-war world where Englishmen were polite to each other at all costs. 'Is your food geneti- cally modified?' Sharon asked. The waitress rushed off to find out. 'Do you take the romantic filters off the lights at lunch?' Shane inquired. The senior waiter was called over. Ed was relieved that the home front hadn't been left out of the menu of linguini and Saikyo cod. There was haybaked Welsh lamb, seared breast of Norfolk duck and grilled Scottish lobster. 'Why is it called jugged hare, 1922?' he asked. 'It's based on a recipe from Queen Victoria's chef,' another waiter replied. Ed pointed out that Prince Albert's wife had died in 1901. 'I'm afraid I didn't pass my history GCSE,' came the polite answer. We all wondered why only certain dishes merited asterisks and the explanation 'cook's speciality', but on reflection decided that we had troubled them enough.
I ordered the asparagus, and when Sharon followed suit, I felt vindicated. Ed, now on his third glass of champagne, went for the devilled prawn cocktail — presum- ably from a 1972 recipe — with an asterisk beside it. Sadly, this attempt at retro-kitsch in the kitchen was not a vintage dish. Salad cream and tomato ketchup would have made a less cloying sauce and the crustacea were flabby. Shane's stacked sweet potato crisps with smoked chicken, avocado and pine nuts was pure 1980s California, but it showed the West coast at its freshest, Bay- watch on a plate without the implants.
When Sharon chose the ravioli of fresh- water prawn and crayfish with lobster froth, we knew the gourmet gloves were off, and we could indulge ourselves without fear of censure. Ed's jugged hare with redcurrant jelly and a gratin of turnip and celeriac was sensational apart from what looked like hare droppings around the edge, which he refused to taste. My pan-seared mustard and fennel seed tuna would have deserved a chef's star, but it arrived lukewarm. Shane raved about his steak but wondered whether it would have been better hot. With the air- conditioning putting a Teutonic chill in the atmosphere, we would have welcomed a faster transfer between oven and plate.
It seemed sensible to choose cold pud- dings. Ed's elderflower jelly with cham- pagne sorbet looked like an upside-down cabaret dancer balancing a bowler hat on her legs. Shane, who promised he was going to the gym the next day, ordered English plum cake. It came accompanied by a large Victoria plum and a glass of 'homemade love potion liqueur', a surpris- ingly good concoction of eau de vie, cinna- mon, capers and vanilla, all marinated in the fridge for two weeks.
The food may be delicious, but the atmo- sphere is chilling, especially after midnight when they turned the lights back up, and we were able to observe an Arab man at the adjacent table feeding four obviously bored young women. Nevertheless, either the love potion or the steaming hot mint tea sent us glowing into the night, and Sharon has added restaurant reviewing to her list of approved leisure activities, along with t'ai chi, yoga, gardening and meditation.
Axis, 1 Aldwych, London WC2; tel. 0171 300 0300. Dinner for two, £90.
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