EBORAti kW.) S o, back from holiday, to the weary dread
that is September and the local newspaper headlines suggesting I haven't missed too much — 'woman dies, 87'; 'little evidence for [sic] fear of yobs, say police' — as well as the news that everyone at The Spectator seems to have been at it apart from me. This is inexplicable, as I am known to be most attractive, particularly in the right light, which is dim to the point of being off. I can't understand it and am thinking of taking urgent remedial action, perhaps by throwing myself at Toby Young, even though he'll probably leave at half-time and then say I was rubbish, a great disappointment, boring, blah blah. And you don't want that sort of thing quoted on a poster on the bedroom door.
Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, home again, and the exciting pile of awaiting letters, which turn out to be bills, more bills, gracious offers of taking me further into debt and press releases announcing the opening of new restaurants. I divide this last into two piles: those restaurants that are in London and those that are not, and those that are not are binned because, c'mon, I'm never going to go Outside London, as I went there once and swore never again. because I didn't like it and was expected to go on things called 'walks'. (Plus. I like London, where there is little evidence for fear of yobs, say police) Then I shuffle the London pile, close my eyes and pick a release, just like that, and the decision is made. It is Ichizen, a JapaneseEuropean place which has newly opened in Hampstead after the success (one assumes) of the one that already exists on Goodge Street. As far as press releases go. I quite like the understated tone of this one, particularly the observation that 'cocktails and power juices are a big feature and there is a decent enough wine list'. Decent enough? Is that what they learn at PR school these days? Decent enough? 'Darling let's go out to this new place tonight as I've heard it's decent enough.'Really? You managed to get a table? Even though everyone is raving about how decent enough it is?'
So, it's the decent enough Ichizen, then, with my friend Naomi and her young son, Ben, and her daughter, Leah, who is in my son's class and whom I have to mention by name because I think she will like it and I want to keep her happy — largely because she is a great gossip and will divulge more school news in a minute than my son, who can now only grunt and say `dunno', does in a year. Of course, my son was so looking forward to going back to school that on the first morning I had to pull the big oaf out of bed by his ankles and then push him out of the house with the help of a cricket bat between his shoulder blades. This sounds abusive, I know, but I had to get him out not only because school is school and it's the law, but just in case Toby came round for the first half of an affair.
The restaurant is on Heath Street, where the Horse & Groom pub used to be, and it appears to be launch night, so one of the two rooms has been given over to freeloading journalists of which I am not one, as I believe in honourably paying my way with The Spectator's money. However, the fact that there are known journalists here seems to have put everyone in a spin and also seems, rather unaccountably, to explain missing menu items. Power juices? 'Sony, we can't do power juices tonight. We've got journalists in.' Pak choi? `No pak choi. We've got journalists in: Lime and mango ice cream? `No ice cream... '. You've got journalists in? 'Yes!' Bloody journalists. Hate the lot of them. Scum of the earth and all that.
Into the restaurant, which is quite sleek and chic at the front, but we're seated at the back which, for some reason, is entirely draped in swags of cream chintz, thus giving you the feeling you are peeking up a bridesmaid's skirt. It's all just a bit tacky with plastic tables and banquettes and pounding pop Muzak. Naomi, who is known to Speak Her Mind — `Naomi Speaks Her Mind' as a headline in the Homsey Journal would not come as a surprise to anyone — first asks for the music to be turned down. 'Am I being bossy?' she asks. 'Yes,' I say. She's so contrite that, after it has been turned down, she requests it is turned off altogether. The delightful waitress obliges with a bright smile and only the most fleeting look of absolute hate in her eyes.
We order a few dishes for the table to nibble at: prawn crackers and edamame peas (soy beans in pods) steamed and then stirfried in chilli. garlic and ginger. They are wonderfully messy — you have to scrape the peas out with your teeth and then discard the pod — but also totally fresh, spicy and delicious. They turn out to be the high note of the evening. We also order a bottle of decent enough Australian shiraz from a wine list that is decent enough but, frankly, no more.
The menu itself is big and uncluttered and reads like a cross between Wagamama and new takes on Chinese favourites, including duck pancake (£5.25) which all the kids order as a starter and find OK but rather heavy and stodgy. Perhaps they are just too used to the wafer-thin pancakes version — and this comes pre-rolled in a tortilla wrap — but I have a taste and think similarly. Also, the duck, while plentiful, is soggy rather than crispy. Naomi and I try a shared starter (min. two persons; £5.75 each) of vegetable gyoza, vegetable tempura, courgette yakitori and spring rolls which come to the table as funnyshaped batter explosions and taste like funnyshaped batter explosions. I'm sure there are lovely things at the centre of each but for the life of us we can't taste anything hut batter.
The kids create their own 'perfect bowl' of noodles for the next course by choosing a meat or fish, then a type of noodle, and then a sauce (£8), which appears to be perfectly adequate, but Naomi has the mixed seafood tamaki (£l3.95). This is a plate of prawns, salmon sashimi and tuna with lemon and balsamic soy served with seaweed, avocado, rice, vegetables, chillies and pickled ginger (the deal being that you basically roll you own sushi) and she finds it wildly disappointing. The prawns are missing for a start. (Journalists!) 'Worst sushi I've ever had,' she says. 'You've made it yourself,' I say. 'A mistake,' she says. I have the katsu prawn and fish curry (£8.25), which is prawn and salmon goujons which you dip into a bowl of Japanese and Thai fusion curry. The flavours, I have to say, are great. Really subtle, and I like the crunch of the goujon with the wet of the curry. But it doesn't seem like a meal somehow. For pudding Naomi and I share a lime mousse, but neither of us can go beyond the fu-st spoonful as it has the texture of jellified mucus. When a man in a diamantespangled white shirt — the owner? — comes to ask if everything is OK and we say we can't eat it, he says some people love it and some people hate it and he, as it happens, falls into the latter camp so he'll knock if off the bill for us. which he does. This is immoderately decent. As for the restaurant. I would say it's not especially memorable, and peculiarly soulless, but perhaps decent enough.
Ichizen, 68 Heath Street, London NW3; telephone 020 7794 6667
Previous page
