192 is not the magic number

This review was published in May 2002

When that most seminal of Notting Hill haunts, 192, was sold and closed, tremors and shudders rippled throughout W11; there were mutterings of sacrilege and ends of eras. Where were wannabe producers supposed to meet up with wannabe scriptwriters? MAWs with YBAs? ( E&O along the road is today's answer.)

Lovers of Bridget Jones (for the two of you who haven't read the book, this was a favoured destination for the thirtysomething heroine) shed hot tears into their Chardonnay. Now 192 has reopened and the bohemian, the branche and the goatee-bearded of this most self-absorbed of burghs can breathe a collective sigh of relief, as it's resolutely business as usual.

Nothing appears to have changed, bar a lick of paint. Tchaik Chassay's original decor with its clever grouping of tables has stood the test of time. It's no longer different or groundbreaking, but neither does it look dated. The lacquered red tables remain, as does the slightly sci-fi bar top. Even some of the staff remain the same.

But what is sad is that the food - food that paved the way for a thousand imitators capital-wide, from kitchens that spawned such names-to-drop alumni as Alistair Little, Rowley Leigh (who went on to open Kensington Place ) and Rose Gray of River Cafe ; fame, among a positive legion of others - just hasn't kept pace with the times. I don't mean there's a dearth of arcane or ultra-modish ingredients on the shortish menu, it's just that what we ordered simply wasn't very well executed.

Scallops (actually just one) with baba ghanoush and parmesan crisp was almost heroically misconceived. Italians never serve parmesan with seafood for good reason: it swamps the delicate marine flavour. This was a particularly strident example, tasting as though it had been made from rind. The greyish aubergine purÈe did little to help.

Ravioli were packed with filling made too dense by overegging; with so much balsamic vinegar in the sauce, who knew it was supposed to be crab? Good quality lamb was bludgeoned into submission by a couscous accompaniment rendered inedible by large quantities of harissa; the couscous itself was claggy, like one of those supermarket ready-mixed sachets.

But my fillet of beef 'fricassèed' with mushrooms, button onions and deep fried shards of parsnip won the prize for ineptitude: this was a dish that would have embarrassed the most tyro of dinner party hostesses - an amateurish stirfry in which the prevailing taste was uncooked alcohol: a waste of the fillet.

Because we waited nearly an hour for our main courses, they were taken off our bill without any complaint from us. But, you know, all of this is hardly worth the mention. Nothing I nor more lofty commentators about London's restaurant scene might have to say would make the slightest bit of difference to 192.

It's always been packed and continues to be so, even with the plethora of pretenders who've sprung up in the area over the years. Willowy, insouciant blondes dragging on nicotine-lite fags and drinking slightly too much will always bring fans in their wake. And, right enough, the place was full of both.

Then there's the undeniable cachet: those hoping to demonstrate an insider's knowledge of where to go can always suggest 192 (like playing a Fats Waller CD to cool young dudes - a vintage seduction technique of mine - you never let slip your lack of knowledge about what's now and happening).

Because I feel that 192 has almost achieved national treasure status, I tried to attribute the disappointments to mitigating circumstances: it was a Tuesday night and very busy. But then it's always been very busy. And, like I said, it probably always will.