Iqbal Wahhab is, perhaps, second only to Gordon Ramsay in the league of restaurant self-publicists. He first came to attention with an attack on service in Indian restaurants (an irony to which we'll return), and later franked the form at his competent but overrated gaff, The Cinnamon Club - during a firefighters' strike, copies of a large expense account bill run up by union leader Andy Gilchrist found their way to newsrooms, costing Gilchrist his job and pocketing Wahhab untold thousands in free advertising.
Given what a smart cookie this is, we may wonder if, in naming his new restaurant Roast, Wahhab was aware that the word's footballer-related meaning would amuse the target clientele from City money factories. If so, he needn't have bothered: the setting alone would guarantee profitability even were it called Genital Wart, while the room is the coolest instance of restaurant design I've seen in years. Windows on three of its four sides (the other is taken up with an open-plan kitchen) and skylights provide perfect natural light and offer views of the gloriously Dickensian foodie paradise that is Borough Market. I can't think of a more appealing urban restaurant in which to linger while an autumn sun begins to set.
Albeit peppered with tiresome tributes to suppliers ("We have foragers who brave all sorts of conditions to collect wild leaves and vegetables for us." Did no one think to find a decent greengrocer?), the menu entices on almost every line, while the cheeses and pickle jars arrayed in front of the kitchen reinforce the theme of good, natural ingredients cooked in a no-nonsense, traditional way.
There is, then, a great deal going for Roast - the trouble is that Roast knows it all too well. The moment you enter by the bar at the front, you are assailed by an icy blast of glacial conceit, a sense that decency demands you drop to your knees and thank every member of staff for permitting your presence. The unconscionably cocky guy manning the bar could barely bring himself to acknowledge a request for fizzy water.
"Who's that strutting like a turkey cock?" asked my friend. "A slap appears to be called for." I tried to call Sir Christopher Meyer at the Press Complaints Commission to see what the code says about restaurant critics attacking waiters, but apparently he was busy with some difficulty of his own. Anyway, once we'd been sat at a well-naperied table, the service notably improved, although the emergence of my notebook may have played a part, and the air of orgasmic self-delight never faded.
The menu has twists of the gutsy/ gruesome stuff pioneered by St John (grilled rare ox heart with bone marrow), but we both stuck to less macho dishes. My friend, champion nervous Nellie of diners and a man liable to dial 999 at the sight of a chilli, began with half a dozen Colchester native oysters (£8.50), and while I never know quite how to praise oysters other than to report that they made no one ill, he raved about their freshness. My chicken livers with toast (£7.50) were perfectly cooked to a slightly squidgy interior, and worked neatly with the beetroot that came with them.
Our chatty waitress had proudly announced that both the main courses I fancied, steak and ox kidney pud and slow-roasted belly of pork, were off, so I settled for pheasant (£16), which came with chestnuts and honey-glazed parsnips in a generous serving (half a bird) that was perfectly roasted. My friend was equally pleased with his grilled, spatchcocked partridge with rosemary and cobnut butter, although he felt obliged to have the unadvertised red cabbage (superb) removed and returned to me in a bowl.
Home-cooked chips were OK, but carrots with honey and thyme, and cabbage shoots (both £2.80) were immaculate. So was our shared sticky date pudding with butterscotch sauce and vanilla ice cream (£5.50). The wine list is fairly grand, but doesn't take grotesque liberties, and on all fronts but one this is a fine new restaurant. That, of course, is that Wahhab launched his career by lacerating the very thing that lets him down here - perhaps he could dig out that article and remind himself what he thinks about the central importance of decent service.
Roast 7/10
· Telephone 020-7940 1300. Address: The Floral Hall, Borough Market, Stoney Street, London SE1. Open Lunch, all week, noon-3pm (4pm Sat & Sun); dinner, Mon-Sat, 5.30-11pm (6pm Sat). Price Around £40 a head, including drinks. Wheelchair access and disabled WC.
