West Street joins Ivy league

This review was published in October 2001

If you insist on opening a fashionable restaurant virtually next door to the dining legend known as The Ivy, then it's probably sensible to make it as visually distinctive as possible.

So where the Ivy favours cosy interiors and a Dorchester-style doorman, shielding its patrons behind those trademark glittering diamond panes, West Street has opted for two-storey picture windows, stark minimalism and a chisel-jawed, black-clad greeter more James Bond baddie than faux-Victorian beadle.

The restaurant was packed - a good sign for the first week of business, particularly when West End venues are suffering after the US atrocities - and the lateness of my teetotal friend gave me time to peruse a spectacular 100-strong wine list. With a strong Italian bias to match the food, there were also some unexpected alternatives, such as a young Tunisian Carignan and a sweet Canadian dessert wine.

A separate rare wine list started with a £75 Meursault and moved up to a double magnum of Tignanello, Marchesi Antinori from Toscana for £825 - a wallet-numbing concept for me but small change, I guess, for the sort of traders who recently blew £40,000 in Gordon Ramsay's gaff.

The menu made equally good reading - pared down modern Italian with an emphasis on healthily grilled or steamed fish with herbs and olive oil. No wonder the place was filled with immaculately coiffured beanpoles. My preferred starter, langoustines with mayonnaise, was off (admittedly the only dish that was) but a langoustine risotto was helpfully offered in its place.

Instead I went for a game consomme with ravioli and ceps and was pleased that I had: the rich, pungent broth was magnificently powerful without being over-reduced and sticky, and perfectly set off by the lightest, freshest pasta parcels. An unusual dish brilliantly executed. My companion chose lightly fried king scallops in an ink sauce, and these too were flawless.

Both were expensive - 10.50 and £12.50 respectively - but it was good to see lots of cheaper options, including a lushsounding Swiss chard and bacon risotto at £5.50 and octopus salad with borlotti beans for £6.

Next came Dover sole, which arrived, unusually, skinned but still on the bone - a much better way of preserving its fragile flavour. My friend opted for a grilled partridge with pine kernels, again showing the kitchen's rare lightnessof touch in leaving the meat just the right side of rare, its gamey flavour heightened with rosemary overtones.

Vegetables had to be ordered separately but looked so delicious we greedily asked for half the range: pumpkin with orange and almonds, green beans in garlic, fried potatoes with spring onion and some slightly too greasy courgette fritters. At about £3 each this added £15 to the bill, but what the heck: with just one glass of wine and three Cokes, we could push the veggie boat out.

Polenta cake with creme fraiche and a Moscato zabaglione finished off the meal - and us. Again, both were superb: the moist and crumbly cake the best, in fact possibly only, excuse for the existence of polenta I've ever found; the warm and light-as-a-cloud zabaglione boozy enough to convert even Matthew to the pleasures of alcohol.

Considering our low alcohol intake, the bill - £130 including service - was steep, but this was an outstandingly, memorably good meal, one to revive interest and restore optimism in London's generally overrated scene. All this, plus friendly service and, as the door swung open, a smile from the Sean Bean lookalike. What a night.