Deborah Ross
SO, to Hakkasan, the first Chinese restaurant ever to win a coveted Michelin star, which can be found down a surprisingly seedy, dimly lit alley off Tottenham Court Road. Then, it's past two clipboard Nazis fiercely guarding the entrance — 'Name?' they simultaneously bark, scaring me absolutely witless — and down a hallway so much more dimly lit than the alley that it makes the alley look like a non-starter on the dimly lit front. Goodness, what the hallway could teach the alley about being dimly lit. Truly, you have to feel your way along the walls. And then? Into the huge basement restaurant itself which, actually. is less like a restaurant, more like a state-of-theart, black-latticed, dark-slated, even more dimly lit — this place is less Hakkasan, more the David Blunkett Experience — nightclub. How the music pounds! Truly, it would drive me up the wall, if I could ever feel my way back to it again.
And the clientele? Terrifyingly chic. Paul Smith-clad young men, Guccied young women, all of whom look 20-ish and as if they've just stepped out of a promotional video for loft-living via HuIsta bedroom furniture. You know, if there is a scale of attractiveness that goes, say, from Coronation Street's Gail at one end through to Claudia Schiffer at the other, then this is the sort of place that instantly makes you feel very much stuck at the Gail end. And old. Very old. Which I am, I guess. Indeed, I've even recently taken, with some enthusiasm, to wearing trousers with elasticised waists which, I know, means it's only a short hobble to waterproof pull-on pants, if that. Indeed, when those clipboard Nazis barked at me, my very first thought was, 'I wish I was wearing waterproof pull-on pants.' Still, getting old isn't all bad. As ascending and descending stairs is a tedious business that always gets me out of puff, I'm already looking forward to my stairlift. However, this, of course, will ultimately depend on Dame Thora Hird ever allowing someone else to have a lookin. I'm sure Dame Thora is a national treasure and all that but, blimey, once she gets wedged into something. she stays wedged. Come on, love — time for someone else to have a go. Fair's fair.
Anyway. Hakkasan was opened a couple of years ago by the entrepreneur Alan Yau, the man behind the Wagamama empire. Well, I'll say one thing for it, it's run with an iron-fisted efficiency that may or may not be admirable. I'd booked for 7:30 p.m. and was called twice during the day — less, I think, to confirm my reservation, but more to inform me how long I might be admitted to this exclusive Temple of Cool. 'We're just confirming your reservation from 7.30 p.m. until 9.30 p.m. We will need the table back at 9.30 p.m.' So, being easily intimidated, I arrive at 7.30 p.m. on the dot. However, the two girlfriends I'm due to meet are, it turns out, lazy and unpunctual old slappers, and 7.30 becomes 7.35 and then 7.40, by which time one of the furiously elegant, designer-clad women from the front desk locates me in the bar to ask where they might be. 'Your table is ready,' she stresses. 'We need you at the table.' I say. 'Shove off, you old witch!' Actually, I don't. I'm so easily intimidated it's pathetic. [say, 'I'm sorry.' I say, 'I've no idea where they' are.' I do not add, 'Maybe they've been here before and have stopped off for night-vision spectacles and ear-plugs.' I leave the bar and obediently wait at the table.
At 8 p.m., they finally arrive. Hurrah! The waiter brings the menus, along with a reminder. 'Even though you're half an hour late, we are still going to want the table back at 9:30 p.m.' By this time I'm minded to tell them to take their wretched table. We're off to the Jade Palace down the Holloway Road, where they treat you as king. But then I see the menu — just about, and only with the help of the little drop-down spotlight at the table — and it does all look spectacularly brilliant. Cheap it ain't, but that isn't the point and, anyway, you don't have to order the Peking duck with royal Beluga caviare (E140). Most starters are f7–.€10, and the mains L15420. Actually, Hakkasan is up for the Tio Pepe Canton London Restaurant Award in the Oriental Category, and one of my friends is one of the judges. How cool is that'? 'Has it won?' I ask. She won't say. Yes, the winner has been decided, but the announcement isn't due until 10 March, and she doesn't think she can trust me. Doesn't think she can trust me'? What nonsense is this'? I'm as safe as houses, as everyone knows. I rightly tear her off a strip. Did I ever tell anyone of your adulterous affair? The abortion? The compulsive shoplifting? Maybe. now I think about it, I'm not as safe as houses. Although, that said, I'm probably safer than our house. The other day, I came in through the front door and a lump of plaster fell out of the ceiling and ricocheted off my head. This. I guess, is what happens if you're into crappy old Victorian terrace living, rather than loft-living via Hulsta bedroom furniture.
To the grub. We try three starters between us: roasted mango duck with lemon sauce; fried soft-shell crab with garlic chilli and curry leaf; salt and pepper squid. And? It's all, I've got to admit, startlingly and wonderfully good, the fried soft-shell crab particularly, with its gently spicy batter melting into the pillowy soft crab beneath. (I've just dribbled all over my keyboard, by the way.) Next, we order stir-fry spicy prawn with bell pepper, lily bulb and almond, fried Alaskan snowcrab roll with rosemary, chilli and spring onion, sweet and sour organic pork with pomegranate, and elaypot Chilean sea bass with dried lily flower, red dates and cloud ear. Schiffer? No, cloud ear are big mushrooms which, combined with the sea bass and dates, made for a very dark, loud, gorgeously velvety experience. And the sweet and sour pork? Absolutely nothing like the gloopy neon-orange stuff you'd get down the Jade Palace. Suddenly, I can see why sweet and sour pork might be a good idea. Pudding? No idea. At 9:30 p.m. prompt, before we've even been offered the pudding menu, we're booted off the table. We could have had pudding and coffee in the lounge area but, frankly, after an hour and a half of trying to hear each other above the pounding pop, we are ready to call it a night. Plus, it's past our bedtimes. And I'm stuffed. My elasticated waistband might even be at breaking-point.
So, Hakkasan. Great, great, sexy food, if you can put up with the supposedly chic noise and the gloom. Actually, a brief word of warning about the food which may be worth something, but then again may not. The day after our visit, I suffered from one of those post-Chinese-food raging thirsts and, consequently, phoned the restaurant posing as a potential customer highly allergic to MSG. Could they guarantee the food was MSGfree? 'I cannot lie to you,' said the furiously elegant, designer-clad voice on the other end. 'We do use oils that contain MSG.' I'm not entirely sure, frankly, just how sinister this is, if it's sinister at all. Make up your own mind. Honestly, Boris doesn't pay me enough for me to make it up for you. Toodle-pip!
Hakkasan, 8 Han way Place, London 11.11; tel: 020 7927 7000.
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