Sackville’s, 8a Sackville Street, London W1. (020 7734 3623). Meal for two, including wine, £160
It probably makes most sense to think of Sackville’s less as a restaurant and more as a historical curio. Because God knows you’re not going to want to eat there. In a couple of centuries’ time researchers will look back at the last remaining fragments of this obscure restaurant – a curling, tattered scrap of menu, an ingredients ordering form full of dizzying figures – and hold it up as conclusive proof that, in the early years of the 21st century, the capital’s restaurateurs had finally reached Peak Stupid.
My job is to describe the proposition, but they do it so well themselves that I’ll just repeat the words at the top of the menu: “We believe that the truffle is such a unique and delectable product that we cannot leave it to be sparsely used in just a few dishes.” Indeed they can’t. Welcome, then, to a place of culinary incontinence. Sackville’s boasts “truffle-based creations”, which is something they should probably see their GP about.
Years ago, when I was young and stupid, I would have got excited about this. Oooh, truffles! Luxury! Spendiness! Let me rub my thighs with my open palms in anticipation. Hose me down with Krug and call me Betty. But then as time passed, my taut, youthful skin sagged and experience piled up in drifts like so many dead autumn leaves. I began to notice something: fresh truffles don’t taste of much or, to be honest, anything at all. For a while it became cool to say that truffle oil was just middle-class ketchup and that putting it on your food was a mark that you were terribly unsophisticated. Well, if it is, I’ll wear the badge with honour. If you want the taste of truffles, a dribble of oil is probably the only way you’re going to get it.
At Sackville’s the other half of the proposition is beef, for which they charge astonishing amounts of money. If there were awards for shamelessness, they should get them. Recently I complained about the prices at the new London outpost of Smith & Wollensky. There the USDA rib-eye costs just over £8 per 100 grams. Here, at Sackville’s it’s £12.60 per 100 grams. At Smith & Wollensky the Angus fillet is £14.55, itself a hefty lift on the £11.33 charged at Hawksmoor. Well, congratulations to Sackville’s. With a price of £15.45 per 100 grams for your Angus fillet, you win. Your prize: my utter, withering contempt.
To be fair I did go to the place specifically to find out what the £38 charged for something listed under burgers as “The Sackville” would get you. Sometimes in this lark, you simply need to know.
The restaurant occupies a narrow space on Sackville Street off the eastern end of London’s Piccadilly, and is handily located right next door to a branch of Subway. A bow window of dimpled and frosted glass panels, as if in homage to a classic chophouse, opens up to a not unattractive space of leather banquettes and booths with, under glass by the door, a display of black truffles. At the end is a small open kitchen. I was able to get a good look at all of this because, as we arrived for an early lunch, it was completely empty. It remained so until one other table arrived shortly before we left at 2pm.
At first there is reason for optimism. Starters are listed to share and the two we try have things to recommend them. The £11 “truffle hunt” is a plate of meaty, seared mushrooms, with chunks of truffle salami that’s also seen the inside of a hot pan, everything under a snow fall of “truffle dust”. It doesn’t cause swooning and unbuttoning of britches, but it’s a fair hit of salt and fungi. The parmesan sliced on to a carpaccio tastes not so much aged as old. It’s dry, and lacking in the crystal crunch you get in the best stuff. Still the fillet beef has been well cut.
After that it’s downhill all the way. The Sackville may be listed under burgers but it’s nothing of the sort. As we order I wonder aloud whether the restaurant has been nobbled by Westminster Council’s edict that all burgers must be cooked medium, because I want this pink inside. It might have been a good moment to mention that it’s not a burger at all but two thin slices of wagyu. Our waiter doesn’t, instead saying only they have ways of dealing with the council edict. Indeed they do. By serving a steak sandwich. The pan was clearly not hot enough, leaving some of the rib-eye fat simply hot and white and wet. There is a brioche bun and a smear of – oh God! – truffle mayo. Think of it as dirty food for filthy rich people. The only remarkable thing about it is the price.
From the non-meat side of the menu, an £18 millefeuille brings two long, truffle-studded slabs of puff pastry enclosing overcooked asparagus spears and a huge duvet of scrambled duck eggs. It’s relentless, loose and dull. We leave two-thirds of it and are not asked why. We take solace in the good fries dusted with truffle dust that tastes of very little, yours for £6. The obligatory truffle mac ’n’ cheese at the same price almost seems like good value.
Desserts are a disaster. A tequila lime pie has a lumpy, dull filling, as though the curd has split. It is topped with Italian meringue and salted popcorn which is soggy as if added some time ago. The pastry case is heavy, undercooked and remains uneaten. A spray of cream adulterated with tequila is bitter and nasty. But not quite as nasty as something listed as a bourbon walnut whip, which does not in any way recall the confectionery it appears to be named after. Our waiter says only that it’s “very rich”. Well, so’s Donald Trump and I ain’t eating him any time soon.
It is three hefty scoops of a chocolate ganache which is completely overpowered by massively ill-judged glugs of whiskey. I can do this job because I’m greedy. I can even clear the plate of food I find distinctly lacking. But this is uneatable. It’s the Rohypnol of desserts, a dish with the potential to slap you into a coma. We eat three spoonfuls and leave an almost full bowl. The waiter nods sadly. “Well, we try,” he says, and takes it away. And indeed they do try. They try a lot. But for the life of me, I’m just not sure why.
Jay’s news bites
■ If you’re determined to do truffles, wait for the best of the white ones at the October Alba Truffle Festival. Yes, they cost – a kilo is priced in the thousands – but they do taste of something. Go to Locanda Locatelli, near London’s Marble Arch, where they tend to appear as a special, shaved over the best handmade pasta. (locandalocatelli.com).
■ All hail the restaurant boom. According to new research from AlixPartners and CGA Peach, 1,770 new eateries opened in the year to 30 June. Restaurant openings were up 6.9% with pub openings down 2.6%. Cities recording growth outside of London include Bristol, Leicester and Leeds.
■ Following his accelerated roll out of US burger chain Five Guys – from one branch to over 25 in two years – Charles Dunstone of Carphone Warehouse is now bringing MOD pizza to the UK. MOD stands for “Made On Demand”: Customers go to a “pizza builder” to choose toppings from a list of 30. Pizzas take three minutes to cook and the first will open next year somewhere in the South East. (modpizza.com).
