RESTAURANT GORDON RAMSAY
At4i0, Si6n Simon WHEN Restaurant Gordon Ramsay opened a year ago, I gave it an unreserved- ly rave review in my Daily Express restau- rant column. Immoderate praise is not my natural métier, but dinner on Day 19 was exceptional. The furore surrounding the opening had been such that I had had to pull strings to get in; the only time I have reviewed a restaurant other than incognito. Even allowing for extra effort, though, the food was stupendous. There remains an intensity of pleasure in the tranquil recol- lection of a zingingly vanilla-sauced sea- bass that the mere memory of neither music nor poetry can match.
I said then that it couldn't last, and it hasn't. Which is not to say that Gordon Ramsay is not one of the most talented clas- sical chefs in the world, because I think he is. He's just settled down to being an ordinary great chef, rather than a supernatural one. To me, culinary greatness means creating new tastes and textures which surpass those previously derived from the traditional array of ingredients and techniques; but this is not the fashionable view. One is supposed to sniff at such fancy-schmancy tomfoolery. (Which reminds me that the Greatest Living Yorkshireman, Frank Dobson, this week savagely denounced his journalistic detrac- tors as 'clods'. Marvellous word. It follows his recent coruscating indictment of the same lowly order as 'fancy nancies' when they absurdly predicted that he would run for the London mayoralty. The Chuckling Uncle is fast becoming a national linguistic treasure, the only man left in public life [since the retirement of Chief Constable James Anderton] who speaks like one of Priestley's Good Companions. Let London reflect.) Returning to tomfoolery, Ramsay's occa- sionally intricate, always delicate, cooking is the only true example in Britain of an idiom much misunderstood because of its self- deprecating name. Since the back-to-basics rusticism of Joel Robuchon's cuisine grandinere replaced nouvelle cuisine in the vanguard of French cooking, the `grand'tnere' element seems to have been taken ever more literally. From the peerless Roger Verge in Provence to the much laud- ed but still underrated Simon Hopkinson in London, a culinary vogue has developed which takes pride in buying well and cook- ing extremely simply but with love and aplomb. I find it tremendously attractive. Roger Verge's indispensable masterpiece, Vegetables, for instance, is as beloved as any cookbook I own. I would rather he cook my daily lunch than Gordon Ramsay.
But that does not make the two men equals. Ramsay, to put it baldly, is much more remarkable, as was Robuchon. I looked up an old menu from Jamin and was reminded of a subtlety, an artifice, that is often absent from the cooking of many who may consider themselves his inheritors. Ramsay, on the other hand, is a true child of the maestro, having trained at Jamin, and it shows. When he is not pushing forward the frontiers, then, yes, Ramsay's accent is on simplicity, clarity and refinement.
Most modern chefs claim to have moved away from the richness of cream sauces and intense reductions, but it's more true of some than of others and, anyway, it's not really the point. Lightness — of colour, con- sistency and flavour — is born of imagina- tion and culinary 'touch', not technique. For example, my main course at Gordon Ram- say was fillet of veal braised in a brown chicken stock, served with sauteed ceps, baby spinach and a truffle sauce. In heavier hands — those, for instance, of Pierre Koff- mann — this could have been a far darker dish. Here, though, the caramel notes were beautifully restrained, and neither truffle nor cep was allowed to dominate. It did not scream 'genius' like last year's vanilla sauce, but that is not required all the time. Under- stated, confident elegance will usually do.
It is paradoxical that it should be Ram- say, rather than a Continental such as Nico Ladenis, Raymond Blanc or Pierre Koff- 'Smoking but no cell phones, cell phones but no smoking, or both, or neither.'
mann, whose cooking has the most assured- ly contemporary French feel. My wife's grilled fillet of red mullet with aubergine caviare, ratatouille and basil vinaigrette was, again, faultless: the skin of the fish salted and crisped to perfection, while its flesh dissolved on contact with the tongue. But, again, it was simple, rustic, paysan. If my veal was stamped 'Robuchon' where on the adverts it says 'Danish', then this Provençal pastiche had 'Roger Verge' waft- ing up from the plate, as once did the less polite vapours of Bisto.
Nor was a starter of Scottish lobster so very surprising. Poached in a court-bouillon and served with oscietra caviare and a chilled tomato and basil consommé, this is a standard posh restaurant opener. I had a very similar dish at Gidleigh Park last year, except that Michael Caines set it in a gel& rather than a consomme (I'm with Caines), and that his interpretation had marginally more zip. On the other hand, it was proba- bly the consommé which led Caines to overchill the plate, whereas Ramsay's lob- ster was served, as it must be but almost never is, at cold room temperature.
Roasted scallops were sliced and inter- leaved with visually identical medallions of fried new potato. This is the kind of culi- nary joke which many would find amusing, but which Mrs Simon considers to be irri- tatingly frivolous. The bivalves themselves she pronounced to be superb, though not as good as those she had last time. A truffle vinaigrette hinted more at Ramsay's talent for savour, but then such is the nature of the fresh white truffle.
So far so good, but so — relatively ordinary. He was yet to put the gloss on grand mere which makes the genuine article shine. Then, quite unexpectedly, we had a pudding which was staggeringly impressive. Unless advised to do so we would never have ordered it. On the menu it is hidden, skulking like a prodigal pianist behind a curtain of misleadingly pedestrian prose. I never thought I would complain at lack of ornament in a piece of menu-ese, but 'selec- tion of orange desserts — souffle, sorbet and tarte fine' simply does not cover it. Not by any means. I don't even like puddings, but this was an unbelievable concoction of textures and flavours; they were bursting and singing and whooping all over the place. It was like a thrilling firework display, becoming louder, brighter and more beauti- ful every minute you watched, getting better and better when you thought that it couldn't, then exploding into a moving, uplifting finale.
That's not hyperbole. Just recalling that pudding weeks later, like the angelic vanilla sauce whose memory I still cherish, truly makes me feel serene. And I can by no means say the same — love and venerate her though I do — about my granny.
Restaurant Gordon Ramsay, 68 Royal Hospi- tal Road, London SW3; tel: 0207 352 4441. £100 per head.
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