Once inside, the decor is reminiscent of a gentleman’s club – not strip club – the proper old fashioned wood lined varieties that graces Mayfair in days gone by. The table settings chic and simple, the menu being the thing to jumble your mind. It’s rare that more than one or two things jump off the page at you and negotiations and jostling of dishes so that all the flavours you now crave are fulfilled.
An amuse bouche of foie gras and a foie gras parfait was delivered which I have to say, was better that that served by Heston Blumenthaal at The Fat Duck, my old local. This you wanted to order as a main.
The main could have fed both of us and I felt terribly guilty leaving a piece, even though I had stuffed myself beyond the legal limit. Towered roast potatoes and zucchini in what I think was a honey and orange glaze? John had the belly pork, Ivan’s signature dish, but I preferred my beef.
We didn’t even have the room to consider desserts – what we wanted to order was belly rubs on the sofa, in front of the fire. So we rolled ourselves home (I’m sure I heard the car groan when we got in) and did just that.