Saturday 5 February 2011

A Spot of Dinner at The Mandarin Oriental - A Slightly Biased Review

If the world were a playground then British food would probably be the fat, spotty kid in second hand clothes who got bullied by the cool kids.

Historically, the blame lay with the industrial revolution and Second World War food rationing. Fresh produce became a distant rural memory and food shortages meant the plucky Brits had to get inventive with potatoes. Food became more of a practical consideration than an epicurean extravagance.

But the tide has changed - God isn't even a DJ anymore, he's a celebrity chef – and he appears to have set up his altar in the Mandarin Oriental in Knightsbridge.

The guests kicked themselves when they realised 
that little trickster had fooled them once again
"Meat Fruit"

Arriving Odysseus-like to the siren song (“Mr Drake your table is ready”) of three immaculate hosts we were whisked through to our table on a conveyor belt of niceties. By the time we reached our destination I felt I'd made a new BFF.

First off lets talk kitchen. A culinary wet dream that looks like the lovechild of a Philippe Starck designed fishtank and a Bugatti Veyron it wasn't long before Ms S reminded me that at least a modicum of dinner conversation would be preferable. When half of the restaurant is practically a chef's table and the other half looks onto Hyde Park though its easy to get distracted.

Now you could well imagine that the sister of a three star Michelin restaurant might employ waiting staff with an attitude to match but like its chubby sibling Dinner not only has helpful waiters - it positively needs them. With a menu that lists such 14th century reduxes as Meat Fruit and Rice & Flesh the food comes complete with a culinary history lesson that quickly skims around 700 years of our gastronomic heritage. But is the Dinner menu all cock and no balls (to use the appropriate olde English phrase) ?

I'm desperately resisting the urge to go all AA Gill on you but occasionally a smattering of hyperbole is justified. Imagine yourself suddenly transported to a misty forest clearing - in the middle of that clearing is an old ramshackle hut with a moss covered roof. Walking inside you are hit my the smell of wood smoke, moss and the aroma of a stock pot bubbling over a cauldron (most likely tended to by a gnarled old lady who looks like an extra from a Tolkien novel). That's the lamb broth. Then there's the Meat Fruit - at once a perfectly formed tangerine which on further dissection reveals a smooth liver parfait that is surely destined to become a signature dish. Main courses saw a pork chop whose diminutive stature belied a quality bordering on wagyu whilst the green cockle ketchup accompanying the turbot was like the edgy, skinny jeans wearing younger brother to Heinz's tweed wearing older sibling.

With my insides already planning to take me on a spa day to say thanks, pudding arrived in the form of a moist, squashy brioche and a battery of spit roasted pineapple that evoked rose tinted memories of school puds past. Top this off with a tour around the kitchen by the head chef Ashley Palmer-Watts and by the time we left I felt like it was as much my Birthday as that of the beautiful Ms S.

Now as the title might suggest, and as those who know me will appreciate, my opinion in all of this is a touch biased. That said the quills of critics far greater than myself have already heaped praise on Mr B's latest offering and though the menu is infinitely complex the dishes themselves are devoid of heirs and graces. With a three month waiting list you sense that Dinner's reputation may become as historical as its menu.