It's all on the menu

I saw an old flame the other day. Yes, the Olympic one. I saw it on every news bulletin on TV. I watched it being lunged at, spat at, extinguished and burning bright. I observed grim-faced apparatchiks giving interviews and vowing vengeance on flame-throwers. I smiled as widely as our Prime Minister when he greeted the flame and then frowned, perplexed, as he tried to disown it.

I saw the flame in France and thought how bad the French have become at protesting. I tried to hide my disappointment as trouble flared in San Francisco and the flame was prevented from crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. There are still weeks and weeks to go before the Games begin. Is it just me, or are you bored with the whole thing already?

I’ve been trying to imagine what London will look like in 2012 – whether I’ll just have to stay home and put a pillow over my head until the whole thing is over. Will it be possible to move in the streets? Will there be a congestion charge for humans? Will I be able to get a reservation at a restaurant, or will all restaurateurs do the sensible thing and board up their windows until the last medal has been awarded?

For once, London will be showcased to the world, but actually I’m always aware of how our city looks to visitors from overseas. Are the streets clean? The service good? The people polite? This week I was having lunch with an American attorney, a dynamo of a man who represents one of Hollywood’s biggest movers and shakers. This is a bloke you don’t take to the nearest chain or anywhere with a plastic menu. I wanted to show him that London can do brilliant food, so I took him to Hibiscus, mainly because the chef trained under Alain Ducasse, considered a magician in the kitchen.

Hibiscus is a versatile flower used to make paper, tea and grass skirts. Why, it even cures dandruff! What puzzles me is why this colourful bloom was chosen as the name of this particular West End restaurant, since it is a room completely devoid of decoration.

It’s one of those places you walk into and immediately get swallowed up by some-one’s rigid definition of ‘style’. You sense that the owners asked their interior designer for anything as long as it was bland and safe. The trouble with this kind of look is that, although it doesn’t frighten the horses and won’t offend anyone’s sensibilities, it ends up soulless and without real substance. It’s like stepping into a Harley Street waiting room – subdued and expensive – with the hushed atmosphere of people awaiting a diagnosis.

Having said that, the food was absolutely amazing – inventive and versatile (maybe that’s why it was named after the hibiscus). The lawyer had Cornish crab which tasted fresh enough to have just wriggled off a surf-swept beach. I chose the black Périgord truffle, for which you pay a supplementary tenner, and if you like to trifle with truffles, then the more upmarket white Alba is available, too. Two truffles! In London! I glowed with pride as we waited for our entrées.

Because I’d been out so much recently, I modestly selected salmon, which was about as exciting as salmon can get. To give you an inkling of how wonderful, it was described as ‘organic Scottish salmon cooked in olive oil, confit of fennel and champagne rhubarb, dill purée, wasabi and honey dressing’. Bizarrely, my companion chose kid. Gulp. I wondered where it came from, but didn’t dare ask. Sadly, the food was too satisfying to leave even a smidgen of room for pudding.

I was expecting the lawyer, being American, to drink nothing stronger than water, but his eyes lit up when he saw the wine list. ‘This is good,’ he purred as he ordered us each a glass of Gavi di Gavi, followed by Pinot Noir – and a bottle of still water. How did he feel about our campaign for humble tap water? Would he be happy with a jug on the table? He screwed up his face. ‘Are you crazy?’

The other guests were a very mixed group of relaxed, non-business types, all of whom seemed to be concentrating on the food and each other.