Morgan M, 489 Liverpool Road, London N7 (020 7609 3560). Meal for two, including wine and service, £130
Morgan M is the sort of restaurant I should like, or, at the very least, approve of. A chef with a serious track record, Morgan Meunier, formally of London's Admiralty, has struck out on his own. He's found simple premises at the unfashionable end of Islington, avoided high designer fees by doing a modest makeover (a lick of white paint, a green banquette, some nice chairs, a little funky art) and written a menu of uncompromising seriousness.
When the carte says things like 'ravioli of snails in Chablis, poached garlic, red wine jus' and - deep breath - 'Welsh lamb basted with herbs, the rack roasted, the leg confit, garlic ravioli, gnocchi, barrigoule sauce' you know he's not mucking about. There are also two display shelves groaning under the weight of ancient Michelin guides, just to ram the message home.
That I can not quite find it in myself to love or even like Morgan M is down to that terrible yawning chasm between ambition and execution. It's not so much bad, as clumsy. For a start there is the pricing regime. A cost of £30 for three courses looks like good value, but when two out of five main courses, one of the starters and cheese instead of pudding come with a hefty £5.50 supplement it is suddenly less so. It feels like someone is trying to disguise the true cost. Particularly if you received our bill as, in time, we will see.
But the real problem is on the plate. If you are going to write novel-length dish descriptions, you'd better deliver. Give me a reason for all that reading. Give me drama and plot. There was clear technique here but we were lead to expect stand-out flavours and we didn't get them. Why tell us the snails were in Chablis if the flavour of Chablis was not going to play a part? Calling the liquor with grilled langoustine a shellfish cappuccino may read smart, but what does it actually mean?
The same applies to that part-work lamb dish ordered by my companion. And my 'roasted fillet of veal, glazed sweet bread and kidney, chestnut puree, asparagus, morel and vin jaune sauce'. Did I get all of that? Really? It doesn't register, and that's the problem. Lots of noise and fury, signifying, well, not much really.
There were some good things, of course. I liked the amuse, an acidulated beetroot puree around a quenelle of horseradish cream, which was a deconstructed version of that great Jewish condiment Chrain. The dark-chocolate fondant was good, with its chaser of Armagnac milk, and the cheeses were very well kept. But even these joys were undermined by cool, functional, disengaged service, as if the staff had learnt their lines but hadn't a clue about their characters' motivation.
And then came the business with the bill, which cast a shadow over everything. The next day I noticed they'd overcharged us by £20. Here's some advice to restaurateurs everywhere: if a customer phones complaining of being overcharged, your waiters shouldn't just say, 'There's nothing I can do about it, call back in half an hour when the manager's here.' They should start by apologising and get someone to call the customer back. And if, when the punter does call back, you decide there might be grounds for dropping the service charge, don't ask them if they'd still like to pay it. Just drop it. Making complex food eat as well as it reads is difficult stuff. Dealing sensibly with a customer who was overcharged? That ain't rocket science.
