The numbers add up this time

This review was published in April 2002

There have been some strange rumours and rumblings about the demise of Irish chef Conrad Gallagher's operation at the uninteresting end of Shaftesbury Avenue.

The Caterer magazine reports allegations of theft and fraud, which he denies; Gallagher has been taken to court in Ireland for tax and debt unpleasantness. Now, following a falling out with his high-profile backer (Vince Power from the Mean Fiddler Music Group) and the loss of his Irish restaurant, Peacock Alley, he - perhaps not surprisingly - seems to have gone to ground.

I feel sorry for the man. Everything about his restaurant, as we noted at the time, seemed misjudged, particularly the spectacularly intrusive design. The jangly, loud bar, the grim piebald brown wall panels which looked like flayed cows, the unnatural clash between fine dining and a suburban nightclub sensibility. But his cooking was great. Somebody with vision should give him a kitchen, a sane designer and leave a proper bean counter to take care of business.

Anyway, this is something of a digression, a background into One-Seven-Nine, the restaurant formerly known as Conrad Gallagher. The kitchen's reins have been handed to Steven Black (he'd been head chef previously, leaving Gallagher as - what? - Chief chef? Potentate chef? Grand Panjandrum chef?). The structure has been reversed - sensibly - so now the bar is downstairs, the restaurant above.

Sadly, the dark blue concrete floors remain, as do the dead cow wall-hangings and the sepulchral lighting effects (the blue is especially unflattering, making your companions look recently exhumed). I can only guess that this all cost so much that management are unable to bin it - because bin it they should. They should also close off the wide open entrance: street sounds, sirens and the blast of exhausts combine to make you feel as though you're dining in the middle of a Die Hard film shoot.

Again, shame. Because Black can also cook. Each menu entry is so lengthy and so recondite that it reads like a fairy story - it should be headed 'once upon a time'. Our choices included crab risotto with plum tomato sorbet, olive oil and deep-fried basil; roasted scallop and seared foie gras with confit cepes, salsify and parsnip purèe; roast supreme of Trelough duck caramelised in soy and honey, pastilla of the leg and redcurrants, barley risotto with cinnamon and fig sauce. Phew.

You worry about the ambition-to-realisation ratio but it is pulled off with real aplomb. The risotto was a concentrated blast of crab, teetering towards too rich, dense with cream and brown meat; the contrast of the icy sorbet cut the richness and made it a surprising, successful dish. My starter, on a deeply silly curved glass plate, featured immaculately roasted scallop with fondant-textured, smoky foie, a spear of spumy, rooty sauce - sorry if this sounds a bit rude, but it was rather primeval - and meaty fungi. A 'presse of marinated plum tomato, globe artichokes, pan-fried langoustines, mizuna salad' disappointed only in the paucity - two, to be exact - of the shellfish.

Brill came with dauphinoise potatoes - more pommes Anna, really - salsify, wild mushrooms, a cappuccino of whole-grain mustard - this milky cuckoo-spit treatment of sauces was much in evidence throughout our meal - and parsley oil. Roasted fillet of Angus beef had a whole bunch of pals: garlic snails, creamed celeriac, wild mushrooms, asparagus and truffle fumet.

Both good but neither a patch on the stunning duck: the pastilla was a glorious, samosashaped pastry filled with melting, unctuous meat, the barley risotto (another hangover from Gallagher days) chewily addictive and there was a special free gift of more foie gras. Sumptuous.

In general, I dislike such complexity, but I reckon if Black calmed down a bit, he could truly be a force to be reckoned with. If you want to check it out, though, two things: prices - especially wine - are still steep (around £40 per head for food alone); and I'd hurry - call me Cassandra, but it doesn't have the air of somewhere that's going to be around too long.

Top Fives: Modern British

One-Seven-Nine
179 Shaftesbury Avenue, WC2