A night with the fashion herd

This review was first published in September 2002.

I had some American friends, Gordon and his wife Suzanne, staying last week. They are simply mad about the theatre. What better than to take them to St Martins Lane hotel in the West End, walking distance from the best shows in town? I figured they might also appreciate a cutting-edge English hotel, where fashionistas mingle with high-flyers over Philippe Starck designs.

The greenish glass entrance didn't suggest a hotel. Our taxi driver went up and down before dropping us outside a pizzeria. The hotel, luckily, turned out to be 10 metres away. Inside, the lobby was weirdly charming, with an Alice in Wonderland quality. A giant chess set stood in one corner; a set of huge "gold molar" stools in another, creating a dreamlike effect.

Like Lewis Carroll, the lifts were paradoxical. Screens on the sides displaying waving grass were combined with cacophonous pop music. The bedroom resembled an operating theatre, full of bright hanging lights. Everything was Starck white, relieved only by an African stool. The twin beds were a good size, and comfortably sprung. A white cupboard contained a small TV with DVD and CD and a mini-bar. The bathroom was plain, with a shower hardly big enough for two.

Pictures of people with their mouths open were displayed above the bar, which was long and dimly lit. I ordered a £9.50 lychee martini (a house speciality). Gordon ordered a normal martini and Suzanne drank an excellent house champagne at £8.50.

Wines started at £7.50 a glass for Australian red or white. Even Gordon - a fusspot - was impressed. He sat with his mouth open admiring the clientele (a lot of young, thin women in mini-dresses).

The hotel has two restaurants, Asia de Cuba (Oriental and Cuban) and Tuscan Steak (Italian). Gordon preferred Italian, so Tuscan Steak it was. A stuffed beast's head faced a wooden bar. Nothing pretentious here. Much of the food, alas, was.

The chef had tried to do with the nosh what the designer had with the hotel - make it odd and modish - only Italian food is supposed to be simple and comforting. I chose from the £20 set menu. Perhaps I was wrong to be so unselfish.

My tomato and basil soup with frutti di mare didn't quite come off. The glutinous oyster plonked in the middle added to its inauthenticity.

Gordon's risotto of saffron and scallops was a little bland: the rice stuck together because someone had pummelled it into the shape of a tower. Still, the scallops were succulent.

Suzanne chose an endive salad which was as good as an endive salad can be.

For main courses, Suzanne and I had chicken breast with baked polenta; Gordon had roast lamb. The lamb had been shaved like Parmesan and sat atop a lump of potato.

Our chicken breast with polenta was polenta with chicken breast - the former perfect, the latter a little dry. None of us could face the spaghetti ice cream, so I put my friends in a taxi and went up to bed. I slept well as the curtains were thick enough to keep out a strobe light, then dithered over the extensive breakfast menu.