Spain without the pain at Cigala

This review was first published in February 2001

It seems rather odd to encounter a concentrated blast of Iberia in the environs of historic Lambs Conduit Street but Cigala is most emphatically that. Its plate-glass windows look out on to the grey, flat-fronted London buildings in this pretty little street with a continental twinkle; an astonishingly seductive scent of seafood, garlic and smokiness from la plancha snakes out to greet you.

Modern in approach, Cigala offers up an undiluted taste of real Spain: not the patatas-bravas-albóndigas-tortilla blueprint available in London's many tapas bars, but genuine, gutsy flavours evocative of travels off the beaten track. And - joy! - there's not even the merest suggestion of a 'theme', with décor kept to an almost monastic minimum: bare wood banquettes, simple napery, pale globe lights.

It's not uncomfortable, however, just elegant and restful. And it's just the right size, too: large enough to be buzzy, but small enough to make you feel as though you're not part of a marketing conveyor belt.

This approach might sound familiar to fans of Moro in Exmouth Market, so it's no surprise to discover chef patron Jake Hodges was one of the brains behind that Moorish/Spanish favourite with both critics and diners.

Although it's only recently opened, it took us two weeks to get an 8.30pm booking, so word has already spread.

And was it worth the wait? I'd say so. From the outset, with a basket of glorious home-baked bread, our meal was memorable. Cigalas a la plancha - langoustines - were robust, meaty creatures accompanied by an unctuous garlicky alioli. This was the very essence of that gorgeous smoky aroma. Gambas al pil-pil featured large, sweet prawns in a bath of wine, garlic, oil and chilli just begging for more bread. Greed compelled us to order yet another starter, a board laden with freshly cut chorizo, sausage and jamon serrano with tomato-smeared bread. Simple and wonderful.

After this onslaught of brilliance, it seemed almost inevitable our main courses would be anticlimactic. And although they were good, they didn't manage the dizzy heights of our starters. Wood-grilled lamb chops (more bone than meat) came topped with a kind of salsa verde of stinging garlic intensity and roasted vegetables that were too heavy on the celeriac and too light on some extraordinary little charred beets. Cocido, a traditional Spanish dish of boiled meats, was earthy peasant fare including chicken, salt beef, morcilla (black pudding) and chorizo with chick peas, savoy cabbage and a piquant tomato sauce. Perhaps I'm too urban for this sort of dish; I wished heartily for some recognisable bits of chicken rather than the superfluity of what appeared to be fowl's bottoms I actually received. But I can't argue with the excellence of the flavour. We finished off with perfect Manchego cheese with an unexpectedly pale membrillo (quince jelly).

Staff are a little laconic - though very charming - and prices are fair: about £6 for starters and £10 for mains; but we clocked up a £100 bill by the time we'd enjoyed a good bottle of wine and some digestifs. Diners were still turning up as we were leaving - evidence of the same relaxed attitude to serving hours you'd find in Spain. Or perhaps this was just the only time they could secure a table.