Tartufo: A hidden fine-dining gem in elegant Belgravia

If I were looking for a romantic spot for a secret assignation … with great food … I'd be at Tartufo.

It's a quirky location, tucked in the basement of an Edwardian townhouse now kitted out as a super-posh boutique hotel at 11 Cadogan Gardens.  Nestled between Sloane and Cadogan Squares, this is a busy part of London, but you'd never know it on this quiet lane, in this subtly signposted hotel.  (It is, in fact, very easy to stroll by without realising it's a commercial premises.)

Giving Sarah an elegant send-off

Enter through a marvellously lush hall, decorated as if Oscar Wilde has just stepped out for a moment, head down the stairs and you'll find yourself in a warren of small dining rooms.  There's a conservatory roof in one, and they've all been decorated with mirrors, pale upholstery and light blue accents to make the place seem bigger.  But I doubt you could get more than six tables in any of the rooms without making it feel crowded.  Overall, this adds a cozy feeling, as if you were dining in someone's home or a private club rather than a restaurant.

Of course, we were there on a Monday night and it was fairly empty.  It risks feeling loud and crowded when full.  The set-up means rooms can easily be converted to private dining for groups, which was what took us there.  A farewell dinner for my longest -serving employee, who's been steadfastly at my right hand for more than eight years, deserved something really special.  And this fit the bill.

As you'd guess from the name, Tartufo is Italian.  It's on the gourmet end.  Definitely in Locanda Locatelli territory, this is Italian classics given the modern gourmet treatment: beautiful presentation, surprising combinations, the odd bit of foreign fusion.  Like smoked eel with yuzu jelly and chlorophyll sauce.  Everything we had was delicious and faultlessly cooked, even if it didn't trip my ethnic Italian buttons the way current favourite Luce e Limone does.

In traditional Italian style, you're encouraged to dine over four courses: antipasto, pasta, main and dessert.  Portion sizes are determined accordingly.  At four courses you emerge pleasantly full; at three, less delicate appetites might have felt a bit peckish.  As you might guess from the name, truffles feature heavily across the menu.

I started with the beef carpaccio, sliced ethereally thin and dressed with the appropriate delicacy to enhance rather than overwhelm the meat.  The paccheri pasta with crab was a touch less balanced.  Though the pasta was obviously freshly made and succulently al dente, the chef had edged just a bit too far into tomato territory, losing the subtlety of the crustacean.  The pork fillet wrapped in smoked pancetta was a tasty basic, made special by its base of aubergine and fennel puree (must try that at home) and a shaving of black truffles.

The standout course, ironically, didn't seem particularly Italian in any way other than its name: Conte di Cavour.  (He was an Italian nobleman and gourmand who was a force in the unification of Italy and died relatively young.  If this dessert is anything to go by, probably from diabetes.)  It's a dark chocolate wedge, somewhere between mousse and cheesecake, on a delightfully crunchy hazelnut base, slathered in dark chocolate ganache, decorated with praline and served with a bit of lemon ice on the side to cut the richness.  It's a dessert worth returning for.

There's a small, mostly Italian wine list filled with really interesting choices; regions or varieties that often don't leave the country.  We had the light yet fruity Shioppettino, one of my favourite reds from the North of Italy, and a crisp, friendly Vermentino from Sardinia that married well with many dishes.  But all sorts of other things tempted, from Puglian unknowns to Italian takes on Gewürztraminers and Reislings to a beguiling Morellino di Scansano.  Surprisingly for this very expensive area, more than 20 of those Italian options are under £50 a bottle and there are fine choices in the low £30s.

In fact, the prices are a pleasant surprise over all, with a flat a la carte rate of £30 for two courses, £35 for three and £40 for four.  Which probably brings your total for fine dining here in at less than The Orange, the posh gastropub I reviewed last entry, that's in the same neighbourhood.

I suspect the prices will go up.  This has the feel of a place testing the waters as it builds its reputation.  Alexis Gauthier, of the well-known eponymous Chelsea restaurant, is the financial backer.  GM Michael Lear, who was the front-of-house constant at our old favourite Roussillon (I wept when it closed) is at the helm here.  Back in the kitchen is a young Italian named Manuel Oliveri, about whom I predict we're going to be hearing a lot.  Check this place out now, before he gets famous.

The Orange, Pimlico: The very model of a modern gastropub

The traditional pub is an endangered species.  The latest statistics from the Campaign for Real Ale say that, on average, 26 a month closed in Britain in the six months leading up to March 2013.

Food has been the saviour of the pubs now in thriving health.

Most people consider the rise of the gastropub a good thing.  Sure, there are a handful of the old guard who miss the local boozer filled with regulars downing pints. But most people appreciate that the conversion of drinking establishments into restaurants with decent food, often with cozy areas still preserved for the business of drinking.  The margin on food, and the higher-margin wines almost always consumed with meals, keep these places from being shuttered.

