Surprisingly pukka tucker

This review was first published in September 2000

I have fond memories of Monte's. I recall the glitzy-gaudy 1995 launch; I remember vividly its pride at hosting a party for Tania Bryer; the eccentric attire of Mr Binhendi, who was in some way associated with the club, and the suave manner of Michael Naylor-Leyland, who ran the place. I remember recommending Neil Millington for the job of cigar-shop manager, and once even carried off second prize at a backgammon tournament there. When I think about Monte's I feel quite nostalgic for the mid-Nineties.

But now, in the 21st century, we have all moved on. According to her diary in one of the glossy social periodicals, Tania Bryer is the face of Glayva, a beverage that I seem to remember was popular with a clergyman's son I was at school with. I have no idea what happened to Mr Binhendi. Michael Naylor-Leyland has since gone on to help launch Che and assist in the crucial early stages of the Westbourne Hotel. Neil Millington runs the cigar bar at Che.

Monte's too has moved on. Gone is the Alain Ducasse restaurant and in its stead is a dining-room run by Jamie 'Pukka' Oliver. When I turned up I saw the young whippersnapper's motor scooter parked at the front of the building, a far cry from the Bentleys and Ferraris that used to clog this portion of Sloane Street. But then he has just had his Audi TT 'half-inched'.

It felt surprisingly homely being back in a place where I misspent quite a lot of my early middle age. Some of the staff even pretended to be pleased to see me again, which was kind of them.

Monte's was originally designed by Adam Tihani, the man who in my opinion wrecked the Hyde Park Hotel, and the hitherto fussy yet sterile dining-room has been massively improved by having many of Mr Tihani's excesses removed. On a sunny(ish) autumn lunchtime the room was exceedingly pleasant and also pleasantly full.

At one table was the German cultural attach?, lunching with London's leading art spin doctor, the elegant Erica Bolton. The German cultural attach? was suave, urbane, witty and quite dashing.

At another table was the restaurant critic of the FT; an extremely nice woman called Marion. She had booked under an assumed name, which probably accounted for her being less than delighted with my excited greeting and sprint across the room to attempt to crib some of her notes. Like a student in an exam, she hastily covered her scribblings, but did let slip that the anchovies were 'greasy'.

I eventually ordered the grilled Scottish scallops preceded by warm salad of charred squid with baked cannellini beans, served with fresh chilli, wild rocket and Puglian olive oil. I was pleased to find Puglian olive oil on the menu, a little less urbane and more flavoursome than its Tuscan cousin ? a very Jamie Oliver sort of thing to drizzle over your leaves.

As it happened, there were fewer flourishes of the Oliver style in evidence than I had feared: no mention of the word 'pukka', and only one mildly colloquial menu entry, viz: 'Fish of the day changing every day depending on what's looking good.'

And the food, while not mould-breakingly, palate-alteringly good, was enjoyable. It's the sort of 'tucker' you'd like to be able to produce at home, but, unless you are Jamie Oliver or Nigella Lawson, you can't; maybe slightly too rustic for the surroundings, as my companion, the long-suffering common-law spouse of the property developer, put it, but pleasant nevertheless. By implying that this is very superior homecooking, I mean no insult. This is what Master Oliver does best, after all his television persona seems to me to be entirely predicated on knocking up casual yet tasty food with what one can forage from the shelves of one's local Sainsbury's. In fact, I was privileged to see some of Master Oliver's televisual career in progress: occasionally he would take time off preparing my lunch to scamper across the dining-room to where various bits of food were being photographed for what I was told was his Christmas video.

What with the svelte Ms Bolton, the dashing cultural attach?, Marion from the FT, the neglected common-law spouse, and a camera crew, it was all pretty groovy. And then, just when it could scarcely get more chic, in sashayed the fashion director of Cond? Nast Traveller with the man who was helping Jamie put together his Christmas vid. It was just all too Ab Fab for words.