Almost as famous for his Hirsts as for his fish and chips, Mark Hix wants it all: fancy food, fancier drinks, unique venues, and as much of your money as you can be persuaded to part with. Now on his eighth London venture in six years, part of me wondered whether this chain, which puts a high-end twist on British pub food, is built to last or whether his success is reliant on creating and capitalising on buzz. Another part of me really wanted to know what seventeen quid fish fingers tasted like, so I decided to visit his second restaurant, HIX Soho.
I can't have been the only one interested in throwing my wages away on pub classics, because getting a booking at a reasonable hour within a week proved impossible. In the end, I got a table at the very unfashionable time of a quarter past six. This is pre-theatre dining time to those of you more inclined to visit Soho for an evening of slurred philosophising than for whatever Helen Mirren is currently shouting at people about.
HIX wants to feel exclusive: the heavy door seems to insist that only those deserving enough can enter, and I have walked past on many occasions and wondered whether it was even open. The hostess led me past the queue before I was handed to someone who pointed at my table and promptly wandered off, perhaps distracted by the Shezad Dawood.
Our tiny corner table had a good view of the restaurant, which looks more like a psychedelic chip shop than the nightclub the entrance would have you expect. My dining partner came in after me, and we squashed together at the end of the narrow booth, almost on top of each other as we gazed at the ample floorspace where the staff were trotting around, looking panicked.
One of the things Hix as a brand is renowned for is booze, but it's unfair that for those unable to drink, the choices are limited to various kinds of water. I went for the Hix Fix, a Morello cherry marinated in Somerset Eau de Vie, topped with a 2004 Nyetimber Classic Cuvée. Fizzy, dry and very strong, I felt more attuned to my surroundings almost instantly. I was dining in Wonderland. Or at least I would be. I was noticeably half-cut when I stuck my finger in the glass to retrieve the cherry, before gesturing cartoonishly for someone, anyone, able to take our food order.
I started with the smoked salmon on soda bread, which was so was so dull I became concerned that I'd annihilated taste buds with my choice of drink. The bread lacked any discernible flavour, and whilst it is rarely provided for impact, I expected more. Whatever the 'Hix cure' was, it saved the fish, but an otherwise empty plate might have been more palatable than a demonstration of just how boring another food stuff could be in comparison. The mallard with apple and celeriac was redemptive, providing contrast in taste and texture that made each mouthful feel as if it warranted deep contemplation.
With low tables, neon lighting and an inexplicable abundance of waistcoats, Mark's Bar - the venue in the basement - is much darker and encourages a crowd less inhibited than the diners upstairs. The limited floorspace and low-slung conversations made me feel slightly seasick as I negotiated my way around them, I'm quite certain the place is designed to cultivate excess through insecurity. I'm pretty sure going for a wee shouldn't feel that stressful.
The main courses were the ground rib steak burger with a side of wrong knife (quickly resolved), and those fish fingers. Served atop a generous pile of mushy peas, all three chubby digits crunched and slid away fairly rapidly. They were pleasantly salty but otherwise unremarkable, there were no bones in the fish, which is something, I suppose. The chips were uniformly frigid and there was nothing to dunk them in, so they were eschewed in favour of fighting over the meat. Thick set and succulent, as soon as we were armed with the correct tools, a great deal of satisfaction was had in dissecting it into manageable mouthfuls.
While we were considering dessert, the staff were glancing over, looking anxious. A request for the menu was met with a flurry of inactivity until ten minutes later we were unceremoniously booted out of our corner. We were offered seats downstairs, but the prospect of descending into the rabbit hole proved too much. Not long after walking in, we were back out again, feeling cheated.
Although I'm no longer in the market for anything this guy is selling, I can't stop thinking about those cherries. Book well in advance and get in after eight, and you might have time to enjoy them. I hear the Amadei chocolate pudding is to die for. read more