THERE IS — though perhaps I should blush to say
it — something exciting about the opening of a Terence Conran restau- rant. It isn't hype: within the bounds of rea- sonable behaviour, I feel I am not really susceptible to that. I haven't been to the press launch for Mezzo, the latest Con- ran/Kissen venture, nor did I go on the pri- vate tour that was offered, though I'd have liked to have done. My rapture is innocent: I love his eye; I want to see always what he's done, what he's made.
What he's made out of Mezzo is an extraordinary subterranean palace, full of light. Not that it's all below ground, howev- er; as you walk in, the room swells out round the corner into a bar; to the left, a huge, cool dining space, the walls flashing with mirrors and the ceiling striated with lights like those illuminated dots down aeroplane gangways. To the right is the kitchen, a steely expanse of it, visible through the glass, and on two floors flank- ing both restaurants. Up here is the fast- food joint, fast not in hamburgers and hot- dogs, but in, notionally, I'm told, Malay street food —seared tuna with pak choi and lime, crab omelette with hoisin sauce, noo- dles with ketchup manis. John Torode who is the chef in charge of the whole place — all 700 seats — paints from the same Pacif- ic-Australian, Asianified-European palette as does Martin Webb, his old colleague at Quaglino's, Conran flagship up till this point.
I went to eat, more formally, downstairs and on their first night, too, which is cruel. I could have given them some time, or come back again to try out the various parts of it — there's a café, sandwich bar kind of place, too — but I had no choice, was off,to Italy the day after and didn't want to leave you guessing for too long.
This room pulls off the trick, rather fabu- lously, of not seeming for one instant to be in a basement. The trick is partly done with mirrors. But it's more than that — it's the light, the shininess, of glass, chrome, steel, the streamlined curves and expanses of space. Terence Conran is the only person who can do this kind of stuff without mak- ing it seem like pastiche. It all works. Actu- ally, I'd make one exception: the Allen Jones 'Talking Heads' bas-relief around the wall looks like artwork done by a window- dresser showing a bit of creativity with the mannequins. It's silly somehow — tacky — and the rest so obviously isn't.
To be frank, I hadn't expected the food to be that good. A big place like this is designed to thrill, to provide buzz, not necessarily exquisite food. But the food is gratifyingly more than just OK. John Torode sensibly avoids the clichés of new- wave Italian fare; anyway, Conran has always been a committed Francophile. Though the cooking isn't really any partic- ular thing; it's eclectic but not tiresomely so: there's the Pacific Rim (always sounds disgusting somehow) elements touched on above, but there are grills and New Britishy stuff, too.
Fried quail came, as a starter, in its entirety; its skin, crisp and golden, had come slightly away from the sweet, smoky flesh; it looked as if the bird were wearing a bronze cape. The soy dressing that accom- panied it appeared again, unannounced, on our other starter, a crab salad with duck egg and coriander. This was fresh and sweet and spiky, but the soy was a bit too all-pervasive. They must watch the salti- ness, and maybe go generally easier on the ICikkoman too.
Soy appeared again — unexpectedly — in the salmon choucroute. I tried this because it interested me as an idea, but it just did not work on the plate. I don't know if it was because the salmon was farmed, tasteless and fatty, or whether it wouldn't ever work. It should be scrapped. Other main courses tried — rotisserie spiced duck with rice and a pungent and aromatic red- curry coconut sauce, and the grilled bread- ed pig's trotter (a cross-section, not the whole piece, though still properly gluey within) with a sauce gribiche — were fabulous.
The pastry chef (probably chefs) is won- derful: the blackberry and apple pie was exceptional; though the menu should say it comes with a Calvados crème anglaise, not custard, since if one reads custard one imagines it will be hot, and it isn't. Orange crème renversee, rather like an orange- scented patina cotta, was good, too, and the biscuit that came with it even better. Caramel ice-cream was perfection, exactly tasting of burnt brown sugar and eggy, but- tery cream.
With a couple of glasses of champagne before, a glass of house red and one of house white (both more than drinkable), lots of expensive water, coffee and tisane and a glass of Poire William, as well as two starters, three main courses and three pud- dings between the two of us, our bill came, with tip, to £103. I think one could eat for less without pain. I will report from the upstairs joint soon.
Mezzo, 100 Wardour Street, London Wl; tel: 0171 314 4000
Nigella Lawson
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