Seven proves unlucky for some

This review was published in January 2002

Now, I like my luxury ingredients as much as the next person; a girl can never have too much lobster and foie gras, I say (which would go some way towards accounting for my figure).

But sometimes I get cravings for the simpler things in life and king among those cravings is the one for a good hamburger. Disappointed with commercial offerings, I usually end up making it myself: lean, organic ground beef, seasoned just with garlic, Worcestershire sauce and a blob of tomato ketchup, squidged together then blasted at ferocious pan-knackering heat until the outside is charred, the inside is rosy and the juices dribble down the chin.

So I was understandably excited at the news that Tom Conran, son of Terence (how fed up must he get at that inevitable addendum?) and owner of Tom's and The Cow - both renowned for the quality of their food - had opened a homage to the classic American diner. Conran Junior is known for his adherence to quality ingredients - he was an early organic adopter - and chef James Rix trained at The Waterside Inn . Perhaps here I'd find my hamburger Holy Grail.

Well, no. In fact, our meal at Lucky Seven, so named after a 1960s club which once stood in its place, was almost totally disastrous from beginning to end. Yes, it was busy, and yes, it's only newly opened, but it's tiny and the menu ain't rocket science so, really, no excuses. It looks great: lovely touches such as a giant illuminated clock, the muted 1950s eau de nil of the seating, the pop-on plastic lettering on the above-short-order kitchen menu.

And it's not too nightmarishly Notting Hill - people look real, if you know what I mean. (Apart from the other rather higher profile food critic at the next booth, that is. What other newly-opened fast-food joint would attract this attention?)

Disaster No.1: our sweet, rather ditzy waiter forgot we hadn't ordered. (Ditziness examples: Us (facetiously): 'What's the blue plate special we've to ask our gorgeous waiter about?' DW: 'I don't know why that's up there.' Us: 'What's a bread and butter pickle?' DW: 'Well, it's, you know, a kind of pickle.' Us: 'We'd like a bottle of wine, please.' DW: 'What? A whole bottle?' Neither would he leave it at the table making us feel like a pair of old lushes.)

Despite managing to order, an hour-and-a-quarter later, we still hadn't had anything to eat. Fast food? Hmph.

Candied yams were 'off'; stonecrock baked beans were 'off'. And what finally did arrive was not in any way worth waiting for. Foghorn Leghorn, described as chicken with Caesar sauce and spinach, was some dry chicken breast in a burger bun flanked with Caesar salad, sans croutons and completely sans flavour. My burger - admittedly good quality meat - was well-done rather than the requested rare; home fries had been cooked in too-hot oil so were mahogany outside and raw within.

A baked potato was impenetrably overcooked until its skin dented teeth and the interior was waxy curds; it was also - bizarrely - swimming in oil. And here's how to muck up the apparently idiot-proof corn on the cob - serve it cold and top it with butter blackened into a gritty smear. Onion rings were explosions of grease. Even intense hunger brought on by our wait and too much (good) house wine couldn't mask the ineptitude of this most basic of repasts.

I'm prepared to concede that our experience at Lucky Seven might have been the result of teething troubles but the fact remains it was memorably miserable - and, like I say, we're not talking haute cuisine. But its location, ownership and reasonable prices will ensure it continues to do a roaring trade (the no-bookings policy has already created queues). Now that's what I call lucky.