Whine not wine at Philip Owens

This review was published in March 2002

Corney & Barrow is one of the great chameleons; it seems to be able to reinvent itself with chilling accuracy for each generation of drinker.

It used to be a stuffy old wine merchant. However, during the Eighties and early Nineties, it realised that waiting for old codgers to come in for the occasional case of claret was not the game to be in, so it opened a chain of what in my younger days we used to know as champagne bars.

Then, of course, champagne bars became unfashionable and with a nifty bit of repositioning, Corney & Barrow emerged as purveyors of a food and beverage operation appropriate for the post-gastropub, post-All Bar One generation. This democratisation of the drinking of fine(ish) wines takes place in moderately inoffensive modern surroundings, best exemplified by Corney & Barrow at St Martin's Lane.

I daresay that the place is rammed of an evening, with connoisseurs of the noble rotted grape detecting raspberries and burnt rubber on the nose, or pencil shavings and petrol on the palate. However, when I arrived on a Friday lunchtime, there was a subdued crowd of oenophiles huddled around a few glasses. Upstairs, in the Philip Owens Dining Room, the scene was even more dispiriting; less than a quarter of the tables were occupied.

The first thing I noticed when I sat down was the linen: on the small table for two that we occupied, two repairs were plainly visible. I suggest that if Corney & Barrow can't afford to rent linen that is free from blemish, they should not bother at all. A worn tablecloth sends out messages which I am afraid were confirmed by the level of service that we received.

Plainly our waitresses for the day were playing a gastronomic version of good cop and linguistically challenged cop. When I quizzed the well-meaning young woman about the batter which surrounded the deep-fried fish, to ascertain whether it was the soft and fluffy type or the bulletproof variety, she looked at me as if I were mad and proceeded to repeat a word which I took to be 'butter'. In the end I smiled, pleaded hardness of hearing and walked over to where another member of staff was dealing with a dumb waiter of the mechanical variety and found out all I needed to know about the fish and chips.

My guest, who normally meets me for lunch at Le Caprice , found my dilemma mildly entertaining and it tided him over until our starters arrived. We both ordered Jerusalem artichoke tart with a small salad. The tart, gratinated and wholesome, reminded me pleasingly of a health-food restaurant called Ceres that I used to visit in the early Seventies.

The leaves that accompanied it were remarkable only in that they seemed to have been dressed with just olive oil, no vinegar. The roast rack of lamb, herb crust, potato gratin and mint sauce that arrived was much more interesting in that, according to my guest, its components were served at a dazzling array of temperatures, from glacial to volcanic. More conventionally convincing was the fish and chips, which was adequate rather than outstanding.

Puddings were better. We both wanted to try the rosemary honey and lemon syllabub, but in a rashly adventurous moment I took on the bread and butter pudding, which was fine. The syllabub was very tasty, although it seemed to lack the billed rosemary.

Unfortunately, the Philip Owens Dining Room seems to be an afterthought just tacked on top of a wine bar. Although all the classic-British-with-a-twist boxes have been ticked - brawn and smoked eel are among the starters, pot-roasted pheasant and braised shin of veal crop up on the mains - the concept is not followed through and the delivery is poor. It looks as though it has simply been stuck on, rather like the adhesive 'plaque' that signals the existence of the dining room on the way in.

Philip Owens Dining Room
Corney and Barrow, 116 St Martin's Lane, WC2