Hardly any Hula at Waikiki

This review was first published in July 2002

Soho goes South Pacific with the arrival of the promising-sounding Waikiki to its shores. But before you reach for your ironic Tom Selleck shirt, think again: the concession to Hawaiian kitsch here is minimal.

Bamboo blinds and faded posters of Hula dancers are dwarfed by the yawning windows, low-slung stools and benchy booths that are now standard Soho issue. It would take litres of their, admittedly potent, Mai Tais to transport you.

As with its predecessor (a Thai restaurant) Waikiki's size poses problems. The galley bar area acts as a staff runway, while the main room feels tokenistic. Its predecessor also seems to have left its menu behind, with Thai dishes sitting uncomfortably astride fruity cocktails.

These, however, did distinguish themselves. Fresh fruit - purèed, mashed and muddled - feature heavily in everything. The Dr Foo Man Chu (vodka, Mandarine Napoleon, passion fruit and guanabana juice) sounded fab and tasted nearly as good, while a Wyndham Martini (blackcurrant-flavoured Czarna Porzeczka Vodka, blackberries and raspberries) proved a splendid scramble through the brambles.

But despite this, and save the Hula girls on the wall, little else swayed us. You'd forgive a few growing pains at a new bar, but Waikiki's was an awkward adolescence: a drink was forgotten; swipe machines inoperative, we were made to pay for each round table-side; and a ten per cent discretionary charge was slapped on every round. There's not even a late licence to sweeten the proceedings.

Cocktail junkies - go for the fruit cocktails. But leave all thoughts of tikki frivolity at the door. We don't demand grass skirts and parrots, but would a few cocktail umbrellas really hurt?

Waikiki
28 Frith Street, W1