Grace Dent reviews 42°Raw

On hearing editorial plans for the ES magazine health and beauty special, I punched the air in glee. All being dandy, I thought, I could be in a fancy spa by the weekend, lying about on my plump rump, reading a Jackie Collins, eschewing all fitness classes, wondering what time it’s officially non-obnoxious to order a Negroni. No such luck.

I was dispatched to 42°Raw at the Royal Academy, a vegan café specialising in raw cuisine based on the strict principle of using plant-based ingredients and not using heat above 42C. Be calm my drooling mouth. OK, regardless of the joy-free zone that the raw food ethos sounds like, I cannot deny that it gleans bodily results. I worked with Boy George recently, a raw food devotee who seems to exist nowadays on raw courgette tossed in sesame oil, handfuls of kale, living oats and sacks of acai powder. He looks incredible: defined cheekbones, sparkling eyes, slinky waist, lust for life. I wanted a bit of this.

Raw’s breakfasts look pleasant; for example, apple and cinnamon porridge with buckwheat, apples, chia seeds, flax seeds, goji berries and almond milk. Organic chia-cacao pudding with banana, hemp seeds, chia seeds and raw cacao powder. But anyone can serve cold, raw breakfast — what I wanted to know about was lunch.

Raw is situated in a draughty, drably lit lobby. The tables outside overlook the easily pleased clots queuing for the Abercrombie & Fitch shop. I perused Raw’s blackboard menu, quietly telling myself that hot food served cold is perfectly affable. ‘Lasagna’ that was actually a pile of squash, tomato sauce, walnuts, parsley pesto, cashews and spinach; I was totally happy with this. ‘Thai noodles’ that contained no noodle but were actually a dish of cold curly carrot and courgette mixed into a cold sauce of curry, red chilli, ginger and coconut oil. Gosh, let the feast begin.

Raw has the jolly ambience of a food destination for sallow-faced vegans, passing trade who were hoping for normal hot food, and gallery staff having passive-aggressive stand-offs about budgeting. I ordered Thai noodles, some coconut cake, a smoothie and an Americano, and took a table beside one of the half-dozen prominent power sockets dotted around the walls so I could get on with a little work. ‘Can I have the Wi-Fi code?’ I asked a passing waitress. ‘It’s not for the public,’ she said. I smiled beatifically, channelling peace and love. I did not say, which I wanted to, ‘Look, Moonflower, I’ve just paid 17 pissing pounds for a small bowl of Magimixed raw carrot in cold curry sauce, a bog-standard unsweetened smoothie of banana and strawberry, a tiny coffee and a lump of coconut cake, which, let’s be honest, closely resembles when Blue Peter made emergency winter bird food from Trill and lard in the 1970s. The least you can do is let me use your Wi-Fi. Or change the Wi-Fi ISP address from something other than RAW 42 so we don’t know you’re being awkward.’

Obviously, I knew better than to bicker with a hippie about petty rules. Hippies love rules. A hippie with a pad of Post-it notes is a bloody happy hippie. Raw’s Thai noodles — noodles, pffft — taste exactly like a Morrisons supermarket-brand curried coleslaw that one might take, half-heartedly, to the barbecue of an acquaintance one didn’t care about and didn’t mind not being able to make direct eye contact with for the furthermore. The coconut cake — uncooked, obviously — was a pile of desiccated coconut and some sort of mystery natural vegan fat.

A friend joined me halfway through lunch and I tried to palm off the half-eaten cake on to her. She was having none of it. It was returned to the kitchen. Bill Nighy appeared, ordered food and took a table. Perhaps he was in method acting training to play someone 100lb lighter who likes to chew food for an arduously long time and owns their own Wi-Fi dongle. I left the café full yet unsatisfied and had proper noodle noodles for dinner.