GALVIN LA CHAPELLE, 35 SPITAL SQUARE, LONDON E1 (020 7299 0400). MEAL FOR TWO, INCLUDING WINE AND SERVICE, £140
Even the godless among us need somewhere to worship, and for that reason alone I should give thanks for the newest restaurant from Jeff and Chris Galvin. They have given me somewhere in which I truly can prostrate myself before the gods of greed: namely my own. It is, of course, a cliche to describe a fancy-pants place as a temple to gastronomy, but in this case it is perfectly apt. The building which houses it, tucked between the cathedrals to mammon of London's City and the humbler shops of Spitalfields, was once the chapel of a girl's school, and the conversion has, if anything, made more of those religious antecedents than less. Ceilings vault. Buttresses fly. Pillars leap. Listen carefully and you can still hear the cries of the 10,000 slaves who undertook the conversion, before being interred alive in its crypt.
OK, not really. But blimey, it's impressive. There are leather bits and flouncy drapey bits and shiny metal bits and acres of tiling. In places, the food also matches. I sometimes run out of space before I get to dessert and it would be a tragedy to do so with Galvin La Chapelle. Their rum baba is quite simply the best I've ever eaten, and as I'm a sucker for light sponge soaked in sugar syrup and liquor I've eaten far too many. I order it in the hope of finding something light and ethereal, that extraordinary balance of a savarin robust enough to soak up gallons of syrup, yet light enough to fall apart on the tongue.
This one does exactly that. Think kisses from kittens and the brush of angel's wings on a baby's pert cheeks, and all the other much-loved Athena poster motifs. It bests the pear tarte tatin, but only, I think, because a perfect rum baba is always going to be better than a perfect tarte tatin – even one as good as this, with crisp friable pastry held in place by a coving of sticky caramel.
The starters aren't too shabby either: their lasagne of crab, more a light egg-bound mousse than a heavy pasta dish, is as good here as it was the first time I had it at the original Galvin bistro in Baker Street. A raw marinated tuna loin with spiky aubergine purée is a surprisingly well-structured dish. I expected yawn-worthy subtle; I got brisk, bold flavours. So clearly I admire Galvin La Chapelle very, very much.
But I can't quite find it in myself to love it. Part of that lies in the antecedents of what has become the Galvin brothers' mini-empire. When they launched their Baker Street place a few years ago, it was a reaction against the grand, often Michelin-starred cookery they had been doing. Chris had been at the Orrery and then the Wolseley; Jeff had been at L'Escargot. The two of them now just wanted to do bistro classics. Even today, a sample menu there is full of escargot, soupe de poisson and duck confit. I could die happy eating just that, and if I ate it often enough, the end would be quick.
Swiftly, they branched out to take over Windows, the restaurant at the top of the Hilton on Park Lane, a striking location which they decided required more evolved food. And now with Galvin La Chapelle they have yet another demanding location and yet again they have ramped up the offering, and the prices. The wine list, though it offers a good choice by glass and carafe, is the kind of document that needs an index. It includes a 1961 Hermitage La Chapelle at £19,500. Then there is the lip-puckered service which is the sickly side of ingratiating: I wasn't quite offered executive relief but, curiously, I wouldn't have been shocked if it had been mooted. Please, people, loosen up.
Finally there was our main course, a côte de boeuf for two at £53. At that price it needed to be perfect and it really wasn't. It was all beautifully presented, the meat carved tableside, and layered with nuggets of roast garlic. But the beef was both tough and flavourless and the jus fragile and underpowered. It came with a side dish of truffled macaroni cheese and it is the flavour of that – a victory of butter, cheese and cream over good sense – which I recall.
I try to review restaurants for what they are rather than what they are not. I recognise that I may today be breaking that rule but only, I think, because I expect more of the Galvins. In the great echoing vaults of La Chapelle they appear to have mislaid their lovely, light touch.★
