BARBECOA: MONSTROUS CARBUNCLE

Although I’m no fan of Prince Charles or his bizarre views on architecture – he seems to want all of London re-modelled to look like it was frozen in time around the early 19th century – I’m pretty sure we’d be of one mind regarding One New Change in the City of London.

Ok, so there wasn’t much there before but as we know, business abhors a vacuum. So instead of say, a nice large public space from which one could admire Wren’s masterpiece, we get the ‘Stealth Bomber’, a shopping mall as stealthy as Katie Price in a Shrinking Violet contest. A shopping mall filled with the sort of places you would only see if you walked for, oh, a few minutes in any direction. Be assured your Nando’s requirements are fully served by 1NC.

The prime location in this behemoth - which presumably came with a suitably stiff price tag - is occupied by Barbecoa a collaboration between Adam Perry Lang (who he?) and our own, cheeky, chappy, TV Chef, St Jamie of Oliver.

I’ll fess up now and say my attitude to JO is one of indifference. His early TV series, with its wobbly camera work and its slappy happy young ‘uns just got on my tits so I never watched it again. I hear he’s been doing stuff to help fat Americans recently (he’s got his work cut out) which is all fine and dandy although I tend to be more impressed by people who just get on with their good works without a TV camera and book deal in tow. So just a little bit of baggage then.

The weird thing was though, the closer the time for my booking the more psyched I became. I kept re-reading the menu thinking this could be really good. Even arriving at the restaurant and being led into the maelstrom of a fully-booked City restaurant full of cheap suits didn’t put me off. The smiley, friendly service also gave me good vibes. Then I started eating the food and toute de suite I was un-psyched.

The first problem I noticed was the quality of the meat or rather the lack of it. From the Pork Scratchings (which came with a schmear of mole sauce of cinnamon-driven weirdness), through the Pigs Cheek, Baby Back Ribs and Pulled Pork, and finishing with the Burger nothing actually tasted like good Pork or decent Beef. The website only states that: “All of meat and fish is British from farms in Scotland, Yorkshire and Surrey where animal welfare and breeding are of the highest quality”. Which means. Precisely. Nothing.

The second problem was the quality of the cooking and preparation which was mediocre – I can’t say abysmal because I ate some of it. Dishes were going out with little or no quality control. That’s the only explanation for the chips that came with my burger that were limper than Larry “Shut That Door” Grayson’s wrist (one for the kids there).

A little patty of Crispy Pig Cheeks was oily and underseasoned, the accompanying salad too salty. The Piccalilli had soft veg and uncooked spices which caught at the back of the mouth.

Anyone expecting anything to evoke BBQ from the US is going to be seriously disappointed. The sauce on the ribs was 1D and inoffensive. The one that smothered the Pulled Pork was very sweet, the whole making me feel quite queasy.

Then there were odd little touches as well like the overuse of fresh coriander and the dish of assorted leaves with my Pulled Pork (for constructing a rudimentary summer roll perhaps?). And apparently a slaw in JO’s universe is over-acidulated red cabbage and white cabbage.

Finally, there was the cost. Even with 25% off, every plate (or should that be plank) of food reminded you how much it must have cost to get this show on the road. I’m still scratching my head over how they came up with £11 for a few ribs.

Still, this is the City, where there’s little discernment but plenty of wonga swilling around – when I arrived a couple were just starting on their second bottle of Krug – so I’m sure the owners won’t have any problem getting their money back. Indeed, JO and his partner were already talking of a roll-out before the place was even open which tells you where they’re coming from (making Garfunkel’s look like great value perhaps?)

I don’t usually give advice regarding restaurants in the blog. If you want to know what a place is like you should always go and try it for yourself. In Barbecoa’s case I’m going to break with tradition and say save your pennies. Jamie doesn’t need the money and you, gentle reader, could do without a lousy, overpriced meal.

GOODMAN CITY: BENNY AND (EVEN) MORE BEEF

As far back as I can remember my answer to one of those “what would your last meal be?” type of question has always been the same: oysters to start; a big steak, cooked rare; chips; a big bowl of ice cream to finish. There would probably be some red (red) wine and a strong double espresso in there as well.

