I ALWAYS dreaded turning into the sort of professional parent
so many journalists become once they've had children. Well, actually, that's not quite true: there was no dread, because I felt shudderingly sure that was one thing I would never become. I hope there is no danger of it yet, although it's embarrassingly the case that I find myself excising ever fewer references, oblique though they may be, to my babied state. But I must insist — before I am taken amiss — that it isn't coldness, shame, or lack of maternal pride that make me sensi- tive about this, but in part a fear of boring those of you who do not share the condi- tion and the obsessive interest that accom- panies it, and in part a feeling that a dis- tinction between what is,private and what is printed is right and proper.
For all that, life must inform art, even if the art in question is a lowly journalistic one. All of which is a nervously pompous way of allowing my baby to crawl into the column this week. For it did not seem so bad to me to write about taking children to restaurants, if the restaurant I chose was good enough to merit a mention, indeed a visit, on purely its own account. That in itself is remarkable. There are many places to eat that welcome children; unfortunately they are almost inevitably a gross ordeal for the adults who have to accompany them. I am still scarred by my — childless — visit to Smolenksi's Balloon some Christmases back. You may remember it. And while I'm sure I'll be profoundly grateful for its exis- tence a few Christmases hence, the food will never be something to savour.
Of course there are burger bars and pizza joints where you can take any number of screaming, hyperactive children, but Sonny's is (despite the ghastly and unpromising name) a rare — or rarish, such places are, I think, proliferating — thing in this country: a restaurant where you can eat well in civilised surroundings, and feel relaxed about taking your children with you.
Actually, I'd been thinking of writing about Sonny's for ages, long before I had the excuse of a child to take there with me. But `It's what the computer that replaced me came in.' I'm glad I waited, because with Redmond Hayward's arrival in the kitchens (with his wife, Pippa, running front-of-house) there is some justification for enticing those who live beyond its immediate environs. The menu is that particular strain of Modem British that can easily veer into pastiche if the chef isn't careful. This chef, I'm glad to say, is.
Sunday lunch, which is when I went, takes the form, au choir, of a set menu, with something roast in it, or a reassuringlY modestly arrayed a la carte. Roast beef was full of flavour and commendably marbled with fat, properly hung and bravely, briefly cooked. The little round patties of York- shire pudding were OK rather than won- derful, and the roast potatoes dry and soggy at the same time, as if they'd once been crisp and hot but left in a hot cup- board for too long. But the beef was good enough for the trimmings not to upset the proceedings too much — and the horseradish sauce was fresh. The Jerusalem artichoke tart, which came before it, lacked only conviction: it needed more oomph. The pastry was excellent — resolutely crisp — but the sweet vegetable needed more kick than that given by the black olive dressing that accompanied it. From the a la carte, the mushroom risotto was impressive: a tiny bit overcooked maybe, but properly made, creamy because of the slow absorption of stock and not (as so often is the case) because someone's stuck a dollop of crème fraiche in at the last minute. Smoked haddock fishcake with a mild cur- ried sauce was redolent of kedgeree, but sat- isfying in its own right — the fish not mashed to moussiness, but still detectable in bouncy chunks, and the sauce light and spicy. Vanilla ice-cream was the real thing, speckled and fragrant, and came draped in chocolate sauce. And chocolate brownie came piercingly hot with a melting hum- mock of white chocolate ice-cream to the side. With a couple of tumblers of bloody Mary, a glass of wonderfully smooth house red, a bottle of water and the three courses for each of the two adults and a plate of green beans for the babies (who'd eaten, I should add, just before we left), lunch came, before the tip, to just under £50.
Sonny's, 94 Church Road, Barnes, London SW13; tel.. 081 748 0393.
Nigella Lawson
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