Aquavit delights in a week of disappointed expectations

It’s been one of those weeks in which reality has clashed regularly with expectations and, usually, come out the loser.

After investing a fortune in an upcoming trip to Japan, I’ve been forced to admit that it’s never going to deliver what I consider to be value for the money. Closer to home, a masterclass with a favourite Michelin-starred chef that I expected to be the highlight of my week was decidedly average. Most certainly not what I expected for its premium price tag. Happily, an impromptu meal at a restaurant that had received wary reviews delivered the best meal we’ve had thus far this year.

It all started with rugby. It’s been a year since we purchased our places with RFU Travel for this autumn’s World Cup in Japan. Excluding airfare, on a per-day basis, it’s the most expensive trip I’ve ever taken after our honeymoon and my 50th birthday extravaganza. So I had high expectations. In the long run-up to travel, I thought we’d be getting lots of informative communications and hints at the customisations that would make the trip special. Instead, the only communications we’d received were payment requests and a “save the date” for an event in early April that was never followed by an invitation. When a staffer told me we weren’t on the list because we’d never RSVPd, I decided to torment myself to see what their package would cost if I priced and bought it now, as an independent traveler. The results suggested a 130% markup, minus two rugby-themed events. It was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. I defaulted to American bluntness in my communications with the RFU Travel staff.

Much to their credit, the marketing director of RFU Travel was on the phone to me within 24 hours. There had been problems on their side ... a stream of communications from them had gone missing ... but the biggest issue was that I was nowhere near target market for this trip and was unlikely to ever think their “added value” was worth the cash. RFU travellers were overwhelmingly male and not interested in anything but rugby. It was often groups of friends who just wanted to get away on a lads’ trip to watch sport and drink. They were paying a premium for the privilege of being part of the rugby fellowship, and going to a few events with access to rugby luminaries.

OK. I admit that after more than a decade in marketing for big corporations that sponsor rugby, I’m not typical on the luminaries front. I’ve been leadership coached by Sir Clive Woodward. Sean Fitzpatrick (above) taught me how to do the haka. And there’s one golden evening in Cannes, dining, drinking (a lot) and sharing stories of Italian food and Catholic school with Lawrence Dallaglio that’s probably the reason I became a rugby fan in the first place. Would I have paid a premium for these experiences? Probably. Would something similar be worth the 130%. For me, doubtful.

And then I started to think about the typical male executive I work with. The kind of busy, affluent fan who’s the traditional customer of RFU Travel. They may run multi-million pound organisations, but the majority are hopeless when it comes to the simple logistics of travel and social planning. If it’s a trip with the boys, they would be unwise to ask wives or employees (who usually bail them out on logistics) to support them. So they’re willing to pay a premium for basic arrangements that most women would never pay for. That’s my theory, anyway. I’ve scaled back my own expectations and am doing my best to forget about the price tag.

I was target market for the week’s culinary disappointment, which made it all the more galling.

My husband and I both admire Angela Hartnett enormously, have enjoyed glorious meals in her flagship Murano and, after a temporary disappointment at the soft launch of the Covent Garden Murano Cafe, have found it to be a dependable “go to” for a moderately priced meal in central London. (Think of it as the Italian cousin of Brasserie Blanc.) So when the mailing list of the former offered us a place at a pasta-making masterclass with Angela we jumped, despite the hefty £80 per person price tag.

The invitation implied an intimate evening in a quirky venue (the new SMEG flagship store on lower Regent Street) with enough tastes of food and drink to stand in for dinner. Reality was a bit more prosaic. There were about 100 guests, so it was very much watching Angela cook rather than interacting much; though the organisers were generous with fielding Q&A.

We started on the main shop floor with Prosecco and mushroom arancini. (Yes, husband. Point taken. Mine are too large.) Despite its horrible name, Smeg is from Italy’s culinary heartland of Emilia-Romagna and takes that heritage very seriously. They even have their own dairy herd at the headquarters and produce a premium Parmesan used only at their marketing events. Tasting it across three ages was a highlight, as was getting nose-to-nose with their Dolce & Gabbana-designed Sicilian appliances range. If I’d been in the mood to spend triple the price of a top quality appliance to get a unique look, I would have been going home with that toaster. (£500). But it’s the refrigerators that deserve your attention.

