Time to hit the January snail

This review was first published in January 2002

In 1927, a chap called George Gaudin decided to indulge his rather strange passion by cultivating and selling his own snails. He found a handsome Georgian townhouse in Soho, called it L'Escargot and, in one way or another, it's been doing the business ever since.

Its kitchen has seen service from some stellar names - Michelin Star winners Garry Hollihead (now at Embassy) and David Cavalier, for instance; it was once owned by Nick Lander, the Financial Times restaurant critic and husband of Jancis Robinson.

But for some time now, its owner has been the marvellously-named restaurant èminence grise, Jimmy Lahoud. Back in the early 1990s, this charismatic if low-key person saw me off L'Escargot's premises with the words: 'I hope you enjoyed your meal. Now please don't ever come back.' (It was over a misunderstanding concerning an offer of unlimited free champagne.)

He has fingers in so many restauranting pies that it's difficult to keep track, but his partnership with Marco Pierre White has resulted in the addition of the venerable premises to the MPW stable. Of course, he's no longer in the kitchen. In a climate where the slightest chefly hiccup usually generates torrents of press releases - Chef buys new trousers! Chef changes mind! - this has been a remarkably untrumpeted move. Perhaps that's why, on a Tuesday evening, the place was seriously underpopulated, in stark contrast to the neighbouring 'style' bars and trattorias.

We chose to eat in the downstairs 'brasserie' rather than opt for the fine dining in the Picasso Room upstairs. (I always find this distinction a bit odd: if one bit of a restaurant offers fine dining, does that mean that elsewhere in the establishment is just so-so?) It's a very pretty, pastel room, full of delicate twinkly chandeliers and mirrors.

My date was late, so I had plenty of time to fully appreciate the snogging couples arranged like bookends in the corner banquettes; I also had time to neck a staggeringly huge vodka Martini which perhaps put too much of a rosy glow on the rest of the proceedings.

Anyone who's ever eaten chez MPW will recognise elements from the menu: omelette Arnold Bennett, parfait of foie gras en gelèe - both of which we had - are almost trademarks. It's also, in keeping with the heritage, traditionally French though it spouts a strange and rather irritating Franglais: seabass a la Nicoise; escalope of salmon pochè; tartare of mackerel a l'Oriental.

The omelette had a slightly precooked quality to it, but the rich, cheesy smoked haddock filling (topping, if I'm to be pedantic) was sumptuous, sticky and delicious. Good Poil?ne bread accompanied the parfait: a velvety, savoury fondant on a delicate, vinous aspic.

Main courses were competent but flawed by a tendency to over-reduce the sauces. This meant the Sauce Diable (demi-glace spiked with chilli and paprika) - which came with a melting chunk of calf's liver and some divine mousseline potatoes - was almost indistinguishable from the Sauce Grand Veneur (meat juice enriched with cream and redcurrant) on my gorgeous, rosy-pink, peppercrusted venison. Crinkly cabbage with cream was a suitably gutsy accompaniment: earthy and vividly green.

If the staff hadn't been so fussy - the fifth time I was asked if we wanted water I was sorely tempted to bellow 'calm down!' - we'd have had a nearly perfect evening. No fireworks, but no real howlers either: White has done a typically professional and sympathetic overhaul on this much-loved Soho institution. Long may the snail survive.

L'Escargot
Greek Street, London, W1D 4EF