What do the easiest and the hardest jobs in the world have in common? Well, as the easiest is being a restaurant critic and the hardest is being one of those poor airport customs officials who have to don a pair of Marigolds each morning and rummage through the stools of suspected human drug mules, the connection is obvious.
But to those who think this post is cushy, let me tell you I used to have it tough, too, back when I was a dairyman for the Milk of Magnesia company. Every morning, rain or shine, I was up at 6am, calling in our prize herd of Magnesias, plonking myself down on the milking stool and grabbing their udders, one after another. It was hard work, but honest, until I was made redundant when mechanisation came in. That's how I've ended up a restaurant critic.
Actually, there's one job that's even easier, and that's being the friend of a restaurant critic, because they can enjoy the experience without the distraction of taking notes and making assessments.
On this occasion, that role fell to a pal who's a genius in the world of advertising, and he was greatly amused by the difficulty I had in even getting through the door at Roka.
That wasn't because the staff didn't want me to enter, but because there seemed to be no way in through the sheer glass exterior of Rainer Becker's latest Japanese restaurant, whose layout was conceived by the Tokyo-based designers Super Potato. Before I had finally deduced that an unmarked piece of highly polished wood must be a door rather than a structural support, I'd unsuccessfully attempted to gain access via a window, in what must have looked like a street mime artist re-enacting Monsieur Hulot's Holiday.
Once inside, I discovered that this wasn't standard teppan yaki (or hibachi), as I'd expected. The highly theatrical cooking takes place on a robata (grill) over a ka (fire - hence the name "ro-ka"), and head chef Nicholas Watt insists on the finest ingredients, not only in the dishes, but beneath them, too.
The tan charcoal fuel is shipped in from Osaka, while the plentiful ice that's a feature of the interior is not the usual cloudy, mass-produced stuff, but is clear as crystal, because it's made from purified water that's cooled down slowly over four days, and disappears without a trace when dropped into a drink. Like Joni Mitchell, they play it cool here, 50:50 fire and ice.
As I sipped a sensible lunchtime "non-alcoholic cleanser" (apple mochito, made with apple juice, mint, lime and sugar, but not as cleansing as the Kirin beer I wished I'd ordered), I perused the menu, which is Japanese with a pan-Asian twist.
Those who know about sushi know it's done well here, but (like the Mexicans) I regard the word as synonymous with "bait", so I turned instead to the à la carte section of tapas-sized dishes, mostly at tapas-sized prices.
Several Korean dishes were available, so I chose kankoku fu kohitsuji (marinated lamb cutlets bursting with Korean spice), excellent with tiny salted crunchy edamame. Nor could I refuse a bowl of baechu kim chi (napa cabbage in garlic and hot chilli), which fizzed away in my mouth like a savoury version of that unforgettable childhood sweetie, Space Dust (cocaine for the under-fives). Kim chi, by the way, is traditionally made by Korean grannies at home, in much the same way that British grannies make plum jam and marmalade.
Not all the dishes saw eye to eye with me, especially the kinoko no kama meshi, a disappointingly bland hotpot of ginger and enoki mushrooms. The rather insubstantial yaki tomato (laced with rice vinegar and brown sugar) also failed to delight. Then, as I was crunching into a plate of mochi balls (delicious, but it must be cruel for the mochis), my friend pointed to a chauffeur-driven car outside the huge, plate-glass window that looks on to Charlotte Street and announced, "Gotta fly, 10 Downing Street calls."
As he was leaving, I asked him to convey to the PM my latest educational scheme, which involves placing giant billboards at 20-yard intervals along the hard shoulder of motorways, each bearing a single sentence from a classic novel, so drivers could read the whole of Pride And Prejudice as they travel from London to Cardiff. If the idea appears in the next Labour manifesto, you'll know where Tony B Liar stole it from.
What made me pleased to be here? Apart from the trick door, pretty well everything. So I was surprised to hear my distinguished colleague Matthew Fort was hugely disappointed when he reviewed Roka last year, until I reflected that restaurants (just like people) have good days and bad days.
That's why all restaurant criticism is ultimately of limited use to readers, because staff shortages, sickness, supply failures, kitchen mishaps and plain bad luck can drastically affect even the best establishments, so one day's triumph can turn to disaster tomorrow. As Heraclitus said, "You cannot step into the same river twice." Oh dear, if I'm not careful, I'll end up talking myself out of this job. That's the possible downside. The upside, however, is that I wouldn't have to wear the trainer bra this time next year.
Telephone: 020-7580 6464
Address: 37 Charlotte Street, London W1
Price: Around £85 for two, including wine (cheaper set lunches are also available).
Open: Lunch, Mon-Sat, 12 noon-3pm; dinner, all week, 5.30-11pm.
Wheelchair access (no WC).
