Restaurant Al Bustan
THERE is a game I used to play and, as far as I know, coined, which I recommend to all those with suitable temperaments. It is called Deprivations, and it is a game I can describe more efficiently by example than by explanation. For instance, you could be asked if you could read only one writer for the rest of your life, which writer would it be? Or again, if you could go on holiday in only one country for the rest of your life, which country would it be? There are no ready-made categories: the game can be custom-made to suit your own preoccupa- tions and obsessions, the idea being to cause maximum anguish and panicked ditheriness. THERE is a game I used to play and, as far as I know, coined, which I recommend to all those with suitable temperaments. It is called Deprivations, and it is a game I can describe more efficiently by example than by explanation. For instance, you could be asked if you could read only one writer for the rest of your life, which writer would it be? Or again, if you could go on holiday in only one country for the rest of your life, which country would it be? There are no ready-made categories: the game can be custom-made to suit your own preoccupa- tions and obsessions, the idea being to cause maximum anguish and panicked ditheriness.
One of my self-asked questions is: If you could go to only one nationality of res- taurant for the rest of your life, which nationality would it be? I don't think I've ever had too much problem answering it. Italian food I could not live without, but I would be perfectly prepared never to go to another Italian restaurant for as long as I lived. True, my bollito misto doesn't quite match up to Ruthie Rodgers's (at the Riverside cafe) yet, but I'm not giving up hope. No, the answer has always been, for me, Thai restaurants. (My choice is in- formed by the memory, lemongrassy- green, of the floating-market soup at the Blue Elephant and anything at Chiang Mai.) And although I'm not proposing to revoke my verdict, I am prepared to admit to wavering, the cause of which is a visit to Al Bustan, a new Lebanese restaurant in Knightsbridge.
The Lebanon is at the crossroads of the Mediterranean and the Orient — 'the pearl of the Arab kitchen' as it's been called — and is both more varied and more refined than other Middle Eastern cuisine. My favourite Lebanese restaurant had always been Al-Hamra in Shepherd Market, but since its chef, and what seems like most of its waiters, have come over to Al Bustan, I am prepared to go with them. Al Bustan means 'the garden' and the restaurant's decor follows its leafy theme in a muted but insistent manner. Soapy green trellisses line walls and form partitions, shapes, designs and pictures of trees create a convincing backdrop. Lights are bright and the place sparkles. None of the seedy plushness of Shepherd Market here, and although the marble and gilt effects are kept to a restrained minimum, it's pretty well what you might expect from a Lebanese restaurant in the more chi-chi — as opposed to stately — parts of Knights- bridge. On the table as you order lies a basket of crudités, ears of cos lettuce, a whole, bulging beef tomato, shiny peppers and jade cucumbers, all just washed and beaded with cold water. Mezze, the cold and hot hors-d'oeuvres, are always the best things to order, but you have to have enough of them. For that reason you have really to be a minimum of four to extract 'It's Billy the Kid. He didn't turn up and his mother's sent a note.' maximum pleasure from a visit. I can never resist the Moutabbel, the only dish — of any cuisine — that convinces me that an aubergine can taste as magnificent as it looks. The smoky purée of aubergine is prinked with lemon, garlic and tahina; carpaccio-red pomegranate seeds are sprinkled on top. Dip into it torn-off strips from rounds of traditional Arab flat bread, like deflated footballs, one kind smoothly golden, the other almost nan- like , rich and cakey and covered with dark seeds. To go with, there's tabbouleh, the salad (though the word salad conjures up the wrong texture) of burghal (cracked wheat) with parsley, mint, tomatoes and onions, finely chopped and drenched in lemon juice and olive oil. Al Bustan's tabbouleh is lower in burghal, higher in parsley than is common, and comes a glorious, deep, garlic-neutralising green.
The choice I was most pleased with after the moutabbal was the Shanklish, soft goats cheese pounded to a pleasingly acer- bic creaminess with olive oil, onion, chilli and celery. But then I couldn't have borne, either, not to have had the batarikh, an early, indeed Pharoanic, DIY version of taramasalata (you're given the raw ingre- dients; mixing to be done internally); slices of cod's roe (it should really be salted, dried grey-mullet roe), each one topped 'with a large slither of garlic, the size and colour of a cross section of a brazil nut, and drizzled with olive oil.
These, then, are just some of the star- ters, but you will probably find that one or two main courses, to be delivered to the table at the same time as the hors- d'oeuvres, will be about right if there's four of you. This is obviously a Lebanese restaurant for the Lebanese: there are four raw meat dishes on the menu (including raw lamb liver). We chose the kibbeh nayyer, lean raw lamb, blended with bur- ghal, onion and pepper to form gnocchi- sized meatballs. I found the meat just a little too pounded, the texture rather too paste-like; next time I try the habra nayyeh, the lamb diced rather than minced. The shish taouk, boned chicken in a garlicky sauce, was splendid beyond the dreams of gluttony.
I'd give the cakes a miss at the end. The house — or Ksara, which means literally palace (as in Chateau) — red was less rough than I expected, but for £11 a bottle that's not exactly a commendation. Drink instead, Arak, the pastis of the Middle East. There are two sorts, go for the cheaper, touma, at £2.50 a shot — it's surprisingly better and smoother than the more expensive Ksara.
The three of us spent just under £90, but then, we did order enough for about six — which is just how things should be in a place like this.
Al Bustan: 27 Motcomb Street, London SW1X 8JU; tel 071 235 8277.
Nigella Lawson
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