Grace and flavour: The Gallery at Sketch

As I approached Sketch in Mayfair on Saturday night, negotiating the scrum outside of very important hairdressers, minor club-night promoters and tikka-tanned rubberneckers, I began to feel unsettled. ‘Gotta reservation?’ the door-man grumped, blocking me, lest I run inside and try to blow £300 on dinner in the Martin Creed-designed Gallery with-out his say-so. ‘Yes,’ I said, pulling myself up to full ‘Margo from The Good Life can-celling Christmas’ haught.

I ditched clubby Mayfair from my repertoire in the 1990s, on sussing that the entire night pivoted around accessing some VVIP room within a VIP room, to locate someone who could get one into the VVVIP room, which would invariably contain some underage models, Martine McCutcheon and Sid Owen’s manager.

Tonight I was back, determined to eat a meal in Turner Prize-winner Creed’s wonky, mismatched Gallery where every plate, glass, chair, knife, fork, shred of wallpaper and light fixture is incongruent. If your bucket list contains the wish ‘Eat fish soufflé in a large impersonal room that resembles something chucked together by a rapidly spiralling manic depressive who hates food’, then don’t die before reaching Sketch.

I know some people probably adore this room, but having spent a childhood with a mother who loved chintz and clutter, I just wanted to tidy up. At 10.30pm myself and Mr Dent sat at a table for two, close to a constant thoroughfare of ‘lost people wandering about like they’re in a nightclub’. An entire retinue of staff assigned themselves to me by name, job and inside-leg measurement.

Twice-baked haddock soufflé appeared, the texture of quiche, in ‘a crunchy white cabbage salad’. Foie gras terrine, girolles in vinegar, cranberry chutney, quince paste and pistachio (£24) was interesting but uneventful. I’m unsure what happened to my Angus ribeye, portobello mushrooms and stiletto aubergine but it seemed to involve Marmite. The grilled pork belly colcannon was delicious, although the black pudding was reduced to a foam, which no one wants unless they’re eating breakfast after surgery. I called time on dinner at this point. I’d chucked £170 at the place and still no sign of Sid Owen. Crestfallen, I went home.

The Gallery at Sketch

9 Conduit Street, W1 (020 7659 4500)