Grace Dent reviews Berners Tavern

When I inevitably expire from gout or some other symptom of London excess, no one will be able to say I didn’t have a jolly enough time. This week so many unmissable places dented my credit card. Over in East London, Sager + Wilde is a gorgeous new fine wine and fromage bolthole on Hackney Road, being all inviting, prettily gothic and deeply decadent. Also there’s LeCoq on St Paul’s Road, N1, a rotisserie restaurant serving exquisite fresh spit-roast chooks and luscious sides such as roast squash and sage, plus the best roast potatoes within the M25. And then, just as I fancied an evening in knitting the cat a new cardigan and watching The Kardashians, a message came that a table was available for me at the brand new Berners Tavern — a Jason Atherton all-day restaurant — within Ian Schrager’s freshest project, the London Edition hotel.

One was perhaps alerted to Berners’ arrival last week by the audible rattling of the London Fashion Week gang’s bony frames partying post-show. Harry, Alexa, Pixie et al were all there the evening I ate — much to the delight of rubber-neckers and non-discreet iPhone snappers, and some loud Americans at the bar who I thought were going to have a bowel accident at one point. Personally, I was more floored by Berners’ vast, balls-out stately home-style opulent décor, which when it comes to dining rooms is London’s new definition of ‘wow’: triple-height ceilings, intricate plasterwork, enormous chandeliers, walls festooned with hundreds of paintings and a long, liver-enlargening cocktail bar down the far side serving the sort of interesting concoctions one expects from Atherton. I had a Cereal Killer, made with Coco Pops milk, then a Dill or No Dill (yes, dill in a cocktail; no, it’s not what London has been crying out for).

On décor alone, Berners Tavern knocks the Grill Room at Café Royal into second position as jaw-dropping settings to take someone you adore go. We drank muscadet and shared a double-tier fruits de mer extravaganza of fearsome-faced enormous langoustine, oysters, periwinkles, cockles and whole dressed crab. When I think back, this would probably have sufficed as dinner, but my receipt tells a terrible tale of wanton gluttony. There was a starter called egg, ham and peas — dippy-set deep-fried duck egg in an egg-cup served with fries — which my guest declared the finest starter he’d eaten that year. Atherton loves these playful notions; his dinners always bubble with gasp and puzzlement. I ate rack of lamb on light, divine couscous, which was really rather excellent, while my friend had a fantastic fillet steak. I’m not sure the side of buttery swede with fresh ginger I required complemented anything, but the plate was returned clean. A pudding of rich almond brioche with crème anglaise arrived in a jar and was demolished, along with a round of mead-based cocktails called — drum roll — Mead, Myself & Aye. You’d think I’d be ashamed but in truth I like to think I was consuming the puddings and liquor that Alexa and her girlfriends didn’t, and for that I deserve some sort of hospitality industry cuddle.

The problem with Berners Tavern is that once we were ensconced, it seemed a terrible shame to leave. After all, it was raining, there was a pap scrum outside for Harry and from our corner table I could see every food critic and fashionista in London, and work out which one eats with their mouth open and who was clearly up to no good. We left at midnight and the next day was a terrible write-off. I like Berners Tavern — it’s big, brash and lends itself to the art of being naughty.