34 Portman Square, W1 (020-7224 0028)I have eaten my last tasting menu, God willing. I suppose it is always possible that I will one day be dragged from the pavement on Camden High Street and bundled into the back of a black sedan by shouting hooded men who cosh me and cuff me, and that I will wake up in a small white room in front of an oversized piece of ornamental crockery and some posh flowers and a branded ashtray and that a man will bring me a plate with three tiny things on
and describe each one (probably some
crusted shellfish, a smidge of special offal, some caviar), while pointing at each item with his little finger, and then he will bring a cold soup, and another shellfish dish, and some beignets of something, perhaps turbot, then maybe a risky sorbet with an asymmetrical bowl and a glass spoon, and then the breast of some small bird with a confit (or perhaps cannelloni) of its legs, and then medallions of something organic and rare-bred accompanied by potatoes in a little tower, and then a cheeseboard which I have to eat the whole of, and then a pre-dessert, and then a hot flaky pudding with exotic fruit, and more ice-cream and then coffee.
Occasionally, in the past, I have ordered the tasting menu (or “dégustation” if you have trouble eating in English) because I felt that, as a critic, I should experience a wide range of the chef’s booty. But it’s daft, because I never enjoy the long, drawn-out, beat-me-to-death-with-a-wooden-spoon boringness of sitting for so long with little men running backwards and forwards between me and the kitchen. Like words which, if you think of them for too long, stop sounding like real words (“hornet” and “croon” always do that to me) it stops feeling like a real meal, and you start wondering what on earth, if it is not a meal, this experience you are having is.
At certain places, such as El Bulli (where eating 32 courses is the whole point) and the Fat Duck (where it’s a more modest 20), I have had no option but to enter into the spirit. At a couple, such as Gordon Ramsay in Royal Hospital Road, professional diligence truly has demanded it. But otherwise, no. Starter and main course, please. Pre-starter if you must. Pudding only if I’m drunk and flagging and need the sugar.
But it isn’t always that easy. I eat incognito, and usually I get away with it. But if I am exposed, as happens occasionally, they just won’t take no for an answer. And if I take my refusal of the tasting menu to the point of fisticuffs, then they bring thousands of extra courses anyway, stacked around the two I have ordered. And always the richest things, too. I doubt you have any idea how depressing the sight of two lobsters dancing out of the kitchen avec ses accompaniments de foie gras et caviar aux truffes can be to a man who has already swallowed 11 unbidden courses and has had to make himself sick in the bogs twice just to stay in his trousers.
Interred in these lengthy repasts, I develop a mad envy of the people at other tables whom I see leaving as the evening goes on. I imagine them driving home to their little houses to have a cup of camomile tea and to read, perhaps, a chapter of The Decameron, before clicking off the bedside light, kissing their wives and sinking into cool goosedown to nod off to the sound of owls. Meanwhile, some bastard of a waiter is bringing me a tray of caramelised widgeon hearts to keep me busy until the stuffed udders and tripe course, which should arrive about the same time as the milkman. When they finally release me I always go home feeling bloated and ill and unable to sleep, and swearing never to do it again.
So this week I decided to just go for a quick curry at Deya, a big flashy modern Indian restaurant off Oxford Street, set up by some of the people from the very popular Zaika in Fulham Road. I’d been to a soft opening a couple of months previously, so I knew about the high ceilings and modern rococo feel. I knew about the excellent cocktails and flamboyant cocktail-meister and the nice, friendly staff. And I knew that they did lots of very fancy, fusion-y sort of cool Indian food presented rather daintily. So I thought I’d slip down incognito for a tandoori lamb salad, a Goan prawn curry and a glass of wine, and then come home and write it up.
I booked in the name of the person I was meeting, as I usually do, and planned to arrive a little after her so that I could shuffle in, staring at the floor, and hurry over to her and sit down facing the wall.
But when I arrived she was sitting in a window seat with a thousand people attending to her, proffering nibbles and cocktails. She saw me walk in and she
saw the horror, the horror in my eyes, and she looked sheepish and mouthed, “Sorry.”
She had had a long day at work and had schlepped across London and walked into the Versailles-esque dining room, approached the mahogany bar and forgotten her lines. “Yes, we’ve booked,” she
had said. “Coren, Giles Coren.” Bonjour, gastric Apocalypse.
I sat down and very soon was submerged in a giant piña colada containing fruit and umbrellas, through which I ploughed half-expecting to find Dr Livingstone. And I protested only twice when they insisted that I leave the menu to them. To say I just wanted a prawn curry a third time would have been rude.
And so I had a little long plate containing, from left to right: a fried scallop with coriander, fennel and chilli, a fried scallop with onion seed, and a scallop and crab papri. Then a pause, and then: a trio
of chicken tikka morsels, one flavoured with green herbs, one with pomegranate and one with masala cheese and cardamom. And then a pause and then grilled aubergines filled with cheese, a mixed vegetable dumpling of spinach, pea, green beans, paneer and smoked pine kernels and a nice, wheaty naan-type thing called a tulsi paratha. And then a pause and then: marinated blue-fin tuna with mustard seeds, crab and sweetcorn rice and a tandoori prawn with shrimp rice pancake. And
then a pause and then: rogan josh, spicy green chicken, snapper masala, goan prawn curry, black lentil dahl and roasted potatoes with garlic, lemon, coriander and mint. And then a pause and then a pine kernel, cashew and pistachio nut “chakki” with chocolate mousse and then a pineapple tarte tatin with honey and ginger ice-cream.
I remember the scallops were very pretty. The rogan josh was rather nice. The honey and ginger ice-cream was delicious. The rest, I am afraid, is just a blur. So let’s pretend I had just three little scallops on a warm Wednesday evening, and then the rogan josh with the black dahl, but no rice (no thanks, really, no rice, no, no naan breads, really, I’ll be fine; no, I don’t want a roti either) and then one boule of the ice- cream. Mmm, what a lovely evening. I must return sometime soon and try a couple of the other dishes.
Food: 6
Dining Room: 6
Bar: 7
Score: 6.33
Price: Lunch menu, two courses for £14.50, including rice, naan, dal, raita, etc - great value. Tasting menu, £25.
The Cinnamon Club
Great Smith Street, SW1 (020-7222 2555)
Excellent modern Indian in the old Westminster library building. Very clubby, full of MPs.
The Painted Heron
112 Cheyne Walk, SW10 (020-7351 5232)
Good food, modern, rather subdued ambience, daily-changing, market-sensitive specials.
E-mail feedme@thetimes.co.uk if you know somewhere good and maybe we’ll go there together.
