Telephone: 020-7584 7272
Address: 10 Lincoln Street, London SW3
Rating: 17.5/20
It was Superplonk's birthday. No, nothing would induce me to tell you exactly which birthday; let's just say immense antiquity. I thought - well, you can guess what I thought. Birthdays are there to be celebrated, no matter what age you may be. So celebration it was, albeit in a minor key as the poor fellow was slightly tremulous as a result of celebrating the night before. It was just as well that we went to The English Garden.
Down the years, the restaurant has built a respectable reputation for serving respectable food to respectable people. Then, in 1999, Roger Wren sold it to Richard Corrigan, and he installed his former Number Two at the Lindsay House, Malcolm Starmer, in the kitchen, de-chintzed the place, brightened up the decor and set it rolling again.
It is still a most tranquil place, on one of those quiet backwaters just off the King's Road at the eastern end, just before it debouches into Sloane Square. Just round the corner is the incomparable bookshop of John Sandoe, which was where Superplonk had been soothing his fevered brow before for lunch.
Any chef worth his or her salt who has worked with Mr Corrigan is not in the business of serving up simply respectable food. That is not Mr Corrigan's way, and it is not Mr Starmer's way, either. Finessing cleanly defined, intense flavours is more the house style, and that's what you get at the English Garden. But Mr Starmer's food is not simply Mr Corrigan's food by another hand. There is a generic similarity, but a marked difference in accent, emphasis and, therefore, character.
This was, in fact, my second visit inside a week. Dinner a few days before had so impressed me that I wanted to have a second, and more searching, look. Among the dishes that had impressed me mightily had been ravioli of oxtail with celeriac and marjoram, and pigeon in puff pastry with Savoy cabbage and madeira gravy. My companions on that occasion ooed and aahed a bit about the tortellini of crab with fennel and shellfish juice, and the marinated herring with beetroot and sour cream, too.
That was last week, this was this week, and Malcolm Gluck chose the rocket and globe artichokes with bresaola, almonds and parmesan, and then sea bass with curried spinach, harissa and yoghurt. I was not to be denied a second helping of the ravioli, and decided on poached haddock and leek with brown shrimp and chive butter for the second act. We had puddings, too: coconut panna cotta with marinated pineapple; and chocolate pot with caramelised oranges and chocolate ice cream, respectively.
Rather than simply compile a list of the many virtues this meal possessed, I will just ruminate, if I may, for a moment or two on two of the dishes: the ravioli, and the sea bass. The pasta of the ravioli was tip-top, firm enough to hold the filling, soft enough to produce a shudder of pleasure, and tasty enough - made using good flour - to hold its own against a sauce of perfect depth, eloquent sweetness, and mighty meatiness. And each raviolo was fat with meat that was elegantly, fibrously squidgy.
Normally I am not much in favour of mucking around with oxtail, but this was a simply fabulous bit of mucking. You could argue that it didn't need the celeriac. I would agree, but I wouldn't argue with the sublime nature of the rest.
As for the sea bass, here was a brilliant, glittering combination of spicing traditions, from India and North Africa. Normally, I am even less in favour of this kind of mucking about than I am with tampering with oxtail, but when the results are so vivid, so harmonious and so satisfying, then I know when to keep quiet. There was plenty else to admire: the old fashioned richness of the chive and butter sauce; the delicacy and balance of the globe artichoke and bresaola, with a witty crunch of almonds; the full-fathom-five chocolate of the chocolate pot; the fragrant shimmy of coconut panna cotta, and the good humoured efficiency of the service.
Under the genial direction of the irreproachable Thierry Talibon, we drank a glass of Pinot Bianco from the Alto Adige, a glass of Zeltinger Grunliner from Austria, and a glass of Chteauneuf du Pape. Monsieur Talibon may have been showing off to Mr Gluck, but he chose with a keen palate and eye - the bill came to £69.50. I don't think Malcolm and I have ever eaten so cheaply together, and rarely so well.
· Open Tues-Sun, 12 noon-2.45pm; all week 6.30-10.45pm. Menus: lunch, £17.50 for two courses, £19.50 for three; dinner, £27.50 for three courses. Accepts Amex, Visa only.