They’re only making 100 of them. Sourced from different artists under D&G’s overall design direction. Each different, but all vividly coloured and illustrated with scenes from Sicilian folk tradition. Price on application. You could probably buy a whole estate in the Sicilian village my grandfather came from for the price of that fridge. Still, if I ever win some silly-money lottery, it will look great in my Mediterranean-themed pool pavilion. Right next to the wood-fired pizza oven.

Smeg obviously kitted out the Regent Street store with marketing in mind, as the basement is an impressive show kitchen and theatre. It was here Angela held court, and I have no complaints with her presentation. Assisted by two senior chefs from her growing empire, she took us through pasta basics with useful tips and demonstrated step-by-step techniques for agnolotti, tortellini and farfalle. The first was the revelation of the night. Similar to ravioli but square, folded like an envelope and with room for far more stuffing, we were inspired to make our own (successfully) on Saturday and there’s an agnolotti press in the post from Amazon. I may never make ravioli again.

The presentation, sadly, sped by. We got to sample one tortellino each. (Another revelation here: I’m way too subtle with my sage.) We could have waited in a queue to have a photo snapped with Angela or bought one of her cookbooks and had her sign it, but the clock had just passed 8 and two glasses of Prosecco, two bite-sized arancini and one piece of filled pasta did not a dinner make. Hungry and feeling a bit hoodwinked that we’d spent the equivalent of a very nice dinner on an experience much the same as we’d had before at food and wine shows, we decided to head out for a proper meal.

I thought briefly of trying to cut our losses at the nearby 5 Guys Burgers, but Aquavit was literally next door.

We’ve been wanting to try this Scandinavian place since it opened last year. Though initial reviews were lukewarm, it’s earned a Michelin Star since opening and is one of the few restaurants in London where my husband can indulge in the food of his Danish childhood. This is Scandi by way of an original in New York, however, and the triple-height ceilings, cherry wood panelling, dynamic brass light fixtures and modern art say “Manhattan” more than “hygge”. And it’s hard to carry an ethnic theme in the global melting pot of London. Front of house was Afro-Caribbean, our waitress was Polish and our bartender Italian. Still, the expansive aquavit (spirit) menu was a hit with the man who has at least three varieties in the garage freezer at all times, and the range of Scandi classics on the menu warmed his heart. Even if, he shuddered, they were defaulting to Swedish names for things.

We kicked off with two exceptional starters paired with aquavit. (Not only culturally appropriate, but cheaper than wine.)

My husband's crab salad sat on a remarkable cake comprised of spiralised threads of potato fried to a solid but light mass. Growing up with mostly Italian influences, I've never seen the point of potatoes when pasta is available instead. Here, mere minutes after tasting a Michelin-starred chef's pasta, I experienced spuds that won that competition. Packed with intense potato flavour, sharp with crunch, comforting with just enough frying fat, it was remarkable on its own and a wonder with the generous pile of sauced crab above.

I went for smoked eel, in a delicate broth, with grilled baby gem lettuce spiked with tomatoes and lovage. Eel is rare these days outside of sushi bars, and this dish demonstrated what a shame that is. Firm but still delicate, pungent but not overwhelmed with smoke. The broth was all the flavours of the dish distilled to liquid; I would have picked up my bowl and drunk out of it had the waitress not offered a spoon. As with the crab, this could have been a memorable main. We moved on to a classic instead.

There are plenty of tempting offers on the menu, but we thought we'd test them on a Scandinavian comfort food classic. Meatballs. The relatively bargain price (£19) also helped assuage angst over the spiralling costs of the evening. I'm fairly sure that, like my family recipe, these are made from a mix of pork and veal, but I'm guessing they've been ground two or three times to create a consistency that's almost mousse-like. Texture comes from a light crisp of frying before they're slicked with an unctuous sauce. They sit on another testament to the potential of the potato: a silky, flavour-concentrated mash. This might all be too rich if it weren't balanced by the sweet and sharp pickles and the sweet and tart ligonberries. Aquavit, you've convinced me. Meatballs without tomato sauce aren't a compromise. They can be a triumph in their own right.

We were far too stuffed to contemplate pudding, even though there's an impressive menu here. It's a reason to come back. As is the range of open sandwiches. The place is screaming posh Sunday lunch.

So expectations by the end of the week suggest a return to Aquavit, and to Angela Hartnett restaurants. But not to pricey masterclasses. Watching Saturday Kitchen is free, and chef-studded food shows a bargain. As for rugby and Japan: my expectations have been managed downwards. I'll trust our investment to deliver rugby fellowship, and depend on my own travel planning skills to uncover exquisite opportunities in the Land of the Rising sun.