Telephone: 0871 330 1515
Address: 15 Westland Place, London N1
Price: Lunch, three courses with wine, £60-70
I’d just got through a huge joint that had taken me ages to roll, and as a result had spent the afternoon coked out of my head. Don’t jump to conclusions, though. I may look like a drug dealer, but I’m playing a vagabundulo on you, because the joint was a rolled Sunday roast with a piece of bone in it that did grievous damage to a molar, and the coke was Novocaine injected into my gums, not the Bolivian marching powder that (for some celebrities) has become God’s way of telling them that they have too much money.
The nonexistent deity also tells celebs that they’ve got too much money by tempting them into setting up restaurants such as Fifteen. I was scheduled to visit it next day, and even though my toothache had abated, I entered with malice aforethought. After Jamie Oliver’s first BBC series, I’d told him that if he ever got tarty (other than tatin) and began sticking his face on merchandise, I’d head-butt him. He has, and I hate him for it.
I also hate his so-called charitable do-gooding, because behind the supposedly philanthropic gesture of founding a restaurant “to give opportunities to unemployed youngsters” (with its “off the dole and on their bikes” overtones) lay a hard-headed business calculation. Yes, it is “a non-profit-making venture”, but who produced the much-hyped and highly lucrative Channel 4 series and overpriced book that accompanied it? Fresh One Productions, a company that turns out to be a partnership between Fremantle Media and a Mr Jamie Oliver. Very tasty. Let’s all jump on the gravy train, chew chew.
Like every other hack in the capital, I was invited to its opening two years ago, but I didn’t go. And I’m glad I declined because, during those first few months, I hated the circle jerk of journalists who spent evenings there on the falling-down water, then filled their columns with unthinking Gemütlichkeit and sentimental tripe about social responsibility and helping youngsters into work. All declared the food magnificent; one even proclaimed that Jamie should be given the VC. So how ironic that when Harden’s Restaurant Guide recently denounced Fifteen as “amateurish” and “seriously taking the piss”, it transpired that its reviewers had formed that negative opinion during those same opening months. And the same hacks who’d hurled superlatives at the place now queued up to lambast it.
I also hated the impertinence of the advance booking system, with Jamie’s singsong voice on the answerphone demanding that I “have an email address, a credit card and two telephone numbers ready” (why not my inside leg measurement, too?). I hated the deprived kids being put on display, as though this were an Oxfam bread-and-cheese lunch sponsored by Michelin. I hated much of the clientele, post-menopausal ladies with fantasies about Jamie popping in (he seldom does), so they could pinch his cheek and say “cheeky monkey”. I hated the overly chatty menu, full of meaningless epithet-ish descriptions such as “Jamie’s sexy salad” and “awesome butter sorrel”. I hated the slow service and huge, crude murals of cute fish and cuddly cows, as though diners want to see a Disneyfied version of what they’re about to eat. Most of all, I hated that I loved the food.
From first to last, it was exceptional. The maltagliata alla bolognese was a slow-braised shank of lamb cooked in chianti with “the best tomatoes, orange, rosemary and Parmesan”, whose subtle, juicy flavours burst in the mouth. The texture of shredded lamb and fresh pasta was incomparably exquisite. The temperature was perfect - this sort of pasta almost always arrives at table far too hot. It was one of the best starters I’ve had all year. My guest chose Devon crab, bruschetta di pagnotta with nasturtium leaves, lemon aïoli and red chilli, and pronounced it delicious, though I’m not sure his opinions on food are of much value. Anyway, I could hardly hear what he was saying, because he suffers from gastriloquism, which means his stomach says “mummy” loudly when he’s hungry.
My main course, “Jamie’s fantastic roast chicken with Cheltenham beetroots coco blanc and crème fraîche”, was a triumph. Admittedly, I saw the plate sitting under the grill for too long before serving, but nevertheless you couldn’t beet it. Mummystomach went for sea bass stuffed to the gills with herbs, and served with “salsa verde alla Tony Blair”. Although, strictly speaking, only kippers should be served “alla Tony Blair”. Because they’re two-faced and have no guts.
Fortunately, there was still much to hate. The prices were outrageous (£9 for a glass of Fairview Viognier, and “an optional service charge of 12.5%” automatically added to the bill), my chair wobbled and the lavatory was a filthy, stinking disgrace. Fifteen’s pasta may be superb, but I’ve seen better kazis than this in spa-ghettos. As for all this shameless displaying of the little working-class kiddies, why not go the whole hog? Get some disabled waiters in, too. Or how about some foot painters to do the menu? The food is great, but the ambience is pure phoney Tony Blair, and that’s what this place ultimately is: all face. It’s New Labour to the shank bone. Show us a social problem and we’ll solve it. Or at least, we’ll pretend to.
· Open: Lunch, all week, 12 noon-4.30pm (serving until 2.15pm); dinner, Mon-Sat, 6.30-11.30pm (serving until 9.30pm). Trattoria hours: Mon-Sat, 8.30am-11pm; Sun, 12 noon-5pm (serving until 3pm).
Wheelchair access (to ground-floor Trattoria only). Non-smoking throughout.
