Sotheby's Cafe 7.75/10
Telephone: 020-7293 5077
Address: Sotheby's, 34 - 35 New Bond Street, London, W1
Open: Mon-Fri, breakfast, 9.30-11.30am; lunch, noon-3pm; tea, 3-4.45pm.
You would never have guessed from the aura of cultivated restraint enshrouding Sotheby's the day we ate in its cafe - where the obscenely moneyed and their agents fortify themselves for a fatiguing afternoon's arm-raising - but the night before had seen a European record set in a salesroom just up the hall. An auction dominated by German and Austrian paintings, with the odd Picasso, Monet and Cézanne chucked in for balance, had scooped £116.7m -some £12m more than the previous best set earlier that week at rival house Christie's.
I'm not sure what the commission on £116.7m comes to, but it would probably stretch to quite a party. Yet the hall between the front door and the auction rooms was bereft of streamers and Sloaney auctioneers lying in pools of vomit, and all around it was staid and sonorous business as usual.
"You can smell the money, can't you?" said my friend, glancing at the younger element at the tables in the hallway. "It's discreetly patrician and pinstripetastic out there, but in here we're dropping the average age by 40 years."
To one side of us sat an elderly couple from Israel, a fact I discovered when he left behind a packet of pills with Hebrew lettering on. "I think these are yours," I said, running after him.
"Thank you."
"I've just saved your life, haven't I?"
"Er, they're for belly ache..."
"So no Canaletto reward, then?"
"I'm afraid not," he said, backing away nervously.
Do a good deed, eh?
On the other side of us, meanwhile, was a pair of very ancient ladies, presumably a Grand Duchess and a Graffen of the Prussian nobility, clad from scarfed head to manicured toe in Dior, and wearing slightly startling shades.
For those who enjoy a gawp at humanity's more exotic subspecies, this place is a voyeuristic treasure house, but against all initial expectations I must also recommend it for the food. What muted hope we had for such a cramped little place - a stylistic hybrid of smart Italian airport espresso bar and mittel-European patisserie (lots of wood, mirrors over-optimistically intended to suggest space, black-and-white photographs of Hollywood goddesses) - evaporated on the arrival of the bread. Norman's Ninth Rule Of Restaurants holds that bread is always a reliable indicator of what's to come, and the black slice I took from the basket was stale enough for use as a makeshift scourer.
"I do not like the way this is going," muttered my friend,
a spectacularly nervous diner. "Not one iota do I approve of the direction this is taking."
A spoonful of butternut squash with chilli crème fraîche later, though, and he was purring like a fat cat who had just spent a portion of his biannual City bonus on a Klimt. "This is great: creamy, squashy, perfect texture, perfect flavour, with a nice chilli afterkick. A real winter warmer."
My starter was excellent, too, three crisp and greaseless beignets of delicate smoked haddock sitting in a delicate sauce of leek, fresh peas and chive oil.
As the plates were cleared, I realised that the Graffen was staring at me so intently through her LA traffic cop regulation-issue shades that I was sure she was about to make the wind-the-window-down gesture and ask me to step out of the car (I guess they don't get many people who resemble vagrants in Sotheby's). Thankfully (not least because I didn't have my driving licence or insurance documents on me), she thought better of it and returned her gaze to the Grand Duchess.
"I don't know much about food, but I know what I like," observed my friend when the main courses were served, "and I like this lobster club sandwich very much." The only complaint we had about this richly enticing triple-decker was that the weight of lobster chunks, salad and good mayo was too much for the toast, so that it disintegrated like an overstuffed doner kebab. Otherwise it was faultless. As was my guinea fowl "au vin" with creamy mash and ;Savoy cabbage, an artless, rustic and perfectly executed dish.
A shared pudding of buttermilk pannacotta was light, lemony and delicious, but came with a horrid Florentine biscuit that drew an involuntary, "Ooh dear, they've let themselves down at the death." But apart from that, the bread, the collapsing sandwich and service that seemed designed to clear tables as quickly as possible, this was an exemplary reminder of how pleasing really well-executed wine bar food can be.
One other minor quibble was the minimum £15 a head charge during lunchtime, which seems not only mean-spirited but also a touch paranoid given the size of the regular clientele's pockets. As we paid and left, the plasma screens in the hall were relaying the afternoon action, so we lingered a while to watch some fairly dull landscapes by some fairly obscure artists go for fairly outlandish sums.
"That economic downturn," my friend shivered as we noted a familiar Dior sleeve rising to nudge the bidding towards six figures, "it's really baring its teeth in New Bond Street."
The bill
Butternut squash soup £5.50
Smoked haddock beignets £7
Lobster club sandwich £18.50
Guinea fowl 'au vin' £17
Pannacotta £5.50
Mineral water £3.50
Glass of champagne £7.50
Three glasses Montagny £24
Small espresso £1.50
Filter coffee £1.95
Total (without tip) £91.95
