Towering feeling of boredom

This review was first published in April 2000

Oxo Tower really ought to be a great London restaurant. The location on the fashionable South Bank is spectacular. It's around the corner from the Daily Express, within sight of the weird polyhedral light 'sculpture' that graces the front of the Royal Festival Hall, a short walk from Harry 'Manhattan Lofts' Handelsman's new Bankside development and an even shorter one from Nick Serota's Tate Modern. So far, so groovy.

The space itself is handled well: pale wood and lots of glass. The views across the Thames are brilliant, the sort of thing that we who live in London get rather blas? about.

And therein, I suspect, lies part of the problem. With views like this, a restaurant doesn't need to try too hard. Even if the place served sausage, egg and chips, I suspect that people would come here. In fact, I would probably prefer it if it did serve egg and chips - then, at least, the place would acquire some character.

As it is, the kitchen tries hard, but the food is of that slightly fussy, mixed-up style that was fashionable five years ago. I have never had a bad meal here, but nor have I had a particularly good one.

But let me start at the beginning. The way in is past what looks like a disused warehouse, the walls of which have been daubed, rather meaningfully, with the names of the Muses. It was rather useful to be able to brush up on my Greek mythology. Did you know, for instance, that Terpischore was said by some to have been the mother of the Sirens? Sadly this high-minded piece of graffiti did not delve into the parentage of these creatures that were half woman and half bird. If only all restaurants featured such instructive art, London would be a much better educated place.

Fittingly, I was in a vaguely literary mood, and I was meeting a vaguely literary woman - she is married to a scion of the Sir H Rider Haggard dynasty. However, we did not talk of She or Allan Quatermain, but instead spoke of AN Wilson. Like me, she is a fully paid-up member of the AN Wilson fan club, and I find talking about the author of The Lampitt Papers - his excellent sequence of novels - among the most riveting topics in the world, which is just as well as I am afraid that, in spite of the view, the Oxo Tower bored me.

Whatever else is wrong with the place, it is not the service, which is competent in the extreme. My waiter spoke in a way that reminded me of Vladimir Putin - there was a thoroughness about him that was exemplary and, indeed, everyone from the coatcheck girl to the magisterial head waiters, who moved around the room like superior beings, behaved with a kind professionalism.

The food, however, was serious enough to be tedious without being worth the effort. The lobster salad: a claw atop a tomato, garnished with a sliver of truffle, was fine, if served at fridge temperature, so one only got to taste the pungency of the truffle and get the sensation of chilled lobster flesh. My risotto was inoffensive, in a comforting, gruel-like way; this was not nursery food, it was baby food.

My literary friend had a crab salad served with, of all things, sweet crispy pork and something called 'Thai green mango and nam jim dressing'. I could not even summon up the interest to ask her what she thought of it. This was followed by a large portion of roast fillet of seabass, which was fine, but once again had one too many extra bits. They could have left out the cream cannellini beans, the rosemary, the chorizo, the meat juices? and the kitchen sink.

The best part of our evening, the literary woman's chatter aside, was the constant questions from Vladimir as to whether we were enjoying our dinner. Perhaps one day I will actually summon up the courage to say something other than 'Mmm, absolutely delicious. Possibly the finest dinner I have ever eaten. I very much doubt if Lucullus ever got to sit down to such a sumptuous repast. Thank you very much for asking.'

Our fellow diners seemed to be either suits on expenses or people out for a 'reet proper grand slap-up meal'. Perhaps sensing my ennui, my literary friend turned her conversation to Fulham. She made the quite preposterous - and I hope unfounded - claim to be on the verge of buying a house there, something which you don't hear too frequently these days. In my experience, anyone who lives in Fulham tends to keep quiet about it.