‘Marco, I’ve stuck by you but this sausage factory of mediocrity has done it for me’
Dear Marco, I’ve loved you for such a long time. It was your book White Heat that did it: you – smoking, always smoking. Stripped to the waist, nursing a shark. Leaning over to snog big-haired Chelsea-girl diners. Chopping intently, lank locks draped over fallen-angel features. This was the book that launched the cult of the brooding, bad-boy chef. It allowed thousands of kitchen monkeys to dream they could get off with models, and thousands of hormonal schoolgirls to fantasise that, one day, that model might be me, ah, erm, them.
It’s the 25th anniversary reissue of that book’s publication– 25 years! – which prods me into “your” latest restaurant, the ponderously titled Marco Pierre White Wheeler’s of St James’ Rib Room and Oyster Bar at the Threadneedles Hotel. It’s a nod to the classic fish brand, all hoary old troupers like prawn cocktail, fish pie and “grilled Dover sole à la salamander” (ie, grilled Dover sole à la grill). With added steaks. “The City is lacking in oyster bars, it’s that simple,” you say on the menu. Which is ironic, because your oyster bar is lacking in oysters: there’s not one in the house, we’re told by our gently sweating waiter, some 40 minutes after we’ve sat down, abandoned without a drink, or so much as a slice of bread.
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