MASSIMO: WHERE'S THE SPIRIT?

What is it about hotel restaurants that make them suck all the joy out of the dining experience? Mostly cavernous spaces with decor that tries to be tasteful but ends up being tasteless; the circuitous trek to the toilets, usually with a young female FOH (which makes you feel like you’re about 90) and where you end up at the pissoir next to a load of oiks from XYZ Widget Co having their ‘off-site’,whatever the hell that means. And don’t even get me started about finding one’s way back...especially after a few sherbets.

But there must be some advantages I hear you protest? Well, if a restaurant is backed by a big hotel group you would hope that there would be no expense spared in making your meal fabulous. In my experience though this extends only so far as having a lot of staff - at least three young lovelies at the front desk seems to be the industry norm - but you'll still pay through the nose for the food. But still I keep returning - more in hope rather than expectation.

This time it was a visit to the recently opened Massimo, an Italian Seafood restaurant in the recently opened Corinthia Hotel on Northumberland Avenue. The advance blurb promised nose-to-tail seafood and lip-to-fin cooking utilising all the fish’s funny bits but there’s many a slip twixt PR blurb and reality which in the case of Massimo meant a menu so dull I drifted off whilst reading it - narcoleptics be warned - although the prices did wake me with a start. I wasn’t expecting much but I did get a few nice surprises.

A starter of Octopus was rather good. Olly had come all the way from Spain (perhaps he was called Olé before his appointment with a speargun) and was as good as I’ve had: soft, creamy and with a slight char from the grilling. I don’t know if it’s a classic combo in Italy but the avocado seemed a bit pointless, the chilli might have been better as small dice. The aioli was unobtrusive. Still, a good (but expensive) dish.

I really enjoyed the pasta course as well. Paccheri, cooked al dente, came with chopped-up razor clams, although there probably wasn't even one in there and some slightly overcooked broad beans with a light shaving of bottarga over the dish. It was very good but I’d probably want a lobster or something in there for £17.

Unfortunately, things went a bit Pete Tong when it came to my main course. Red Mullet is one of my favourite fish but the two fillets here lacked sparkle and they'd been cooked on a plancha that hadn't been cleaned properly so there was a lingering taste of old oil. The little salad should have been a zingy addition but the oranges weren't sweet and the fennel pretty tasteless.

To be fair to them one of the more senior staff saw me struggling with the dish - it must have been my grimaces - and swapped it without any fuss for the Turbot. This was much better but the combination still lacked that certain brio that get's you licking your lips and going ever so slightly bonkers with delight.

I always order Zabaione if I see it on the menu. That combination of the warm, the smooth and the boozy tastes like the most cosseting thing ever. Massimo's version was poor - no discernible Marsala and without that luxurious mouthfeel that a good example has. The savoiardo biscuits were stale as well. Not good.

So nothing particularly interesting to see here and although I suppose it’s a valid approach to stick to the central tenet of Italian cooking and keep things simple it would have been nice to have had something a bit different.

We already have a number of tony Italian establishments in London doing the exactly the same thing, whilst at the other end there’s a growing number of places where the cooking is enthusiastic and the pricing keen. It all makes me wonder who exactly Massimo is for...apart from restaurant reviewers, well-heeled bloggers and maybe David Collins completists.

POLPETTO:TENTACLES EVERYWHERE

When I was young and handsome – yes, gentle reader, I was that man – I did my courting in two Soho institutions: Kettner’s Champagne Bar, where Eddie7 did the nasty with Lil’ Langtry and The York Minster (aka The French) where I would quaff beer - half pints only - and bucketfuls of kir.

Later, as I was morphing into the grey and grumpy bundle of fun I am today I visited the restaurant above the bar, where Fergus Henderson and his wife Margot were busy plotting and creating the embryonic St John. For the record I quite liked it, HS wasn't so taken.

What a pleasant surprise, then, to find myself back in the old place after so many years in an attractive space now known as Polpetto, the brand spanking new baby sister to the incredibly popular Polpo in West Soho. Owner Russell Norman has continued his love affair with New York’s dining scene with another homage to the gaffs of SoHo and Greenwich Village, a 28 cover Venetian-style bacaro in an area that could certainly do with more decent restaurants. And by and large the compact and bijou Polpetto fits the bill.

As at Polpo things start off with small snacks or cicheti pushed out for a quid or three. I always think these sort of things are better where they interrupt a lively discussion (with plenty of gesticulating, naturally) whilst stood at the bar rather than as part a sit-down meal but there you go – that’s how they roll around these parts.

Of my little bites the best was the eponymous Polpetti which had been bathed in a nicely –concocted marinade and gave lie to the fact that small shellfish are better off deep fried, and Chopped Chicken Liver: as smooth and rich as Leslie Phillips on the pull.

The meatball was good too although more Porky than Ducky. An Anchovy and Chickpea crostino demonstrated that preparation of said legume should be left to cooks from East of the Bosphorus.

