SOMETIMES a restaurant can be so bad it's worth studying
why. And it's quite unneces- sary for The Newport to have got it all so wrong, because the most important thing they have got right: the chef, Ian Loynes, whose food I first ate at The Square and then at The Lexington, whence he went to Chesters, is a distinctive talent. I don't know quite what has led him into this mess, but the place does have the feeling of someone's dream restaurant. Unkind, then, to scorn it, but it is that fantasy element that works so much against it. Enormous amounts of money have obviously been spent, but per- haps it would be better if that were less obvi- ous. It's too over the top, too vulgarly unre- strained, too insensitively conceived. 'It's the flashiest restaurant in Bournemouth,' remarked my husband as we sat down.
What's so odd about this is that Ian Loynes has worked with Martin Saxon (both at The Square and The Lexington) who is quite the coolest dude in restaurantdom. He must then know that this isn't the way. Of course, it's terribly unfair: in the Eighties this decor, with its cruise ship fitments, art deco touches and moderne splashes of jazzy colour, would have been considered quite the thing. But a feel for what's in the air is an essential quality in a restaurateur.
The Newport is right in the centre of London, but I've never been in a place that lacked metropolitan chic more. It's all so amateurish. People wafting around front of house say hello limply as you come in (although they were too busy chatting amongst themselves to look up and get our coats unprompted as we left) and the harpist bounced up to us at the end of the evening to ask us, if we'd enjoyed our evening, to tell all our friends.
The menu itself is embarrassingly clumsy, not so much the food but the manner in which it is announced. 'Freshness is half the battle' is written in italics and between quote marks on the bottom of the first page. It's not just that this sounds a rather negative way of expressing a culinary credo, but that it reads as if it's been translated from the Bulgarian. At the bottom of the next page is printed: 'Chef: Mr I. P. Loynes', which smacks of the sign-off of the illiterate letter-writer. Unfortunately, the waiters do not do much better when speak- ing out aloud. A small cupful of cold soup (`compliments of the chef) is announced as gaspachio [sic] and we are told that the Antipasta Three Ways' comprises smoked salmon roulade, cold aubergine Persian style and tagliatelle with prosciutto (pro- nounced pross-cute-io) ham. Where does one start? Can you imagine a more hideous combination? And surely when they go through the dishes before each service someone could have pointed out that prosciutto is pronounced proshuto, and, besides, that it's Italian for ham in the first place, and the chef might have known that no pasta dish, by very definition, can be part of the antipasta.
I chose for a starter something I'd had at The Lexington and adored, and is here billed simply, if pompously, 'The Paysanne' as if everybody should know what it is. In its earlier incarnation it was a big bowl of hearty salad. Yes, hearty: shards of confit, root-vegetable crisps, lentils and bacon gave substance to the designer leaves, well- tossed in a robust dressing. Here it had shrunk to an Eighties-style pile-up on the plate. In this more dense arrangement the oilier ingredients seemed to dominate. The supposedly refined version became a crud- er reworking of what needed no improve- ment. But then much is altogether too tricksy, rather like the decor. Ravioli (or rather raviolo — readers will know that this is my bugbear) came with scallops, lemon grass, lime leaves and salsify. A good pâté — though with grape chutney — was edged rebarbatively with dill butter.
I had something billed self-importantly as The Newport Oriental duck plate. The duck was so underdone it was practically quacking. I like my meat bloody, but the fibrousness of this flesh makes it too indi- gestible eaten blue. Roast rack of lamb came rather fabulously with kidney, liver and sweetbreads and did reward. But pud- dings were not memorable: all I can now recall is a chocolate mint (always a bad sign) concoction rather like melted-down Matchmakers.
With drinks before, undistinguished wine with and coffee afterwards, the bill for four of us, including tip, came to £112. 'Come back soon!' the harpist cried plaintively up the stairs to our receding backs as we left. I think not.
The Newport: 8 Great Newport Street, Lon- don WC2; tel: 0171 240 1551.
Nigella Lawson
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