Solidly good food at Woody's

This review was first published in June 2000

Like they say about its near namesake, the Woodstock Festival, if you can remember Woody's, you weren't really there. And I have to say that my recollections of the Woody's of at least ten years ago are sketchy. So sketchy, in fact, that I am not even sure that I ever got inside and yet, when I was told that last year's Evening Standard Christmas party was to be held there, I experienced a vivid and rather disturbing flashback.

But that was then, this is the year 2000, and like most of the rest of us, Woody's is a reformed character. Nestling by the side of a canal in W9, in the shadow of a bridge, with spectacular views over the Westbourne Park bus depot, Woody's has been reinvented. The best way I can describe it is as a version of 192, the notorious Notting Hill restaurant and bar - but for the modern age. And, contrary to my usual prejudices against this sort of affluent boho joint, I actually rather like it.

It was only when I went there for dinner a couple of months ago - my third visit to Woody's - that I realised that it is no longer a members-only place, it just has that feel. There are door personnel, a trendy bar with a bay window overlooking the canal, with a perfect view of the layer of scum and detritus that covers the surface, and a huge photograph of people attending a party dressed only in their underwear. This is apparently one of the great art treasures of the 21st century; it was created by Mario Testino, cost $40,000 and had to be fitted with special glass to stop it fading. On the top floor there is another bar and private dining-room. Sandwiched between these floors is the restaurant.

I had booked a table for about 9pm, by most standards fashionably late, yet when the neglected common-law spouse of my property-developer friend and I sat down, it seemed almost empty. It was only later that I was able to grasp one of the great truths of life in this fashionable corner of W9. Tardiness is a virtue and one's status as a local hero is only enhanced by one's late arrival; I should have known to book for ten and arrive shortly before eleven. There is, however, an upside to this; namely, that if you arrive early you can get the food and drink out of the way, order a pot of fresh mint tea, ignite a cigar, and check out the incoming punters.

The food is good, a well-executed interpretation of what I suppose is called Modern British. Thus there are the usual landmarks on the menu: Caesar salad, rocket and parmesan salad, sea bass, and the Woody's burger. (Given that most cookbooks have now been written, I would still like to see a definitive tome on cooking the perfect burger. So many restaurants now affix their names to the front of the word burger that I'm sure a book that lifts the bun on this popular meat patty would be a bestseller.)

However, back to Woody's, where I was agonising over a starter. I quite fancied the crab, avocado and alfalfa sprout salad, but the spinach gnocchi with mozzarella and tomato sauce seemed just as inviting. As it turned out, I enjoyed a dish of seared scallops, baby fennel and sauce vierge. I do like sauce vierge; give me a sauceboat full of the stuff, a tranche of salmon, a sunny day and something nice to set fire to after eating - say, a Rey del Mundo Choix Supreme - and I am happy. Roast sea bass with a confit of girolles was good, the girolles excellent, though they might have gone a bit easier on the garlic. As regards side orders, the carrot pur?e was a winner.

Throughout the course of our dinner, the place had filled up and by the time our mint tea arrived, not a table was empty. In a strange way the atmosphere reminded me of the television programme Happy Days, a nostalgic sitcom about growing up in the Fifties. Much of the drama used to take place at the local diner and as certain characters arrived on set, the studio audience would clap, stamp their feet and cheer. Given the way that some people made their entrance into the dining-room at Woody's, I suspect that they rather expected to be cheered and applauded too.

In a characterful evening that included a man with a Haysi Fantayzee haircut, a stockbroker who tried to look cool by wearing his business shirt outside his trousers, and a rather elderly blonde who sported a jacket that must have been designed by the Mazilli family for use only in Puerto Banus, three entrances stood out.

First, there was a pair of men who were obviously attempting to recreate Easy Rider. Both wore tousled hair and sunglasses; 'Dennis Hopper' had a beard while 'Peter Fonda' presented just the right amount of disdainful hauteur.

A little later, a group of moody young men arrived who had just been auditioning for the Notting Hill remake of Reservoir Dogs. They removed their jackets in a way that was full of swagger and menace.

The best, however, was Woody's riposte to the Fonz, the supercool central character of Happy Days. Jake - I think that was his name - arrived with what might have been a blouson or overshirt draped over his arm and a beer bottle clasped in his hand. He wore a chunky silver bracelet, and I thought I saw the glint of a signet ring on a little finger. If so, it would have been the perfect combination of cool and posh. However, I did clock his two female hangers-on, both pretty, one dark-haired, one blonde, and both, I hope, locked in combat over Jake's body. It was all getting a bit too bohemian for me and was starting to resemble one of those twentysomething dramas that are popular on television.