Some oh-so-witty readers seem to think I eat steak at every other meal. These people obviously don’t read the blog regularly as I eat at least as much fish as meat and of the times I do order something carnivorous it’s very rarely a steak.

There’s a simple reason for this. Many places don’t do steak very well. They’re either not cooked properly or the meat isn’t of decent quality. They might be stupidly thin or not rested enough. I’m more likely to wander along to O’Sheas in Knightsbridge to buy a hunk of beef and take it home to prepare myself. The advantage is that it’s cheaper and I can cook it just so. The downside is that it’s a faff to do all the side dishes that are good to have with a steak, like proper chips and a wobbly Béarnaise.

Lucky, then that a new branch of one our favourite steakhouses, Goodman, has opened in the City not ten minutes walk away. It’s roughly the same distance to our other favourite, Hawksmoor, who are also opening a new gaff later in the year.

I’m not really in favour of chains, but that’s more to with most of them being money-grabbing rip-offs. I’ll make an exception in the case of Goodman and that’s because of the main men there, FOH David Strauss and Head Chef John Cadieux - two people who actually care about what they do.

Ever since our first visit almost two years ago they have always looked to improve Goodman with the result that its Mayfair branch is packed every night. This new venture feels something like a culmination of all the effort they’ve put in. When I visited it had only just come out of a few days of soft opening but pretty much seemed the finished article to me and dare I say it even better than it’s elder sister.

It’s a pretty large, cavenernous place and I wondered at first if the back of the restaurant where I was seated was a bit of a Siberia. In fact it turned out to be a much better location given that the front section by the bar is quite noisy and I is quite old, innit? Let the kids have their fun while they can, eh? Little gits.

Service was very on the ball so not long after sitting down I was sipping a glass of prosecco and deciding what steak to have, which is the only really important decision you should need to make in a steak restaurant. The rest is just small talk.

I decided straight away to go off-piste with 1kg of O’Shea Porterhouse, aged for 45 days. I then had a little discussion with my waiter about how I wanted it cooked. My (slightly) alcohol-fuelled cooking directions didn’t seem to phase him at all and off he went to translate my ramblings for the kitchen.

Goodman’s starter list has expanded quite impressively since my last visit and you could probably construct a decent meal from those alone. The Beechwood Smoked Salmon from Frank Hederman though is the one to go for. It’s not cheap but it is of excellent quality. Thick cut and served with little discs of pickled beetroot, a splurge of cream cheese and a sprinkling of dill, it’s rich but has quite a subtle smoke taste. A little goes a long way.

I was somewhat nervous before my steak arrived. Thoughts like “what if they’ve ballsed it up?” flashed through my head. Of course I needn’t have worried. It was cooked perfectly. How I cook my own steaks, in fact.

This behemoth had a beautiful char on it (Note. this does not mean burnt) and had been rested so that it was an even colour within. The great thing about the meat from O’Shea, I’ve always found, is that it has a very clean taste. It’s beefy, sure, and the ageing is evident too but nothing dominates.

I know when a steak is good because I don’t need anything to complement it - the petit pot of Dijon mustard remained untouched throughout the meal. Almost a kilo of beef later and I didn’t feel unpleasantly stuffed and more crucially didn’t suffer from my usual bout of meat-induced indigestion later on.

Wanting to make decent inroads into the Porterhouse I only had a small sampling of the sides but enough to note some great chips. They were a little on the lardy side but had been cooked to give a good, proper crunch. Even better when dunked greedily into an exemplary Béarnaise sauce.

After a suitable break and I went for the HP pudding du jour – of every jour – a selection of Ice Creams, which were pretty good as well. I even had room for a little digestif.

As I drained the last of my Grappa I pondered upon life, the universe and everything and thought that if I was to be struck by lightning on my way home I would die a very happy man indeed. If Goodman can keep the standard up – and there’s no reason to think they can’t – then this will be my go-to place when I want that classic last meal.

