Can a piece of turbot be worth £27? It was a generous chunk of fish, true. A noble piece, even. It had been well cooked, and on the bone, too. It came off that bone in succulent, pearly slabs. But £27? That's almost a three-course set lunch at Gordon Ramsay.
La Fina and I were lunching in the restaurant at Monte's, where Jamie Oliver consults as menu master-planner, and sometimes, so we are told, takes a turn at the stove beside chef in charge, Ben O'Donoghue. Monte's is something of a curiosity, for passing trade is allowed into the restaurant only at lunchtime. In the evening, it is a club, and the vulgar herd is shut out. The dining room has been subjected to a tarting up, with all sorts of details overseen by young master Oliver himself. I am not sure quite what he's responsible for, but if the result reflects his tastes, then he is rather more conventional than his public image suggests. There isn't a trace of Essex or lad; Savile Row by way of the executive suite is the presiding spirit here. In fact, it reeks of good taste to the point of vulgarity.
There is nothing vulgar, however, about the menu - except, perhaps, the prices. We all know that Jamie started off celebrity life at the River Cafe, where O'Donoghue also worked, and Monte's menu is pretty River Cafeish: crab risotto with chilli, tomato and rosemary pangritata; grilled guinea fowl with sage, blood orange, chilli and potato fritti; grilled salmon with asparagus, leeks, Jersey royals, anchovy and rosemary dressing. The inspiration may be Italian, but the result is Brito/Italian, Italian effect; Italian food translated through the prism of British culture. In Italy, Italian food has hardly changed with the times. There is a certain austerity to the preparation and presentation of most dishes. Traditional regional dishes appear over and over again, with only slight variations. Most of these dishes work only when you can lay your hands on precisely the right ingredients at precisely the right time.
And you'd never find scallops, lovage salt, orange, bitter leaves and borlotti beans on the same plate at the same time. Or, come to that, trofie, the classic pasta for pesto, served with langoustines, richly sauced and chivvied with chilli; or summer minestrone of broad beans and peas made rich with cream; or grilled rabbit with deep-fried artichokes, marjoram salmoriglio and rocket; or roast turbot with baby beets and balsamic vinegar. Nor chips that were as fabulous as they were massive.
Mind you, it was very good rabbit (as, at £19.50, it should be), unwild, grilled with care and consideration, so that, like the turbot, it was relaxed and juicy, which is not always the easiest combi nation to achieve. Conventionally, salmoriglio is made from olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, oregano and parsley, which is brushed on to grilled fish in Sicily and southern Italy. Monte's use of marjoram, a tame cousin of oregano, lacks the right potency, yet the sauce sat well with the rabbit. The rocket was, well, rocket, but the artichokes were rather mealy. Puddings were very Italian: that is, they were dreadful. With the exception of ice cream, granita, sorbet and zabaglione, Italians have little feel for puddings. Monte's tiramisu was an abominable example of what is, even at its best, a pretty low-caste confection.
If we can get away from the idea that any of this has much to do with proper Italian food, it is pretty good; very good, in fact - plenty of flavour, plenty to eat, loads going on, sensible cooking, just what we want. But then we come back to the question raised by the turbot. Is it worth the bunce? The bill was £114.25. That included a bottle of pretty serious Pinot Grigio at £28 from a serious, and seriously overpriced, list. The other week I had five courses of delightful French cooking at Hibiscus for £111. All right, there's London weighting to be taken into account, but the differential is considerable all the same. Is it the price of Jamie Oliver's genius? Hmm.
