Foundations of a fine eatery

This review was first published in March 2001

The Royal Institute of British Architects, on Portland Place, is a killer building. Opened in the Thirties, it must have been fairly controversial: it looks like something transported from Mussolini's Italy.

In fact, it is probably just as well that we don't have too many buildings like the RIBA, or we would have a nation of budding dictators. But then, that would account for a lot of things about architects.

The building has weathered extremely well. The plain, Portland-stone exterior is imposing and majestic while, inside, details such as the cross-banding on the doors, the carefully faceted glass and metal newel posts, the black marble, fluted columns, and the names of past presidents and medal winners carved into the walls, lend the place a dignity and presence that is disappointingly absent from many new buildings. At night I have seen it suffused in a purple light, a theatrical but dramatic touch.

RIBA Caf? is located in Florence Hall, the building's principal room. It is a splendid space flooded with light from two sides and with a huge internal window overlooking the staircase.

It dwarfs any attempt at installing an environment, and wisely RIBA has not tried to impose a scheme, with Conran and Partners recently creating a 'modern interior'. As far as I can see, this has been achieved with a few tables, chairs and semi-circular banquettes that look like bits of a fairground ride. There are a couple of hat stands (but they look like they might have been there already) and there's a little counter to the side of one of the doors displaying patisserie, but that is it.

The menu is put together by a firm called Milburns, and the food is competent, contemporary and appetising - a superior take on museum food. I understand the menu will evolve as the restaurant settles in; I visited during its first week of business.

The menu is divided into numerous midday modules: 'brunch', 'regent champagne lunch', 'light lunches', 'express lunch', and plain 'lunch'. There are moments of credible innovation here, which doubtless endear it to the earnest, vaguely intellectual crowd that uses the place. I started with beetroot-pickled salmon. Tinged red, it was served with a small mound of chopped apple, celery and dill which resembled a piece of bonsai topiary. I was also impressed with the geographic specificity of the Cumbrian air-cured ham that came with rocket and figs.

As ever, when eating anywhere that purports to be modern, I choose as my companion a resolutely old-fashioned individual, in this instance Jeremy Hackett, founder of the eponymous clothing store. For once he really liked the place. His spirits rose further when I pointed out a radiantly suntanned man, and, in between spoonfuls of delicious mushroom soup, he posed the rhetorical question: 'Have you ever met a poor architect?'

His cheery nature was once again in evidence when it came to ordering his main course. He called for the rack of English lamb with white-bean ravioli, roast red pepper, and rosemary sauce, muttering under his breath that he had better have English lamb before it becomes extinct.

It looked good, and the ravioli was presented most innovatively. It looked like slabs of Kraft cheese, a delicacy of which I was inordinately fond in my youth.

For my main course, I strayed onto the light-lunch section of the menu and ordered a sun-dried tomato tortilla wrap filled with Mexican black beans and rice.