The price is right at Cecconi's

This review was first published in March 2001

Signor Cecconi was a strange man; he probably still is.

I met him once when he challenged me to a backgammon game of such ludicrously high stakes that I immediately said, 'Sr Cecconi, you are too rich and powerful. I lack your machismo and your considerable riches. You may think me cowardly but I must back down.'

I think he rather liked that. You see, I secretly believe that Sr Cecconi thought of himself as being every bit as good as, if not a cut or two above, his customers, who, on the whole, seemed to be drawn from the crowned heads and royal families of Europe.

Sadly, there are not that many crowned heads of Europe any more, so in recent years my visits to Cecconi's have been slightly mournful affairs, conducted in a largely empty, rather tired-looking dining-room.

I daresay that, over the years, Sr Cecconi had taken enough profit on his ruinously priced grapefruit to be able to retire in the splendour to which he felt he ought to be accustomed. The reason he sold the restaurant is that he wanted to enjoy a well-earned rest from his labours and he has, apparently, moved to sunnier climes - he is now established in some comfort in Santa Barbara.

And in spite of his backgammon being too high-stakes for me, I wish him well and hope he got a good if not brilliant price for his restaurant and its great name.

Cecconi's now belongs to Hani Farsi. Farsi is London's supercool Saudi, the desert dandy behind Che, the cigar bar, cocktail lounge and dining-room in St James's.When he told me about his new venture, I suggested that he use Iberia's top decorator, Jean Pierre Martel, to create an interior for him. Sadly, Martel's designs proved too avant-garde and, instead, David Collins has created a sleek, contemporary, city restaurant.

Che has its problems; but with Cecconi's, broadly speaking, Farsi has got it right. But then so he should. As well as David Collins delivering the right level of metropolitan glamour, he has Giorgio Locatelli, lately of Zafferano, in the kitchen. His title is consultant, but the night I was there he was cooking. There is also Honest John, the multilingual ma?tre d' who, until recently, was a much-loved fixture at Che, and has since been learning Italian.

I have eaten here twice. The first time was at one of the opening galas, where I brought along my one posh Italian friend, Count - or is it Prince? - Pignatelli, one of the cleverest men in the City.

The place was awash with high-ticket Eurotrash and soign?e Bond Street retail types including Cartier's fragrant Pilar Boxford. It was a riot. If you can, imagine the Poll Tax disturbances restaged by a bunch of mozzarella millionaires in cashmere sweaters, and refereed by Stephen Bayley. (The launch party was even more contrapuntal and included ES magazine's Nicky Haslam and Cilla Black sharing a table.)

The food was good. A salad of crab was zingy, and a dish of pasta with fish in saor, a sweet-and-sour Venetian speciality, was a triumph - exactly the kind of thing I like eating. Considering the diners, the service, superintended by Honest John, rose manfully to the occasion.