The Orange in Pimlico is an exemplar of the new breed of gastropub.

Casual drinking and dining happens downstairs; upstairs there's a proper dining room.  The look is casual yet elegant, lots of scrubbed, pale wood in Georgian architecture.  The first floor dining rooms are particularly light and airy, with towering ceilings over what were once gracious drawing rooms.  On sunny days, doors to little false balconies stand open.  With a tree-filled square just across the road, the whole place has a pastoral, Southern European feel.

Logical, then, that the modern European menu has a distinctly Italian undertone.  They have a wood-fired pizza oven and offer both starter and main course sizes; thin and flaky with interesting toppings like aubergine or smoked mozzarella.  Rabbit makes a regular appearance on the menu, as do more unusual pastas and delicate seasonal fish specials.  The wine list is broad enough to be interesting without being overwhelming, and has some quirky, unusual choices.

I've eaten here twice this spring, first for a girls' lunch before the Chelsea Flower Show.  Second for a larger family lunch to celebrate my mother-in-law's 75th birthday.  Excellent meals, beautifully presented, with good service both times.

The drawback, as ever and especially in this part of London, is price.  When I first came to England, pub food was fish & chips, burgers and pies.  Sometimes the food was even good.  But you don't make margin on those sorts of simple meals.  You make it on people who do three courses.

Chilli salt squid with smoked chilli mayonnaise for £8.50, Jurassic Coast rose veal rump for £18.50, a couple of £4 sides, roasted peach with basil mousse for £7.  All consumed by the type of people who like to linger over a meal and tend to sink a bottle each, with probably a £12-20 margin on each.  All of which means a sophisticated, relaxed meal here will easily cost you £60 or £70 once you put in the tip, water and coffee.

And when you're spending that much, you have to ask yourself … should I be spending a little more and going to a proper restaurant?

A lot of this, of course, has to do with the ridiculous costs of doing business in London.  Our local pub, the Four Horseshoes, has food just as good as the Orange.  Minus the pizza oven and with only the most basic of wine lists.  Our bill on a recent visit: roughly half that of The Orange, with the same amounts of food and wine.

The Orange is an elegant, reliable model of the modern gastropub in one of London's most exclusive areas.  Fortunately, it's setting a model that country pubs like ours can follow.

 

Rush hour trains and bad legs: A hellish combo gives useful perspective

Last week saw debate in the British press about a change that could cut American classics like To Kill a Mockingbird from the curriculum.  It's a an understandable move in a battle to raise pitiful awareness of British literature on its home turf, but it's a shame to think of anyone growing up without Atticus Finch.

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view … until you climb into his skin and walk around in it," Finch teaches us.  I have a strong grounding in British classics, but I can't think of one that drives that particular idea home that idea so well.

This was on my mind a lot as I faced a tough rush hour commute.

I like to think I've always been relatively sensitive to disability on public transport.  I became acutely aware of the challenges as my mother lost her energy and mobility.  Commuting, when you're not in good shape, is a gruesome thing.  But it was not until I started tackling journeys with my own mobility compromised that I realised how gruesome.

I'm quite unsteady on my feet right now.  I'm walking slowly, stumble easily, take steps one at a time.  Standing up for the full 50-minute journey to London … something that's often necessary on our overcrowded rush hour trains … is impossible for me.  There are designated seats for disabled people, and I'm walking with a stick.  Should be a place for me, right?

Wrong.  Civility is dead, even in what was once the land of good manners.  Commuters load onto trains in fast-moving packs.  They jostle for any available seat.  Everyone, including those in the supposed disabled seats, has perfected the art of self-isolation.  They keep their noses in their iPads, avoid eye contact, block sound with their headphones, and thus probably wouldn't notice someone having a heart attack next to them, much less a middle-aged woman who needed to sit down.

I'd witnessed this, but it is only now, walking around in a disabled skin, that I understand the consequences.  It's not just the added effort and the risk of falling over.  Knowing what's likely to come, it's a deep-rooted dread.  What happens if I don't get a seat?  What if someone pushes me over on those stairs, or getting off that train?  It turns commuting into a stressful, high-anxiety experience.  All exacerbated by the embarrassment of sticking out.  Needing help.  Being different.  Could I ask someone to get up?  Sure.  But I'm mortified to do it, and hate to confront the fact that I'm turning into an old woman.

Thankfully, I don't have to commute during rush hour very often.  Even more thankfully, my current issues are probably temporary and I have a chance of getting back to normal.  But now I've truly experienced how even a mild disability can transform something simple, taken for granted, into something hellish.  The empathy will make me a better person, hopefully even more sensitive to those in need.

That's the lesson To Kill a Mockingbird tries to teach.  I hope British kids find their way to the book, one way or another.  Trying to understand the world through someone else's perspective always makes us better people.