Smash hit

The Luxe is his new restaurant in Commercial Street. It sits in a little gastrocluster of aching trendiness. It is a strange dining room, above a big dark bar. The room itself ought to be rather splendid: it’s got nice windows and a good ceiling, but they’ve done the damnedest thing — they’ve dropped a large box in the middle, turning the dining room into an awkward, cramped corridor. It’s like eating on the Orient Express. The box is covered in pretty, hand-painted wallpaper, which makes it look like a big Christmas present. Inside is a rather small kitchen. Now, I understand that restaurants need kitchens, although it must be said some would be better off not bothering. I expect putting the kitchen on top of the dining room was an accountant’s decision to maximise bar sales.

Mr Torode was actually in the dining corridor. He offered me a thin smile, along with a table. “You had to come today. It’s our first day.” He thought that was why I was there. I realised that was why he was here. Celebrity cooks don’t often spend much time in their restaurants. It dilutes the magic.

The food’s not bad. The Blonde and I took Flora the daughter and Nick Allott. The menu is interesting and smart, a collection of fashionable favourites aimed at a price point rather than a style. I started with lentil soup, which was nice but had a few too many lentils: an awful lot of brown worthiness. Flora had frogs’ legs, which she liked, because they’re like chicken on sticks. This is a dish that gave the French their nickname, but they’re now illegal to catch across the Channel. I think most of our legs come from Indonesia, or Bangladesh. The Blonde had pork cheeks that were suffering from first-night nerves. A little dryness in the mouth, bravely flavoured with star anise. Nick chewed through a workmanlike steak, and I had roast chicken. Flora said I should try the chicken because I never did, yet it was the best test of a kitchen. Even one in a box. And she was right — the chicken was the star, made with butch oriental spicing that reminded me of a recipe by the brilliant Kylie Kwong from Sydney. This may well be the best roast chicken available in two hemispheres. Pudding is pies and tarts. I’m tempted to say so are the customers. The bill for four was £185 without wine, right in the middle of their price point. The nervous Spanish waitress kept asking if everything was all right, and I really wanted to stand up with a spoon and say, it’s got lovely mouth feel, I’m getting sweetness, I’m getting spices, and just that little touch of heat. But I didn’t, because I’m an undercover eater, a foodie sniper, a stealth muncher.

Some frogs, a pig, a chicken, a cow and a baboon all died in the writing of this column

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