RESTAURANTS AS THEATRE
KENSINGTON PLACE By Al ice Thomson
WE were playing a drunken, late-night game of charades on holiday a few years ago. One of the party acted out Diana, a duck and a cake. Everyone got it immedi- ately. It was griddled foie gras on a sweet- corn pancake at Kensington Place.
The restaurant is on a busy main road in Notting Hill; film stars hate it because there isn't a good seat in the house, and grandmothers find the acoustics dire. But Kensington Place is almost everyone else's favourite canteen. The food is original, from the staggeringly simple omelette fines herbes to the more robust roast plaice with samphire and cherry-tomato compote. The chef, Rowley Leigh, was the first to intro- duce yellow beetroot on to a menu; and he has not wavered in his support for the kiwi and pavlova. He is also a staunch defender of that great British combination of fruit and meat, using rhubarb with duck and damsons with venison.
When it opened 12 years ago Kensington Place was the first of its kind: a large, open restaurant serving unpretentious food with- out the deferential waiters and doilies. The only baby-pink was in the Kir Royale. Now, 12 years later, it is still so successful that last week the tweed-jacketed maitr d', Nick Smallwood, sold his stake for £3 million to a KP devotee.
Kensington Place taught a whole genera- tion about modern British food, slowly introducing buffalo mozzarella and polenta to the smoked-salmon starters. It launched its disciples on to London with damaged ears and an expectation of high standards. The restaurant was, and still remains, one of the few establishments where you can take your three-year-old niece and your 83- year-old nanny — and meet your 30-year- old former boyfriend without blushing. The extremely rich chicken and goat's- Cheese mousse with a bowl of chips is the Perfect hangover kill or cure. Great uncles are reassured by the lamb cutlets with tomatoes and the calf's liver with sage. Children happily eat chips and fried eggs. Models can pick at an endless free supply of black olives or a tomato and melon salad. My greediest friend has managed to Work his way through two of their grand selection of five puddings in one sitting. And one Canadian eats here every day. It's greatest asset is its loyal diners who thrive on the permanent sense of immi- nent chaos. My favourite comfort food in the world is KP's griddled scallops with pea purée and mint vinaigrette served with mashed potato. My husband Ed and I usually come here on the first day back from our holidays. You can almost always book a table at the last minute.
Occasionally Kensington Place infuriates: the service takes hours and a special can be a fabulous flop. But we always return after a month or two, for this is the ultimate restaurant as theatre. It would be worth spending an evening staring through the huge glass windows watching diary editors kissing actresses, and comedians avoiding politicians.
Ed and I went twice last week. The first time was before going to see the film Star Wars. After explaining that we had only three-quarters of an hour in which to eat, they produced two glasses of champagne, two fish soups with rouille, and two sirloin steaks in 38 minutes.
The problem with Kensington Place is that regulars always want the same meal. So the second time we promised we'd be `So what's all this about using eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, tongue of dog, adder's fork, blind-worm's sting, lizard's leg and howler's wing, you old hag.' more adventurous. I ordered the salad with cucumber, borlotti beans and feta. It came with some unannounced raw red onion which I loathe but the borlotti beans were succulent and the feta was creamy and pun- gent. The avocado soup, another special, looked spectacular but didn't quite work. `Too heavy, too gloppy and too salty,' said Ed, who adores this green fruit and eats whole avocados as snacks.
My main course was wild salmon with red- currants. I assumed that the redcurrants would come as a compote, but instead they were scattered around the plate like swirling electrons. The salmon was an extremely superior piece of fish, plump and perfectly underdone; it made the tuna steak next door look severely sunburnt, Ed had roast rack of pork with swiss chard and orange, which could have been disastrous but was divine, and not too syrupy. We ended up with a pavlova that was both crisp and gooey, and a very delicate elderflower mousse.
On one side a couple were entwining their spoons round a shared soufflé. On the other side a Nigerian was entertaining sev- eral wives who were pouring their side- order of rice into their soup. No one seemed to mind. Dustin Hoffman once went into the kitchens to show them how to cook an egg-white-only omelette. The mix- ture of people is intoxicating: striped shirts and brogues are seated next to a hen night of yoga instructors.
It's impossible to say why the restaurant has been quite so successful. It certainly has nothing to do with the mural on the wall, which is quite revolting: a pastel pastiche of waterlilies, golden delicious apples and daisies. The portholes are twee and the pri- mary-coloured wooden seats aren't particu- larly comfortable. But when you eat out at restaurants every other night, it's the only one that feels vaguely like home.
This is my last review for the magazine before I become the restaurant critic of the Daily Telegraph. My favourite new restau- rants have been Club Gascon, J. Sheekey, the Mirabelle, Birdcage and Moro. Christo- pher's in Covent Garden kept me going with its crab cakes and Le Caprice with its risot- tos. I won't regret losing my cartoon at the top of the page, but I will really miss the let- ters from the retired tea-planter in Kochin, the schoolteacher in the Dordogne and the airport luggage handler in Zimbabwe.
If it wasn't for the readers I would never have realised that I'd ordered dog rather than spinach at the Lahore Kebab House or that I was completely wrong when I said that Floriana's was disgusting, and an old fogey for suggesting that Momo was as dire as Club 18-30 for forcing diners to do the conga. Finally, I would like to say thank you to those who ate with me, for allowing me to entertain the readers with stories of their meals and their manners.
Kensington Place, 201 Kensington Church Street, London W8 (0171 727 3184). A meal for two costs about £60 with wine.
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