Anyway, I now look forward to rivals Hawksmoor’s new offering. The gauntlet has been thrown down, guys. Now it’s your turn.

BANGALORE EXPRESS: CONFUSING

HP and I like to play a little game when we are watching football. We try to come up with the perfect adjective for each team taking part, particularly during international games. It allows us the opportunity to drag every possible stereotype from the locker. So the Germans are “efficient” the French “mercurial” the Italians “cunning” and the Russians "ruthless" The English? Well of course the English are “hapless” or if we are feeling more charitable “frustrating”

I wonder if the same game could be played with restaurants? Maze would be “woeful” Anything related to Tom Aikens could be “cynical” and Rules could be “immutable” If I was asked to include in the game today’s lunch at Bangalore Express today, the only word I could come up with would be “confusing”

It’s a relatively new venture, the second branch of the chain, which forms the easy access route to Chelsea’s The Painted Heron. Open for only three weeks, the restaurant is obviously yet to get the word out about its existence or its location, down a small alleyway opposite Leadenhall Market. For the whole of my lunch, I was the only person in the place and spent the meal smiling uneasily at a lot of bored looking waitresses who seemed genuinely surprised when I walked through the door.

The menu, quite frankly is a mess. There is an a la carte option with some very unpleasant sounding dishes indeed. Indian Calzone, anyone? I thought not. There is also a mix and match option called “Big Plates of Curry & Rice” which would allow you to create some equally unpleasant combinations, Duck Vindaloo anyone? I thought not. There is a low fat option, Indian “tapas” option and even a “deluxe" option offering dishes from The Painted Heron. You would need a three year degree, not a single lunchtime to try and figure it all out.

Such a confusion of possibilities would not matter if the cooking were any good. But, as soon as my own choice of a Vegetable Thali arrived (chosen more to prevent bewilderment than enthusiasm) it was obvious that the food lacked thought and, even worse, passion. They had decided to ignore the traditional thali presentation with small steel bowls of each dish to be mixed by hand with plain rice on a large steel plate (or originally a banana leaf) instead cramming all the food artlessly onto one white plate.

The end result is a messy plateful of colours not helped by the fact that none of the food actually tastes any good. Quite why they had to use the Japanese word “tempura” to describe an assortment of oily vegetables in a soggy batter, I am not sure, but if they were meant to be bhaji, they have some real issues in the kitchen. The lurid orange sauce covering some decent paneer was thin in flavour and the same was true of a “dumpling curry” Only a small blob of spinach and roasted chickpeas showed what they could do if they turned their mind to it. A dry and leathery roti was a final insult and left me pushing my plate away and calling for the bill of £15 including service and a flat glass of Diet Coke.

The owners of Bangalore Express seem frightened that by offering “real” Indian food prepared and served as it should be, they are going to alienate their possible audience. Instead they are serving up potentially bizarre combinations of not very nice food with a vague Indian twist. I am not sure at whom this restaurant is aimed. It's certainly not me and, judging from the empty room while I ate my lunch, not many other people either.

Confusing indeed.

GREEN’S: AROUND THE GILLS

HS was talking about his favourite foodie experiences the other day which got me thinking about mine. Well, there’s the obvious ones: supping the Perfect Pint in a good pub; standing at a bar in Madrid quaffing Mahou, eating silky slices of Jamón Ibérico de Bellota and crunching pert little Gambas. Stuffing my face with Haddock and Chips in front of the TV with my Dad is up there as well. All pretty standard stuff.

Most of all, though I spend my Summers looking forward to the start of the Oyster season. God, I love Oysters, especially the Native variety which, for me are one of the great foodstuffs of the UK. Between September and April, on most Saturdays, you’ll find me knocking back a dozen, sometimes more, of the delicious Ostrea edulis in Bentley's or wherever there’s a spare seat at an Oyster bar. What a shame then that my experience at the newly opened Green’s Restaurant and Oyster Bar was so mediocre and disappointing.

