Michael Gove
AT the end of a week when an order once unquestioned has been challenged, when the fount of authority has been impertinently asked to justify its curious hierarchies, complex rituals and stiff precedence, I must admit that I have been converted to the radical cause. The time has come to throw off years of unthinking deference. The past may have been glorious. Our memories may be worth cherishing. But the hour has arrived when the Ivy should be deposed from its throne. London's best restaurant? My Pope's Eye it is.
Any visitor to London consulting a guide to the city's restaurants will be instructed that the Ivy is the best. Any businessman hoping to impress a client will be reminded that the West Street establishment has no rival. Any suitor hoping to close a more intimate deal will find friends recommend the Ivy first. But should they succeed in securing a table, a trial which would have taxed the guile of Odysseus and made his return trip from Troy seem relaxed, then they may begin to question by what right the Ivy wears its crown.
They will find an establishment not so much trading on its reputation as reclining on it; a clientele not so much A-list, PLU, BCBG or even straight U as plain OK!; and a menu which seems like a collection of cover versions of great hits from the Eighties, a K-Tel carte.
Encouraged to try the restaurant's trademark pudding of Scandinavian iced berries in white-chocolate sauce, the diner may think a more appropriate signature dish would be pressed leaves of laurel (sat on for ten years) drizzled in faded glitter with a desiccated agent on the side.
There are reasons other than the handme-down recommendations of its undiscriminating fans why the Ivy still remains a popular restaurant. Enough of the professionalism which marked the establishment's heyday still remains for it to count in the capital's top 50 or so. But the ovine belief among so many that it is London's best can no longer be justified. Two evening visits in the course of the last week, one with two political figures, the other with in-laws visiting from Italy, confirmed the limitations of the place.
The first black mark goes down in the jotter even before passing through the door. The restaurant's principal doorman, top-hatted and Richard James-tied, seems to adjust the warmth of his greeting to match the social wattage of the customer. The higher your celeb-count, the wider the smile. I met with a grimace. It set the uncertain tone for the service found inside.
It is not that the staff inside the Ivy are rude. That would be too imprecise a description of the ambience they create. Instead one gets the sense of being a toter ated adjunct to the main event, as though one were the Hello! photographer at Elton John's birthday party, allowed to eat one's fill but subtly reminded that one's place at the table is provisional. One gets it in the hurry-along-now brusqueness of the waiters when ordering, the lack of illumination on how individual dishes will be dressed or what automatically accompanies them, the canteen-speed with which plates are plonked down, and the absence of any distinctly personal touch for the general customer. The capacity the Ivy once had to make every visitor feel as though they were doing the maitre d' a favour just by turning up has evaporated like the steam off iced berries doused in hot chocolate.
And the food? It is a couple of notches above competent on a menu which has, like Elton, now lost its edge with age. The Ivy tries to fuse clubby classics (corned beef hash, shepherd's pie, anchovies on toast as a savoury) with a menu Gordon Gekko might have thought novel when celebrating a leveraged buy-out in the Wall Street of the Eighties (Asian hors d'oeuvres, steak tartare, those berries) alongside a sprinkling of French classics, Pacific Rim innovations and occasional, fading debutantes.
The huge range of dishes on the menu might seem to promise something for everyone, but no truly disciplined kitchen aiming for excellence, in shopping or cooking, would really want to advance on such a broad front. Quality control will be difficult to maintain, formulaic approaches will set in, and a certain air of if-it's-good-enoughfor-Gill complacency will permeate the establishment.
On our visits, the spinach and Roquefort salad was adequate but uninspired and overpriced at £7.75, the asparagus and quail's egg salad ditto at £9.75. The crispy duck salad at £9.25 was hardly a steal, and hardly a novel take on the Cantonese classic, but it won approval from recently arrived in-laws for strong, clean flavouring and generous presentation.
A rib-eye steak (at a pretty steep £19.75) came without promised chips, but with a pat of herb butter which didn't make up for poorish seasoning and bland (underhung? badly sourced?) meat. The steak tartare (with the promised chips) was a straightforward classic, professionally executed. The only dish I tried, however, which rose above the beta level was the roast poulet des Landes. Exquisitely sauced and stuffed, benefiting from a generous application of truffle and paired with decent pomrnes dauphine, it was appreciated by both my father-in-law and me (notwithstanding the 07.50 cost).
That over two evenings, with five separate companions, only one of the dishes stuck in the mind is a poor judgment on what aspires to be London's best restaurant. That a night there, with a mid-level bottle of wine between two, one drink beforehand and a single pudding shared by the table, should cost upwards of £60 per person is pushing it.
If you're tempted to try the Ivy nevertheless, because its glamour appeals or its residual professionalism at least provides a guarantee of a floor below which standards won't drop, then allow me please to make two alternative suggestions. And keep them in the family.
The Ivy's two sister restaurants, Le Caprice and the fish restaurant J. Sheekey's, both enjoy a decisive advantage over the West Street diva. In social terms, Le Caprice is a little less Café and a good deal more Society than the Ivy, with a simultaneously more discriminating and hipper clientele. It also boasts a more focused menu and warmer staff.
Even better, however, is Sheekey's. The concentration on fish (where the British traits of quality produce and simplicity of treatment are shown to best advantage) has brought discipline to the menu, resulting in consistently high standards within a deliberately classic repertoire. Its bar is the most charming of the three, as are its staff.
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