Pizzeta Bianca - a popular dish from Polpo – was even better than I remembered: crisp, scorched around the edges, slightly chewy and quite addictive. Even a pizza-hater like HS might be converted. Um, maybe not.

Almost £5 for Zucchini fries sounds like a lot of dosh for veg but you’re probably not going to get too many better versions than the one here: light, crisp and grease-free.

Taking a little break gave me a chance to look down upon the mean streets of Soho which, although it’s been sanitised somewhat over the 35 years I’ve been visiting, still has its pockets of seediness and suspicious goings-on: although furtive calls are now made on mobiles whilst huddled in a doorwell rather than from Red Telephone boxes.

Soft-shell Crab can often be just lumps of mystery fish protein in leaden batter. Here the flesh was good but its carapace wasn't, being soft and spongy. As was a salad of fennel with radishes and ricotta. It may have seemed like a good idea at the conception stage but it turned out very damp and the ricotta had disintegrated.

Squid in its ink tasted fine but could have done with being served in something that retained the heat better. It was non-chewy but the cold, dark inky sauce was not particularly nice lukewarm. Consider ordering some decent bread as well to mop up the sauce.

Pigeon Saltimbocca (Pigeon wrapped in Pancetta) came on a white (grits-like) polenta that had soaked up the meat juices. Unfortunately, the pigeon was overcooked so it was a bit of a relentlessly tough eat. Shame.

Osso Bucco was a winner though. Perfectly cooked risotto, with just the tiniest bite to the rice, had a good saffron kick. A large marrow-filled bone sat in the middle. Stuck to the bone was plenty of meat which came away in soft, rich shreds.. All it lacked was some gremolata to cut the richness. I can see this becoming a very popular dish indeed as the nights draw in.

Thinking it best to avoid any M.Creosote-type incidents I passed on pud and stuck to the classic Mediterranean trifecta of strong espresso (good), a little aguardiente and a cigarette. Sans fag, of course.

There was a bit of unevenness to the cooking but nothing disastrous or that wasn’t made up for by the other good stuff I had. In fact, in certain respects the cooking was better than my last visit to Polpo. Allied to the fact that I could actually see what I was eating – it was lunch, things probably get all dark and mysterious in the evening - meant that if I had a bigger stomach I would have happily carried on eating, drinking and generally enjoying myself until chucked out by the young, smiley (and helpful) staff.

Ahhh…chucked out onto the streets of Soho - now that does bring back some memories.

TINELLO: A LITTLE LOCATELLI

Of the glut of newly opened Italian restaurants, Tinello, has one of the more impressive pedigrees, being a joint venture between the Locatellis (Plaxy and Giorgio) and two ex-employees (Max and Federico Sali). So I was looking forward to something interesting when I visited the other day.

Firstly, I have to admit I had a bit of a problem with its location. Putting a restaurant in Pimlico seems like a sure way of sucking all the enjoyment out a place. And sure enough I arrived for my dinner to find a poshed-up and hushed kind of place, full of well-dressed Americans and older Pimlicans, many of whom seemed to know the owners. It was ok, a little dark maybe, but sort of out of kilter with the food on offer.

The food itself was a bit like the restaurant: lacking excitement, a bit polite, and a bit careless in execution. Perfectly adequate for the folk around here or as a sort of edible background to a social occasion but nothing to make you want to travel across town for.

Of the starters there was some good-tasting chicken liver crostini. Unfortunately the bread had had only the briefest acquaintance with the grill so was a bit oil-drenched. Similarly, Seppioline fritte tasted fresh but weren’t fried accurately and were greasy. Certainly not up there with the frying you’d get in Spain.

Fried Zucchine were limp although not as greasy as the cuttlefish. Thick sliced Salami and Prosciutto weren’t bad at all and went well with some sweet, cold melon. Arranging all the antipasti on a board would have improved the presentation too.

The pasta course was much better. Thick tubular pasta called Paccheri di Gragnano was cooked properly and combined with a rich, smoky sauce made from Nduja, a sort of sausage from Calabria. The whole was topped off with a blob of creamy Burrata cheese. There was plenty of good–tasting stuff going on here but the proportions were a bit out of whack – I could have done with half the sauce and a bit more of the pasta.

As a way of judging a kitchen’s cooking er, chops, ordering the fish is the way to go. With fish there’s no hiding place - if the quality or the preparation is lacking then you’ll know about it. Assuming, that is, you don’t have a mouth made of tin.

A fillet of Brill was a small but good quality piece of fish. It looked the business but was overcooked. It wasn’t disastrous but if it had been done a minute or two less it would have made a 100% improvement to the dish which had become a study in soft things: soft fish, soft clams, soft borlotti beans and onion.

I looked enviously at a neighbouring table where someone was having the fillet of beef. Two big hunks of meat had been cooked so they were dark, almost black on the outside and a deep crimson within. They sat in pile of girolles. I let out an inadvertent sob.