Located in the old Lloyd’s Bank building in Cornhill this should have been the setting for a magnificent seafood-fest – think great piles of Shellfish, chilled crisp White Wines and acres of napery. But the owners have somehow conspired to make it feel lacklustre and corporate and more on a par with the neighbouring Green Door where I endured a dire meal just over a year ago. A large bar area could have been a Wetherspoons (which incidentally specialises in converting old banks to pubs) and the restaurant, where I ate, felt more akin to an airport lounge, albeit a Club Class one.

Although DH weren’t knocked out by either of his recent openings, Terence Conran, to give him his due, would have made a lot more of the big space, and I dare say have produced better food. This was the restaurant’s opening day but the problems seemed more fundamental than first night nerves.

I was hoping a stiff £2.50 cover charge might have brought a little more than the dull reheated bread rolls, last seen doing sterling service at cheapo hotel buffets the World over, but no luck. Small things matter, you see, because they contribute to the whole.

I had even less luck with the Oysters. After much too-ing and fro-ing it turned out they’d run out of one of the two Native varieties they’d had. “We had an Oyster competition yesterday” explained my waitress to which there really was no answer. Ditto, the reason my White Wine was lukewarm – their fridge was not big enough. Hard to argue with such cast iron logic - it was like having a debate with John Stuart Mill.

I must have been inadvertently wearing my disgusted of Tunbridge Wells face because the FOH decided to comp the Oysters which was a nice but somewhat OTT gesture. Unhappily for all parties concerned the Oysters, when they did turn up, weren’t worth the wait.

I’m used to seeing my Oysters opened in front of me and I’m always a tad suspicious when they aren’t. Now, call me paranoid, but these specimens seemed odd. They weren’t off – I’m still standing – but they seemed to lack any of the Oyster liquid you’d normally get. The flavour wasn’t great either which I would put down to the earliness of the season. But would it have hurt them to present the Oysters in classic fashion on a nice large tray rather than cram them into a bowl ? You’d never get old Tel treating the poor bivalves like this.

Never mind Sir Terence though, even a cack-handed old fool like me could make a better stab at cooking the piece of Wild Halibut that truly did passeth all understanding. After unsustainable fishing, not paying due care and attention to a good piece of fish is a big no-no for me and the reason I don’t order fish more often in restaurants. The steak hadn’t been overcooked but had been left under the pass to desiccate.

Hollandaise had been pre-prepped, portioned and left to go cold. Chips were sent back for a second frying but were still fat and nasty. In an empty dining room with no pressure this was poor cooking by any standards.

I noted last year how dire the majority of restaurants in the Square Mile are, but given the (slow) rise in standards elsewhere in the capital I had hoped that this would somehow rub off. It seems though that a combination of greedy restaurateurs, expense account dinners and indifferent diners has meant that nothing much has changed. Mark this down as yet another lousy City rip-off.

MARCO PIERRE WHITE STEAKHOUSE AND GRILL: WILL THE LAST PERSON TO LEAVE TURN OFF THE LIGHTS

Pop quiz.

Q:When is a grill not a grill ?

A:When it’s a frying pan.

I will accept “When it’s Marco Pierre White Steakhouse and Grill”.

Actually, my T-Bone didn’t suffer too much from being fried - it was cooked rare as requested - but that extraordinary range of tastes you get from grilling a piece of bovine flesh was notable by it’s absence.

The meat, from Donald Russell, was also ok but tasted underhung and made for unexciting and expensive eating. What’s that you say Hermano, Donald Russell ? Donald Russell the mail order place ? Yes, the very same.

Actually I buy some meat from Donald Russell myself at Christmas time but when I’m paying £30 for a 16oz Steak I’d like the restaurant to try a bit harder to source their meat. Buying from DR just smacks of laziness. That lack of attention to detail and seemingly, enthusiasm, for the whole project pretty much sums up MPW Steakhouse and Grill.

Take the frontage. There’s a nice new neon sign and below it the iconic picture of a man who likes to think of himself as some sort of latter day Don Vito Corleone (Someday, and that day may never come etc), but the awnings still proclaim the place as Lanes.

