Out of Africa, out of touch

This review was published in August 2002

The food of South Africa reflects the country's melting pot of a population. Flavours are borrowed from a multiplicity of cultures: Portuguese, Greek, Italian, English, French and Dutch.

There are the fruity, sweet and sour tastes of Malay, from the East Indian slaves brought by Dutch colonials. Spice and heat come from India and China. Each is given a twist of its own from the ingredients indigenous to the adopted nation.

Though why I'm bothering to tell you all this I don't really know. Because the newly opened B-Bar & Restaurant, announcing itself as 'Modern European with a South African influence', though done up like Hilda Ogden's idea of the veldt - glass murals of lovingly rendered African scenery; lots of zebra skin; lampshades made of what looked like porcupine quills; table mats as homage to that legendary councilhouse favourite, the elephant painting; moody black and white animal shots - has only one South African dish on the menu. And not a very interesting one, at that.

Perhaps all this jungle nonsense is an effort to distance itself from its parent, the stuffy old Rubens Hotel next door. Whatever, it's headache-inducing stuff. An unrelenting barrage of loud music which sounded like a salsa version of Burundi drummers didn't help. And sadly, the food on offer (from an Australian chef) wasn't about to soothe our fevered brows, either.

So how come the place was packed? Tourists and commuters are how - it's a stagger away from Victoria station; at 9pm it emptied, leaving just us and a bunch of very elderly Americans, no doubt happy to go home with their convictions about 'British' food intact. The line on the menu which read 'the latest addition to the London hospitality scene' kind of told the whole story, really.

The one accomplished dish was a starter of confit duck with roast figs: the quality of the bird was good and the fruit added a sumptuous sweet crunch. My Thai fishcakes were crumbly rather than springy and an off-putting shade of grey; their dip appeared simply to be commercial, bottled chilli sauce.

We could have also ordered asparagus and green pea - as opposed to what? Yellow split pea? - risotto, or fish and chips with tartare sauce. See where I'm coming from on the South African thang?

The lamb and tomato bredie with yellow rice - there it is folks, that's the dish - came complete with palaver. Cradled in its own black cauldron with ladle, its ingredients were described with hushed reverence. 'It's a stew,' said its recipient. And, as I said, not even a deeply memorable one. Lamb, tinned tomatoes, potatoes and a suggestion of spice: ho hum. A parmesan chicken schnitzel was simply illadvised: a flattened chicken breast in a coating that's not about to give the Colonel any sleepless nights plonked on top of a pile of mashed potato with the consistency of tiling grout. A grillblackened half lemon was the most interesting thing on the plate.

Did I say one accomplished dish? Make that two. A pannacotta with roasted strawberries was flawless, a textbook version of this cool, wobbly pud, tiny flecks of pure vanilla peppering its virgin whiteness. So there is ability in the kitchen; perhaps it just needs better harnessing.

Rarely have I spent 40-odd quid a head on such an uninspiring procession of food. The menu itself doesn't offer anything new or particularly alluring, in fact, it's an exercise in restaurant cliches; more emphasis on some genuinely South African cooking - such as Peter Gottgens' excellent Dumela in Chiswick - wouldn't go amiss. Otherwise, it's one for kitsch aficionados only.

B-Bar & Restaurant
Buckingham Palace Road, London, SW1W 0PP