Stuck in a gastro Quag-mire

This review was published in April 2002.

I was recently given a most intriguing present: The London Restaurant Menu Guide from 1983. It is a joy, a hysterical look at an era that seems aeons ago rather than less than 20 years. A fresh-faced Fay Maschler provides the introduction. It contains exact reproductions of restaurant menus, most of the establishments long forgotten, only a handful remaining.

Names may be English fanciful, but the food is relentlessly Larousse-influenced cod-French. When it deviates, abominations occur: chilled pineapple and curry soup; chicken breast stuffed with ham and banana, deep-fried in crispy batter.

My favourite menu comes from an establishment called Ormond's (choices included smoked salmon rolls stuffed with chilled scrambled egg: £3.50) over which two women in the height of 1980s lingerie fashion (lace gloves, frizzed hair, Siouxsie maquillage) are draped. They're clearly about to be 'unwillingly' ravished by two dicky-bowed Martin Kemp lookalikes. Just glorious.

Not long after this time came the famine that was Nouvelle Cuisine; following on its heels a savage recession. And then, on Valentine's Day 1993, while Britain was still feeling the pinch, came Quaglino's, a startlingly bold reinvention of the defunct debs' favourite. In his book, Alcazar To Zinc, Terence Conran outlines his vision of the place with customary modesty: his intention was to create the 'equivalent of the great Parisian brasseries, or perhaps something a little better.'

So was this hubris? Hardly. This mammoth establishment blasted into a culinary landscape like a cruise missile. It was an instant, clamorous, glamorous success; a vast see-and-be-seen canteen. Its gutsy, straightforward brasserie food, the crustacea altar, the groundbreaking design down to covetable and much-filched ashtrays - it all came together to create a pattern for - almost - the next decade.

I could only look on in envious poverty and dream. By the time I could afford it, we'd got sniffy, dismissing it as the preserve of the bridge and tunnel brigade. A press release announcing the newly-launched spring menu drew us in (for the record: three courses plus glass of wine for £22.50 including choices such as tian of crab and avocado; crayfish tail salad; lobster ravioli; and tuna with roasted vine tomatoes. This is academic, however, because our waiter denied all knowledge of it. It apparently runs until April 30 if you can find it.)

So, as virgin visitors, does Quaglino's still have the power to stun? Visually, yes. It's even bigger than you thought it would be and a whole lot noisier. Staff, in their Jasper Conran uniforms, have a distracted, harassed air probably due to the fact the place is still packed out. Weirdly, though, it was quietish at 8pm when we arrived and had thinned out by 9.30pm. It's like a massive processing plant: get 'em in and get 'em back out again. And at an average of about £50 a pop, Ithankyew.

I'm not sure, therefore, what the appeal is. The beautiful people have moved on and left in their wake a slew of middle management on expenses, bolstered by shrieking Bridget Joneses. The din is deafening. The food? With the exception of a blissful crab starter - a hummock of ozone-fresh white meat, creamy brown meat, dressed with the salty tang of soy and deep notes of miso - not very good.

Rock oysters were, well, rock oysters, blamelessly fresh. Lamb chops were Irish stew quality; OK, my date asked for them well done, she did not, however, ask for them braised into a sinewy school dinner. They had an aftertaste of leftover mutton fat. Fish and chips: the potatoes had a pre-frozen quality and the batter on the rather woolly fish deflated into sogginess after being spritzed with lemon juice. Crispiness of batter is fundamental, even my local chippy has got this basic culinary physics sussed.

Hey, I didn't like it. I think really big restaurants lose the soul and the plot. But it's still doing the business today and, on current form, is likely to be around a lot longer than I am.

Top Fives: Eighties Survivors