KITCHEN W8, 11–13 ABINGDON ROAD, LONDON W8 (020 7937 0120). MEAL FOR TWO, INCLUDING WINE AND SERVICE, £110
Kitchen W8 proclaims itself a neighbourhood restaurant, and I suppose it is, but only if you live in the sort of neighbourhood where everybody can afford to wear mink-lined knickers. Naturally such things are relative; from the top of Everest, even Mount Snowdon would look like a road hump. Not that you can see Snowdon from the Himalayas, but you get my point – you need context, and so here it is. One of the partners in this new Kensington restaurant is Phil Howard, chef of the Square in Mayfair, which holds two Michelin stars. Kitchen W8's chef, Mark Kempson, has worked alongside Howard for more than two years, doing high-end fiddly things with lark's tongues and panda spit for big bucks. So their version of low key – either in terms of price or execution – may not be yours or mine.
Then again, the other partner, Rebecca Mascarenhas, an equally skilled restaurateur, does know a thing or two about the local and the unstarry. Between them these three serious pros and their team have created a smart, slick outfit. The beige tones of the rooms are soothing, and for once the art – a lot of very nice works in pencil and charcoal I wanted to steal – hasn't been chosen by somebody in the advance stages of macular degenerative disease. Staff are well drilled without being dead eyed. As well as offering tap water, they didn't assume they knew who would be tasting the wine – and then asked whether we wanted it poured for us or not. When we said no, they took us at our word. Amazing.
It's the food that needs fine tuning. Don't get me wrong: we did have a fantastic meal, but just one of them, assembled from the various dishes we ordered. We liked very much the taster of salt cod beignet, the crisp exterior giving way to something rich and heart-congesting inside. A game consommé had a depth of flavour you could swim in, and the frothy bacon cream on top added a soft, luxurious edge. The flavours of field and leaf-fall in slices of stupendous pink duck were punched up by a sticky copper jus enriched with the ground-down liver, and alongside it was a tarte fine of endive which was a masterclass in what you can do with flour, eggs, butter, a hot oven and talent. A moment's admiring silence, too, for a side dish of crushed butternut squash with chestnuts and beurre noisette. Your GP wouldn't approve but we did. At the end came an exceptional crème fraîche tart, with crisp pastry, a whisper-light filling, and a finely balanced lemon curd ice cream.
Other things were, well, bewildering. That game consommé was delivered on a complex mug-plate combo that may have inspired the dish, for propped alongside came what was called a "small game hot dog". Now, I'm all for whimsy, but if, when you strip away that whimsy, what remains makes the heart fall, it hasn't worked. Yes, there was a hot dog bun, but far too much of it for what was, when wrestled from its doughy overcoat, just a tiny – albeit nice – game sausage. The joke was entirely visual, and where food is concerned that's what we call A Bad Thing. Another starter – slate-grey ravioli of crab and red mullet the colour of a bruise, with cuttlefish, the pasta presumably coloured with the ink of the latter – was both unattractive and underseasoned.
A main course of rose veal served in pink slices had textural problems. The baby cow was expertly cooked but it came on a soupy, starch-thickened bed of sliced chanterelles and spaetzle, those hand-formed Austrian noodles, which placed it on the nursery side of comfort food. A cauliflower croquette, there to give crunch, didn't help. At the end, a take on Eton mess made with passion fruit and lime and the occasional burst of meringue was pleasant but couldn't quite banish the thought that a truly messy Eton mess, rather than this pinkie-raised Kensington version, would have been more satisfying.
Be in no doubt, this is me taking them at the high standards they have set themselves. Neighbourhood it may well be, but with starters north of £8 and most mains in the high teens it is not cheap (though a fine wine list with an entry point at £14.50 and serious choice below £25 mitigates things). The postcode on the dull name suggests ambitions to spread the idea through other well-heeled corners of London. If they sort out the small food issues they could find themselves welcomed across town.★
