Light years ahead of the rest

This review was published in February 2002

There's nothing new about a restaurant in a boat. Most of the London ones fall into the tourist trap category, and Lightship Ten has the superficial hallmarks of this breed: its St Katharine's Dock location, for a start, speaks of ersatz themerie - that horrible hotel, the Starbucks housed in a Palladian folly, the big, faux-venerable pub that always smells of chips.

Under no circumstances should initial-appearances put you off, however; the restaurant in this aged Danish boat - the oldest lightship in the world - is a truly class act.

But first a tiny bit of background: Lightship Ten, built in Copenhagen in 1877, is one of only six surviving lightships of 25 ever constructed. It was only decommissioned by the Danish government in 1972.

Now, two Danish entrepreneurs have restored her to a previously unheard-of glory to the tune of £2million and installed Jean Michel Viala, previously of the Dorchester and not a player in a premier league football team as his name suggests, in the kitchens.

The result is quite curious: the old boat creaks and groans slightly and the thick, dark, grainy wood of its hull sits oddly with the restrained Scandinavian modernism of the decor. But somehow, like the unabashedly classic Francophile menu, it works: the gleaming glassware, white linen, leather booths and little silver low-lights over each table coming together to create an intimate, intriguing place to enjoy some truly assured cooking.

In fact, my only problem with it, apart from some cheeses still rigid from the fridge, was that the aroma of whatever had been used to treat the wood was so overpowering that it rather took the gloss off our bottle of Crozes Hermitage. Still, this might just be because it's so new.

From an immaculate Bloody Mary served in the compact upper deck bar to glasses of port sipped while tiny Thames wavelets gently rocked us, Lightship Ten delivered a soothing, seductive experience.

Luxury ingredients in sauces rich with cream, eggs and butter add to the sense of nannied decadence; though chefs such as Garry Hollihead at Embassy are revisiting this approach to cooking, I got the distinct impression that this is simply what Vialla has always done and has practised it often enough to achieve something pretty damn fine.

First off, a pile of quite miraculously tender lobster meat - with no trace of fibrousness - was surrounded by a pool of sauce scented with Chardonnay, chives and what tasted like pastis, enriched with cream and glazed under the grill. Rich and gorgeous. A salad of springy beans, cushiony artichokes and smokily charred foie gras came with a musky truffle vinaigrette.

There's always a fear of disappointment after great starters, but the main courses were just as good. A large, milky slab of perfectly roast cod sat on top of a wonderfully sloppy almostrisotto of pearl barley, mirepoix of vegetables, mussels and, yes, more cream. Fillet steak so thickly cut it resembled a steamed pudding was perfectly pink as requested and full of the flavour that fillet often lacks; it was manfully supported by a gamey Madeira sauce, roasted salsify and ceps. More of the mashed potato, so silky with cream and butter that it shone, shunted our meal quite firmly into cardiac arrest territory. But live dangerously - as my mama says, you're a long time dead.

Prices are, predictably, steep: we paid well over the ton for two. But, and it's a big but, there's a set dinner menu offering many of the dishes from the carte at an extremely generous £23 for three courses, including a glass of Champagne. And service - excellent, slightly formal - comes in at a sensible ten per cent, so it's not all scary. A find, and - as the French guides would say - vaux le dètour.