And, possibly in an attempt to keep overheads down, portions are weeny. Our main courses were small and distinctly odd: venison came in a gingerbread sauce that tasted like the insides of old cupboards; brisket was drowned in sickly-sweet, horseradish-spiked cream. But starters are still a dream: three types of silky herring (the one matured in sandalwood for three days is a beauty); Mosesson's justifiably famous gravlax; and smoked elk with more horseradish and beetroot, a sinus-clearing stunner of a dish. Prettiness and starters made me affectionate. Bring back the old menu, and it could rekindle love.