‘The decor is as bright as a Venice Beach morning: it makes my fillings jangle’
Another day, another west London restaurant – specifically, Notting Hill et environs – aimed at women who dream of being Elle Macpherson when they grow up, monitor their every mouthful, worship the Hemsley sisters and talk about food being “good” or “bad”. Belonging to a very different, martinis-and-animal-fats-fuelled tribe, I do not expect to like Pomona’s. I expect to file it under “restaurants for credulous cretins”, like its neighbour Farmacy. (Side note: my long-standing fandom of Jarvis Cocker took a fatal dent when I saw him eating in the latter; for this, if not its burst-boil pizzas, I will never forgive it.)
Pomona’s is, we’re told, bringing “a piece of south California to London”. And everything is as bright as a Venice Beach morning: trailing plant life (of course), palm prints, a colour scheme as sweet and creamy as a gambol with Jelly Babies and fondant fancies on a bed of high thread-count linen in a Palm Springs boutique motel. No, seriously, you should see it: it makes my fillings jangle. A former pub, unrecognisable from its days as The Commander, the place sprawls over main room, lobby-conservatory, the promise of a garden. One corner, nearer the open kitchen, is colonised by a flotilla of designer buggies.
Related: Luca, London EC1: ‘It’s an exciting mongrel marriage’ – restaurant review | Marina O’Loughlin
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