A little heaven, a little hell

This review was published in May 2002

There's something entirely gnomic about MVH. When you phone to ask for directions, you're told: 'Just let the antlers guide you.' On your arrival at the almost entirely white dining room, an incomprehensible if affable chap confides: 'This is Heaven. Upstairs is Hell.'

And it was in Hell that I waited for my extremely late date, a North Londoner who doesn't believe in the existence of much south of Battersea; ('Just follow the river,' I advised her, something of the gnomicness clearly having rubbed off).

This tiny bar is a homage to the school of William S Burroughs. It's all shades of clotted blood red and shards of mirrored glass. In front of a fire sits a rat (plastic, although the lighting's dim enough for it to briefly give you the willies). There are long, silvered portraits of porridgey naked men, warts, genitalia and all.

The loos are also in Hell: a heavy, massive door, every inch covered with blowsy, decadent scarlet roses, leads to a ferociously carmine cubicle where piles of ruby gems hide squidgey pouches of red condoms. All in all, Hell rather made me wish I'd brought someone other than my grouchy gal-pal.

Heaven is - as you'd imagine - all white. It's actually a really pretty space: loads of linen, frosted glass vases, twinkly chandeliers and pale blooms. I read the menu with relief, for Michael Von Hruschka, chef and owner, was previously the maverick brain behind Fitzrovia's barking The Birdcage.

This is a man who once unleashed dishes such as Pearl Dust and Seahorse Consommè; and Love Bug Salad of fried chilli locusts, larvae and scorpions. (You'll find his acolytes in the old site, now called Archipelago ; his influence also looms large over new scorpionchomping outlets such as Edible and Empire - owned respectively by an ex-supplier and ex-employee.)

The new choices - despite the appearance of a memorably ghastly starter I once experienced at The Birdcage: foie gras, kaffir lime and galangal soup - is tame by comparison. And reasonable: two courses for £23, three for £29.

And, to demonstrate there was real ability behind the culinary Grandpa Munsterishness of Von Hruschka's past behaviour, everything we ordered was good. First came a mammoth glass plate laden with superlative amuse bouches: an espresso cup of velvety, rich truffled vegetable soup; a mussel soused in the addictive flavours of galangal, coriander and mint; a tiny pastry case filled with aubergine purèe and smoked salmon; and daikon thinlysliced round a bunch of sweet, baby leaves, a creation that managed to avoid almost inevitable blandness.

Starters continued in the same vein: a 'carpaccio' of lobster - why? It was cooked? - was piled on a drum of shredded lettuce and white crabmeat; apparently the flavourings were lemon thyme and Noilly Prat but it tasted more like Thousand Island. The effect was of superior prawn cocktail. 'Tataki' of ostrich and beetroot was another timbale arrangement crowned with the raw bird; it didn't appear to be seared as the name suggested and tasted inauthentically of hoi-sin. It was rich, smoky and sweet - a good combination.

Layer upon layer of wafer-thin slices of wild boar with a gorgeously liquorice flavour were piled atop sweet red cabbage scented with quince, studded with pearly button onions; this was just great - especially when paired with the braised chestnuts we'd ordered as a side (or 'trapping' as the menu tweely puts it). Poussin - a deadly dull choice normally - was made enthralling by its truffle and balsamic flavouring. Gratin potatoes and Indian onion salad were splendid.

So the eccentricity is still there, but thankfully confined to the decor. The menu is - with the exception of that wretched soup and the odd sighting of sea urchin - a welcome return to a more classic style.