Go on, eat your greens

‘Trying to change the world one drop at a time’ –this is the strapline for the latest opening from James Grainger-Smith and Arthur Potts Dawson. They’re the incredibly clever chaps behind Acorn House, a restaurant I admire for being probably the most ecologically advanced on our rapidly degenerating planet. So why do I find their tag so grating?

I think it’s that combination of little-ol’-me self-effacement and impossible grandiosity. The lengthy press release tells us far more about the principal characters than the food. I fear that, given the unprecedented slew of media coverage generated by their initiatives (look! Here’s more!), the pair risk getting mildly carried away with their own importance.

I’m not suggesting for a second that Water House is not impressive. Check out this little lot: the cooling and heating system is powered by the ambient water from Regent’s Canal. Hot water comes thanks to roof-mounted solar panels. There’s a wormery to process kitchen waste. It’s chemical-free, only biological enzymes are used. No fossil fuels are used anywhere. Even fridges are hydrocarbon to reduce energy consumption. There’s lots more but my head has started to spin by this point. Do I know what it all means? Not entirely.

There are other things I don’t know. Like does my dinner at Water House offset the petrol it took to drive here? Most punters will be burning gas to access this most out-of-the-way, Tube-unfriendly location; certainly, the local Dalston demographic doesn’t look like it could sustain something which is, essentially, a nice posh restaurant. Not patronisation, just pragmatism.

There’s talk of a paperless lav. Is this the right way to go? Does the energy required to shoot jets of warm water at your bits – in Japan, they waft them with hot air, too – not cost more, Earth-wise, than a few sheets of Andrex?

What do I know? I’m only a restaurant reviewer who does her best to recycle, take public transport and switch off the telly standby. I can say the food is quite nice. If Water House opened at the end of my street, I’d be perfectly happy to eat its ravioli (more like caramelle) of spring herbs, dense, chewy pasta with fluffy mint and sage-scented ricotta and drenched in lashings of butter and cheese. Or burrata, a heady and very rich cream-filled buffalo mozzarella cheese on toast with punchy little black Taggiasca olives and a drizzle of grassy Ligurian olive oil. (Not sure I’d have it again as a starter, though. Its weightiness slightly poleaxes the rest of my meal). Salmon is simply and sensibly cooked ‘en papillote’, in a big sweetie wrapper of greaseproof paper.

All attempts are made to source food locally. And if it can’t be found up the road in, um, Hackney the menu is heavy on salumi, olives, porcini and oils, pointing to Potts Dawson’s River Café background), it arrives by road, not air.

Puddings are a real strength, perhaps as a ya-boo-sucks to the hair-shirtiness of the concept. There are dazzlingly good home-made ice-creams: caramel, and honey and pine-nut. And a good (if slightly under-lemoned) lemon meringue pie. Did the lemons arrive by car? We are quite happy quizzing our deliciously Fraaaansh waiter, who seems to have been as fully immersed in the whole ethos as a worm in compost. But looming into view is an extremely tall chap who has just finished dazzling a table of earnest-looking women.

Potts Dawson, for it is he, is clearly not at all fed up with spreading the good news. He tells us about the uniqueness, the because-we-careness of the whole set-up. Frankly, I can’t imagine there’s a single punter here who hasn’t already hoovered up the whole story (given the off-the-map nature of the place, walk-ins must be as rare as organic hen’s teeth). So, do we really need another lecture over dinner?

I’m not being snide. I utterly applaud their dedication to bettering the environment for all of us and hope and pray that every new business sits up and takes notice. But restaurants are all about feeling good. And the constant preachifying leaves me longing to swig Martinis of air-freighted vodka while smoking big, fat, forbidden Cuban cigars. Me bad, I know.