Scott's, 20 Mount Street, Mayfair, London W1 (020 7495 7309). Meal for two, including wine and service, £150
If restaurants were people, Scott's in Mayfair would be an old duchess, one who has just taken a bloody expensive trip to Harley Street for some serious cosmetic surgery. When the stitches heal and the swelling subsides - bear with me here - the old girl should look as good as old. Scott's, which opened on the Haymarket in 1851 and moved to its present site in 1968, could become again one of London's great fish restaurants. The new owners also own the Ivy and Le Caprice. They certainly have the experience to get it right. For now, though, it requires a serious bit of nursing.
My wife, who is a much nicer person than me, said I should not be too hard on the place because the mistakes were not so grievous. And she's right. They weren't. But here's the thing: at the end of our meal it became clear that, despite my having booked under a pseudonym and donned the usual disguise of wig and comedy breasts - what do you mean you thought they were real? - they knew exactly what I was doing there. If they get it wrong when they know they have a critic in the house and presumably are making an effort, what's it like for everybody else?
The evening started well. The multimillion-pound refurb has brought a large marble-topped seafood bar into the middle of the room. It lends a real sense of theatre to the very pretty dining room: a fish-scale mosaic on the floor in glittery tiles, a few wavy mirrors, solid-wood panelling. We had arrived early so I could sink a few of their lovely Duchy of Cornwall native oysters, which came with enough accessories to make Paris Hilton hyperventilate: Tabasco, sherry vinegar, muslin-clad lemon, bread, finger bowl, plate stand and so on. The time of our booking came and went. We waited. And waited - and would probably be waiting still if we hadn't asked to be seated. They certainly weren't short of staff. Scott's is full of buffed, pressed and polished waiters in suits who cruise round the bar like masters of the food chain in an aquarium. But none of them wanted to notice me glancing ostentatiously at my watch.
A stupid mistake, because beginnings set the tone, and worse still at a place like this, where the prices are as bruising as a rugby scrum on crystal meth. Those oysters are £15.25 for half a dozen, as is a starter of three mid-sized scallops with chilli and garlic. Most main courses are in the high teens, and a number break the £20 mark. Plus they whack on a £2 service charge per head just for the pleasure of sitting down. And if I'm being charged to be seated, I bloody well want to be seated on time.
There were other problems: lots of faff to get our order taken; a silly wait for the wine; chips, which should be beyond reproach in a joint like this, arriving as flaccid as your boyfriend after 10 pints; a crass miscalculation of the bill. (They left off the wine. Cynics might think this was a clumsy attempt to curry favour. I think it was just symptomatic of an operation ill-at-ease with itself.)
But - and it's a huge but, with a massive, illuminated, swirly B - despite all this, the new Scott's really could be something great. The executive chef here, as at the Ivy, is Mark Hix, and he knows how to deliver classics stripped to their essentials. Those scallops may have cost a (Mayfair) whore's ransom but they were spot on. I loved my starter of baked spider crab, the knobbly shell filled with an outrageously rich mix of brown and white meat. A lemon sole, simply dredged in flour and fried, displayed a sensitive hand in the kitchen, and it was a pleasure to try the legendary stargazy pie, with the sardine heads peeking up through the golden puff-pastry crust of a ripe, creamy white-fish pie (the one bargain at £10.50). We liked the saffron custard tart with its light touch of spice, and a highball glass of sloe gin jelly, and concluded that, if we could afford it, there were lots of other things we would happily try.
On the way out we talked to Sean McDermott, one of London's great doormen, gifted with the memory of an old mountain goat. Talk to him once and he'll remember you. He was at the Ivy for many years, and was then lured away to the Wolseley. Now, tired of the scrum on Piccadilly, he has come here to take ownership of this stretch of Mount Street. He said, 'How was it?' and then, as if regretting having asked, volunteered, 'It still needs to find its feet, and when it does it will be great.'
Listen to the man: he knows what he's talking about.
