Expectations are dangerous. Especially when reality crashes hard into them.
This place was recommended by a colleague as a good place to take a friend who was visiting town for a conference. I looked it up and was captured by the blurb: 'Gourmet Steak Restaurant', 'best possible steak experience', 'innovative', 'compelling'. I rang them up.
'7pm, sir? I'm afraid we have nothing then. How about 6.45?'
Wow, I thought. This place must be popular. 6.45pm is all that's available on a Tuesday night?
We arrive on time through the ground floor entrance. The restaurant is up the stairs. A man in a blue shirt with an earpiece impedes our way forward.
'Good evening," he says.
"Hi," I reply. "We've got a booking at 6.45pm. Name of -"
He nods, then starts speaking to someone else. He raises a hand, showing we should wait. My friend and I look around. There's no one else in the vicinity. It then becomes clear he's talking to whoever is on the other end of the line. This carries on for fifteen seconds. My friend and I stare at each other for half that time. Then, the man speaks to us.
"The name?" he says.
I repeat what I said earlier.
He nods, raises a hand again and speaks into the ether.
"Right up the stairs," he says. Needlessly.
I'm expecting a major security operation: cameras, bodyguards, maybe even a metal detector. Instead, we are met by a lady who leads us to our table. The decor is perfectly fine, lots of dark wood and leather, somewhat let down by a non-living wall of artificial greenery. The place is almost empty.
I think back to the earlier booking. I'm expecting a stampede to rush through the doors in exactly 10 minutes.
Our server appears, a wan young blonde with the demeanour that suggests that she is only doing this job part-time until her novel/art/acting career hits the big time. Her manner is lukewarm. She runs through the specials with as little enthusiasm as she can muster. She disappears.
We peruse the menu. We've come for the 'Steak Me Out': Tuesdays to Thursdays, 60 quid for two, chateaubriand, sirloin or ribeye with two sauces and two sides. Sounds a steal. She reappears. We order, along with a bottle of Georgian red.
We talk. After fifteen minutes, another server arrives, this one bearing a great wooden stand. With a flourish, he clears some space on the table and places the stand in the centre.
Expectations are rising. How much food is there going to be that it requires a special stand to hold it all?
A few minutes later, our server reappears with the food. With another flourish, he placed it on the stand.
"Chateaubriand," he says. My friend and I stare at it.
A small oval dish stares back at us. It's about the size of a large shoe. It contains six slivers of meat, with a deployment of green leaves to conceal the yawning gap.
"That's it?" I say, poking at it with a fork.
"Looks like we'll need chips after," replies my friend.
The steak is perfectly fine, cooked medium rare, as requested, but it, like the service, is lukewarm. We console ourselves by fishing chips out of the small pen-holders and dipping into the thimble-sized portions of sauce. The chips are fine. Not great, just fine. The sauce is good, but really only sufficient for a dip or two, almost an amuse-bouche, rather than an accompaniment. Perhaps annoy-bouche might be more accurate.
The server reappears for the obligatory "Is everything alright?"
"This doesn't look like a lot of food for chateaubriand," I say.
"Oh," she replies, brightening up a little. "Well, we have all our weights on the menu."
I nod. "Sorry. I didn't bring my scales with me. I'll do that next time."
She smiles slightly, then withdraws.
My friend looks at the menu. "475 grams it says here. That's a lot of meat. That's not 475 grams."
He's probably right. I think back to the steaks you buy in the supermarket. There is no way what's huddled in the dish before us is close to half a kilo of meat.
The server appears later. My friend engages her in conversation. He lives in London. He's been to Hawksmoor several times. He knows what he's talking about. That's not proper chateaubriand. The server smiles, nods, apologises, retreats. She flits about, checking on unoccupied tables. She has a slight smile about her now.
The wine is the absolute consolation. The Georgian red is excellent and we down it all.
When the server reappears with the bill, she's the most animated she's ever been. Perhaps she's discovered kindred souls who, like her, can't wait to get out of this place.
There's a 10% service charge. I don't feel the level of service warrants it (we had to pour our own wine and ask for the water jug to be refilled) but I don't ask to have it taken off the bill. In a strange sort of way, I feel some compassion for the girl and pay the bill, wishing her much happiness elsewhere.
As we leave, the restaurant is barely half-full. I wonder what happened to the 7pm hordes? Maybe they got wind of what was on offer and went elsewhere. Lucky them. If you go, bring your scales. read more