For Dolci it was only ever going to be between the Tiramisu and the Gelati. This time the Gelati won and a good Malaga with fat, alcohol soaked raisins put the smile back on my face.

As more and more Italian restaurants open in London, a more cynical man than myself might equate this with the similar rise in the number of new Burrito (that’s a wrap to anyone outside London) joints.

Both offer the chance to maximise one’s income by taking inexpensive ingredients and knocking them out at inflated prices. There’s very little love of the country or cuisine, just an opportunity to make a buck. Not necessarily bad in itself but totally at odds with the idea of turning out decent, honest food.

Well, that’s the theory. It’s either that or the fact that everybody’s just come back from Italy and Mexico where they fell hopelessly in love with the country. Which would be statistically quite surprising.

There wasn’t any cynicism at Tinello, none that I could taste anyway. There was uneven cooking which should be fixable if they care enough. It does feel, however like a Locatelli diffusion place, a bit restrained. The brothers seem like nice guys – they just need to loosen up a bit. If their customers will let them of course. Around these parts they do appear to like hierachies and their plates to be handed around several times before reaching the table.

TRULLO: TO THE POINT

We’ve talked before about the School of St John on Dos Hermanos. About how people who have worked at that restaurant at one time or another have branched out and set up their own places serving food which is based on Fergus Henderson’s blueprint. There’s now a parallel network developing which we could call the River Café School.

Two restaurants which have opened recently are members of this school. A few weeks ago I visited current fave of the critics, Zucca in Bermondsey, which served up a pretty tasty meal, albeit a bit uneven. I was alerted about Trullo by those very nice people at HOT DINNERS. It’s only been open a couple of weeks but if my recent visit is anything to go by is already beginning to generate a real buzz north of the river.

So what qualifies it as a member of the RCS? Well, FOH Jordan Frieda worked at the RC and chef Tim Siadatan was one of the original apprentices at Fifteen which was owned by Jamie Oliver who also worked at…the RC. Got that? Good. On with the post.

Located on a busy road by Highbury corner Trullo is a canteen-like space with New Yorky light fittings and paper tablecloths. It looks a little haphazard but I’m sure a bit of thought went into it. I liked it and within minutes of arriving I was sitting down drinking a chilled prosecco and munching terrific homemade sourdough bread dipped into a peppery olive oil. Which is how all meals should start.

A couple of things struck me immediately. Both the short food menu and the longer wine menu seemed very reasonably priced. Indeed the latter boasts that the maximum markup is a tenner which makes other places with 3-400% multiples look pretty silly.

The food menu is necessarily short because I suspect the kitchen brigade is pretty small – I suspect it might only be the one person – even so it still manages to be an attractive menu which you’d want to eat most of. Even vegetarians get a look in.

In keeping with the tenets of classical Italian cuisine the dishes here combine a few good ingredients to produce something greater than the sum of its parts. As I get older my preference is for an uncluttered style of cooking and the cooking at Trullo is right up my culinary alley. The food here just tastes right.

After some decent Salumi – although the cured meats of Italy are never going to be up there with Spain – was a primi of Tagliarini. The delicate, silky strands of the pasta had been combined with a generous number of brown shrimp. Like the sequins on a ballroom dancer’s dress I did wonder how long it had taken to shell them all. Whatever, the end result was perfect – firm, tasty little, er, shrimps.

Interspersed throughout were shreds of green and yellow courgettes. There was a pretty strong chilli kick of which verged on being too strong but wasn’t (forte ma non troppo if you will). Interestingly, it was the sort of chili that seemed to numb the lips rather than catch in the throat. A lovely dish, the sort you’d hope to get in Italy, let alone N1. And all for a fiver.

I’ve railed against the way fish is cooked in this town before. I’d just about given up ordering it because many kitchens overcook it which can turns a decent piece of fish into so much cat food. Luckily the kitchen at Trullo knew exactly how to cook my Slip Soles.

The fish was very fresh and cooked so that the flesh took on a little colour yet was still firm. Some spinach, a few shelled broad beans, a little bit of olive oil and a wedge of Almalfi lemon. It looked appetising and tasted even better. Unimprovable, really.

The cooking had such a light touch that I did wonder how many different dishes I could manage for dessert. However, it was early in the week so I just went with the one pud, a lovely, beautifully textured Cherry Ice Cream. Thanks to an act of kindness by a neighbouring table I also got to try a Melon granita and a Pannacotta and can confirm that they were great too.

As codas go a stong, dark Espresso combined and a glass of Grappa wasn’t too shabby.

So just as SoSJ has disseminated the things that are good about British food and cooking it seems the RCS is doing something similar for Italian food, in London at any rate, and on this showing Trullo is a leading exponent of that cuisine. At the end of the meal I made another booking which tells you all you really need to know about what I thought of my meal and this restaurant.