So you go along thinking you’re visiting a nice, newly relaunched restaurant only to find it’s the same old place that you never really liked but this time decorated with a lot more pictures of some loony holding his chopper. Words that spring to mind are thin, veneer and sham.

As with the Steak the rest of the food was more or less ok. It’s pretty much what you would have expected of an eatery in the Square Mile before places like L’Anima upped the ante considerably.

Potted Duck was a little underseasoned but tasty enough. It was overpriced and the portion was just too big. Much as I like fatty dishes this one just seemed to go on and on. Compare with the sensibly-sized starter I had recently at L’Absinthe.

I was assured the Triple Cooked Chips really were (Triple Cooked Chips). But I had a sense that they were on the menu for effect. I can’t believe that the Chef or the Owner actually thought they were the real deal. Not unless they were seriously deluded.

But more than the food it was the whole MPW thing that worried me. I mean, I didn’t expect the man himself to be cooking there but, you know, if he’s a friend and if he’s going to put his name to something you’d expect something more than a faxed menu suggestion. Something that showed a lot more intent.

With just a few tables occupied the restaurant had the doomed feel of a nascent Marie Celeste. Then I remembered that MPW has a company called White Star Line.

Pop quiz.

Q:What was the flagship of the White Star Line ?

CINNAMON KITCHEN: FLOCKLESS IN THE CITY

Why is the design of new wave of Indian restaurants so hard-edged ? Is there really no way back for flock ? And why do some gaffs have ceilings that look like they haven’t been finished. Just some of my random musing as I sat in the hangar-like space of the Cinnamon Kitchen, the City offshoot of Cinnamon Club in Westminster. It’s an awkward space where even when full and buzzing you’d still not feel completely comfortable in. The service too was still finding its feet, being a bit overenthusiastic about the upselling and not completely clued up about Indian food. Well, they were French. Everyone was friendly enough though (as they should be to somebody looking to spend money).

Not that the food wasn’t good. Overseen by exec chef Vivek Singh it was mostly tasty gear, prepared with a light touch. Only problem was it was all just a bit polite and didn’t have that sense of generosity that you’d want or expect with Subcontinental food. There is the fundamental problem underlying much of this type of modern Indian cookery. Trying to mould it into a sort of European style makes it feels forced and the results never seem quite right. Well, they don’t to me, but then again I am half Bengali and consequently have an opinion on everything.

Take the Tandoori Chicken. It was nicely cooked: moist, tasty and accompanied by what came across like an Indian version of Ensalada Rusa. But your £7.50 gets you just three small mouthfuls. Fine by me if the dish were complex and multi-layered or part of a tasting menu but as a starter ?

The Lamb appetiser brought a bit more interest to the meal. There was a fiery Sheekh Kebab – well, about a third of one – a nice little Shami Kebab and a tasty little Yoghurt cake. But again it was little more than a few minutes distraction. Fat Chilli with spiced Paneer was the most disappointing dish. The filling was too homogenised in taste but the accompanying spiced Labneh was really rather good.

A main course of seared Haddock with Devon Crab was more European in style. The fish was excellent and cooked accurately. It lay on good basmati rice in a light sauce. Perfectly acceptable if tending a little to blandness. Some more assertive spicing might have been an improvement.

An accompanying Dhal also suffered from reticent spicing but the breads were pretty good although I’d love to see what sort of markup there is on three small halves of Naan which priced at a fiver,

Luckily, the restaurant makes fresh ice cream every day so I didn’t have to find out what an Indian Banana Tart Tatin is. The ice creams weren’t bad either although the Saffron left me with a taste of that spice for some time after. Cinnamon was the best, naturally.

Despite wanting a more leisurely dining experience I was in and out in just over an hour. I suspect though that this is will suit the Investment Bankers, who will probably make up the majority of the clientele, and allow them to have the Set Menu Lunch (which at £15 for 2 courses and £18 for 3 seems to be the better deal) and still get them back at their desks quicker than you can say “Statutory Redundancy Package”. Which is some sort of bonus in these torrid times even if they aren’t getting a real one.