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The Restaurant
LIKE HIS fellow artiste Madonna, with whom he also has in common Italian ori- gins and a mother who died young, Marco Pierre White takes evident pleasure in shocking. He prefers to see himself as the victim of his own bad-boy publicity which has dogged him ever since the opening of Harvey's. But, anyway, the important thing about Marco Pierre White is not how he seems but how he cooks, which is worth any amount of effing and blinding and meat-cleaver-throwing. Not that I have ever witnessed such tantrums. The few times I've seen him, mere glimpsing snatch- es as the kitchen door swings open, or as he treads heavily across one of his dining- rooms, the most he displays is a sweaty, sat- urnine menace.
I am not quite sure whether his new gig is more properly called The Restaurant or Marco Pierre White at The Hyde Park Hotel. The hotel and restaurant staff seem as undecided, answering the phone with alternate styles of announcement. But no matter: we all know what we're talking about. Marco Pierre White's Canteen may have been so in name only — the whole feel of the place being about as far from a canteen as one could get — but this is, from the start, avowedly, unrestrainedly the big chichi deal. The menu is a serious affair, thick cream card with Marco's name imprinted on the outside, his creations emblazoned with date of inception — thus we have, for example, 'Tagliatelle of oys- ters and caviar, 1987' — within. Much mer- riment, I can see, can be had over this, but it seems fair enough to me. It is interesting, after all, to know when some dish or other came into being.
I'm not sure just why I feel so protective about what is really pretentiousness. Per- haps it is because I have been seduced by him — or rather by his tagliatelle of oysters and caviar which is such a perfect creation that any quibbles fade. I can describe it, but describing it is not eating it, and eating it's the thing. Five oyster shells arranged on a plate are put in front of you. On each shell is placed a small skein of pasta, then a barely poached oyster, some matchsticks of buttery, just cooked cucumber, the whole covered in beurre blanc and topped with caviar. The luxury ingredients may make it seem vulgar: it ain't. But as I said, it's noth- ing on the page, everything in the mouth. This is a dish to lust after.
The potato and lobster and truffle salad couldn't match up, but it had its rewards. I'd have preferred the discs of potato to be thicker, but that may just be my indelicate palate. That I'm willing to offer, too, as the reason for a continuing and even baffling failure on my part to get the point of truf- fles. I once ate a velvety truffle-scented soup that entirely bowled me over, but apart from that one experience they've always been so many shards of oily bark to me.
Before the two starters came little cups of soup — the robuster Nineties version of those dinky Eighties amuses-gueules — one of haricots blancs and langoustines, again which my rugged palate would have pre- ferred slightly more nubbly, although I can see why it would be inappropriate here, and one, wonderfully rasping, of red mul- let. Main courses I was less happy with, and, given limited space, do not want to dwell on. Both the sweetbreads and the pigeon were good, but both came in that sticky brown reduction which lined every plate in the late Eighties and which can overwhelm, as can the assembly of little veg and other bits and pieces which punctuate this teak-coloured puddle. I wish I had ordered some fish.
Pudding was a return to form. The prune souffle with Armagnac sauce matched, in grace, perfection, sheer dreamy sensual pleasure, the oysters I'd started with. Per- haps other puddings on the menu are as good, but I wouldn't now take the risk of finding out. The Assiette Gourmande was certainly unremarkable: it didn't disappoint but it didn't delight either. Dinner here is £60 a head for three courses. This may seem high, and of course it is, but so are the stakes (and no doubt the costs). With a glass of salty house champagne and half a bottle of soft Gigondas, the bill came, before tip, to £135. Yes, you can eat for less — there is a £22 lunch menu — but I frankly can't see the point of coming here without being able to have the tagliatelle with oysters. I don't want to pay a visit to the master just to see his etchings; I want to see his oils.
The Restaurant: Hyde Park Hotel, London SW1; tel: 071 259 5380
Nigella Lawson
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