Overpriced spice at Cinnamon

This review was first published in April 2001

You have to feel sorry for Iqbal Wahhab. There he was, confidently announcing his new venture, the Cinnamon Club, was going to change our perception of Indian food, hinting at Michelin interest and insisting it was going to be 'one of the best restaurants in London, full stop'; only to have, in the enforced and elongated hiatus before opening, his thunder stolen by the Michelin recognition of Zaika and Tamarind .

Then there's the fact Indian restaurateurs the length and breadth of the country are willing him to fail. In his previous incarnation as editor of Tandoori magazine, the industry's bible, he wrote 'nothing typifies the Indian restaurant experience as much as the surly, miserable waiter'.

Curry house owners bayed for his blood, threatening not only to boycott Tandoori but also Cobra Beer, its main financial backer. Wahhab had to resign. Perhaps this animosity was why the launch of his first restaurant, the favourably received Tabla in Docklands, was such a low-key event.

The Cinnamon Club, however, is far more high profile. Sited in the former Westminster Library, in one of the political centre's atmospheric, underpopulated back-streets, it's a striking setting for an ambitious project. The wood panels, mullioned windows and book-lined walls have all been retained to create an unusual and rather sombre vehicle for what is intended to be serious cooking.

Wahhab has recruited some heavy hitters: chef Vivek Singh, headhunted from the prestigious Rajvilas Hotel in Jaipur; with Eric Chavot, renowned as a haute cuisine classicist, as consultant. This translates on the plate into a hybrid of Indian spicing and formal, nouvelle-ish presentation. But the over-precious approach rather misses the point and the result is Indianesque cuisine that is sanitised, overprettified and bloody small.

My main course, for instance, mustard- flavoured tandoori king prawns with saffron kedgeree, looked fantastic: the pink prawns, charred black in places, carefully arranged on a perfect circle of sunshine yellow rice. But, though delicious, there were only three of them - for £15.50! The rice, over-cooked into an overperfumed , compressed stodge, was about the size of a small roll of Sellotape. Chicken breast came rolled into absurdly neat sausages, stuffed with spinach and apricots, its 'korma' sauce arranged round it in an ineffectual, though artistic, drizzle.

Home-smoked lamb kebabs were gorgeous, the minced lamb searingly hot, but still tasting of its component spices, the small steak yielding invitingly. And, yes, it was teeny weeny. The only generous dish was chargrilled seabream fillet with pomegranate extract: an unqualified success.

But why did so much have to come with a redundant slick of pesto-like dressing that smelled of henna and tasted of swamp? Why not save money on these daft flourishes and up the portion size? Puddings almost save the day, particularly the ethereally beautiful cardamom yoghurt sorbet, served with carrot halwa samosas. We paid, with wine, water and tip, £106 for two.

Oh, and Mr Wahhab, if you're concerned about miserable staff, you might like to have a word with your torn-faced blonde female greeter?