The waitress was serious to the point of scowling. The punters here appear to be office workers: they're probably not Miss Fussypants, so they may enjoy this food.
Beef stew had the correct slow-cooked texture but absolutely no flavour, while duck confit was dry but had that all-important crispy skin. It came with feta mash, an interesting idea: it was savoury and mostly worked.
Caesar salad was totally bland, with lots of shredded green leaves from the outside of the romaine, none of the sweet tender heart and a few sharp anchovies. It did have a piece of perfectly poached chicken which had the mild taste of tarragon - jolly nice, but not enough to give the flavour any welly.
Lamb stew with gnocchi, a good twist on dumplings, had zero flavour. The fishcake was a good enough example of the gastro standard, and would have been a triumph had it not been served lukewarm.
The space could do with some rearranging: it feels empty and sterile. 'I'd guess this place is a stopgap,' said one of the Will-admiring restaurateurs. That may well be so but that's no excuse.
Why can't he put one of his sous chefs in the kitchen to turn out Asian-fusion experiments? Instead there's a stab at comfort food with the important ingredient left out: love. The food tasted like a good chef had been forced to cook food he hated.
I'm off for some facial remodelling now so that I can still get a table in one of Will's many wonderful restaurants.
