Hook up with Marco at Wheeler's

This review was published in July 2002

I have to confess that I never visited Wheeler's in its previous incarnation. It was one of those places that you kind of knew where it was and that it was pretty OK, but you never felt any strong desire to check it out.

But when the redoubtable Marco Pierre White takes a place over, it suddenly becomes a destination. (We're told that it's 'the first in a series of acquisitions of famous restaurant names' - presumably his involvement with Drones, Quo Vadis, Mirabelle et al no longer counts - and it's in association with Robert Earl, of Planet Hollywood fame.) So I was absolutely astonished by the tininess of the place, a many-layered bijoux chocolate box where the rooms are about the same size as railway carriages.

On the ground floor is a pretty oyster bar, all formal barmen and etched glass, on the following two floors are the munchkin-sized dining rooms and the top floor carries what must be the most minuscule salle prive in town. With its clubby decor and quaintness, it's the sort of gaff that visitors to our sceptred isle will just lap up. Given Earl's heritage, this is hardly surprising.

We had to inelegantly squeeze ourselves into our seats. The whole table had to be pulled out to accommodate this move; you sit side by side allowing full access to your neighbours' conversation and the chance to eyeball their dinner. This is not a place to head for if you value your space. The chap at the table next to us was an elderly sort (as were many of the diners) of rather ample proportions. It looked as though he'd been squashed into a Wendy House.

In keeping with its history, the menu is largely fishy and deeply conservative. It could almost have been served 50 years ago without raising an eyebrow. You'll find the likes of coquilles St Jacques, fishcakes with sauce gribiche, sole with beurre maitre d'hotel; there are lashings of cream and butter in many of the options.

I chose badly: both my courses had so much cream in them that I ended up feeling sticky and bloated. My starter, an omelette cardinale made with lobster, was the most sinfully rich dish I've ever encountered, and I mean ever. That's not to say it wasn't gorgeous, addictively gloopy with a mustardy, tarragony, thermidor quality to the lobster-studded topping. But after this cardiac-inducing opener, I really didn't need the massive slab of smoked haddock swimming in cheese and cream and topped with mashed potato that had had intimate relations with about a stone of butter.

My date chose more wisely: her gravadlax had the firm texture and fine grain of a wild fish; it was served with thinly sliced pumpernickel and a punchy, fragrant sauce. Sole Colbert - the unboned fish breaded and stuffed with herb butter - was a great piece of fish: pearly white and with none of the wooliness that can plague an inferior sole. She eschewed her pommes purÈes which meant she was able to tackle a wedge of stonking treacle tart: a refined version in everything but size. Portions are generally generous: the fish pie served to the stout party next door was of a dimension that had me worrying he was going to do a Mr Creosote.

Chef Brian Hughtson, an alumnus of White's Criterion and Mirabelle, has an assured touch with fish. We encountered a few teething hiccups - no dry sherry, no olives for the martini, unchilled house white - but otherwise White has done his usual sympathetic and attractive makeover. It's good enough to attract more than just the tourists and not ridiculously over-priced: our meal for two came to £101, including wine and service.

Wheeler's
Wheeler's of St James's, Duke of York Street,, SW11