The Boy Who Loved To Eat

110 Great Portland St, Fitzrovia, London W1W 6PQ. Meal for five, including drinks and service: £240

It all began with a phone call.  

This year, they would be asking me to organise the annual Christmas lunch. A motley crew of esurient accountants, demolishing Brobdingnagian carcasses and knocking back “complex” wines by the pail, only to flounder at the thought of totting up a simple bill, does not usually go down well. Still, I was flattered. Naturally, I assumed I would have been well into my dotage before the team bestowed this honour upon me but, at last, my time had come. Because if there is anything that three years spent importuning your co-workers teaches you, it is that persistence bloody well pays off.

Like most Monopoly enthusiasts, I had always envisaged that the place to be for an upscale business event would have been Mayfair or Park Lane. I mean, obvs? But then again, there was also Fitzrovia, the more reasonably-priced (though still exorbitant) Oxford Street of London-centric property-trading board games. As it happened, some of the best restaurants I had ever eaten in had been right here (shout out to Michelin-starred, The Ninth, and their fabulous Tarte Tatin with rosemary ice cream). With such lavish options to choose from, I resolved that, of these two, puttin’ on the Fitz would probably be wiser than blowing the entire budget (yes, we had a budget) on dinky amuse-bouches and lukewarm loaves in some of the more affluent quarters of W1.

And so, one week later, here we are at Picture, suited, booted and armed with a quintet of voracious appetites to boot. The décor is elegant yet unassuming. Walls are enveloped with earnest and inviting shades of jasmine white, complementing the warmth of the parquet flooring beautifully. Black leather seats punctuate the modest canvas on display, stylish, understated and contributing to an enchanting ambience with all the allure of a Caravaggio. Even before I have caught my first glimpse of the actual food, veering swiftly on trays around the room, I find myself completely transported by the aesthetic of the restaurant in all its charm. And yet, the setting of Picture is still undeniably homelike. In fact, so cosy and relaxed is the atmosphere of a place like this that one would not consider it at all out of the ordinary to be waited upon by an all-singing, all-dancing maître’d-cum-candelabrum for the afternoon.

Twinned with sister restaurant, Picture Marylebone, on New Cavendish Street, the Fitzrovia site is the lovechild of former Arbutus and Wild Honey chefs, Alan Christie and Colin Kelly, together with manager, Tom Slegg. Flag erected in June 2013, the restaurant has famously earned its right as a hotspot for rapacious locals and visitors alike. Key to the success of the talented trio, as is no doubt evident from the name they have chosen for their joint venture, has been the artistry with which dishes are plated up and served to discerning clientele. But what distinguishes this undertaking from that of its peers, at least on first impressions, is the comforting, gallery-esque feel of the interior.

It is the kind of place that can convince a man he is partaking in a tour of the Tate without needing to bewail foot pains or suffer the burden of unfastening his cheeks. It is a haven for art collectors hoping to procure a masterpiece on the cheap.

Menus are paired-down and blissfully unenigmatic. A mouth-watering six-course Winter Menu is on offer for £45, with an equally enticing “Chef’s Choice Menu” coming up the rear at a slightly more affordable £35. We opt, instead, for the à la carte menu which sounds particularly toothsome (meals are between £10 and £15 a pop) and which, for once, has the added benefit of not making me feel like a schmuck. All too often nowadays do I find myself reading a menu, only to have the waiter translate half of it for me into comprehensible English, before I eventually settle on dishes which I can understand, rather than selecting dishes which I actually want to eat. This, I am pleased to say, is not one of those menus.

For starters, we almost all go for the pumpkin ravioli, gracefully served with abundant shavings of earthy pecorino and intensely satisfying, wilted cavolo nero. Cubes of orange decorate the plate, reminding those of us fortunate enough to try this dish that the star of the show on the ceramic, despite the minimalism of the design, is unmistakably the squash. The pasta itself is more delicate than 1920s burlesque; its vibrant yellow hue, an encouraging sign of its freshness. Each mouthful hails the sweetness of the pumpkin, with a slight crunch and operating in perfect harmony with the subtle undertones of caramelised onion percolating the crevasses of the dough. Flavours are bold, textures are just diverse enough. All of which is astonishing when one considers that the dish is composed of only four main ingredients. Simple and understated, yet elegant. Just like the restaurant itself.

Our main course is a 28-day aged beef fillet, stood proudly centre-stage and garnished with dazzling confetti (penned self-effacingly as a ‘crumb’) of bone marrow. The beef in question is superb, succulent and drizzled in a red wine sauce that smacks something of a French kiss. It is genius. It is a dexterous Petrarchan sonnet, a highly warranted Emmy nod, a magna cum laude distinction from ‘Ox’-ford University. (Take a few seconds to groan). A sexy slab of baked celeriac escorts the prize-winning stud onto the red carpet, perfectly seasoned, sumptuously sweet and resting gently on his arm, looking ever the glamorous Hollywood match. Accompanying carrots and cavolo nero are cooked wonderfully. Overall, this is a dish which is crying out to impress. And it does. Boy, oh boy, it does. It is a chef-d’oeuvre that needs no additional touches.

(And FYI. When the dish you have chosen also happens to feature on the “Chef’s Choice Menu”, you usually know you’re onto a winner.)

As the curtain draws to a close, though the savoury stomach bursts at the seams, the dessert stomach calls out enthusiastically for an encore. Lightweights, take note. There is always room for pudding. A bowl of vanilla panna cotta is placed under my nose with poise, gorgeously decked with shards of dove-white meringue, sprigs of vibrant green mint and temptingly moist chunks of mulled pear, all coated with a dusting of gingerbread snow. Not to mention the “complimentary” mince pie which is served alongside for the paltry sum of an extra £1. Winter is well and truly upon us, people. If mulled pears, gingerbread and mince pies do not scream out Christmas, I honestly do not know what does. The texture of the panna cotta, however, is perhaps the most disappointing thing about this experience. Slightly overset and lacking in a good jiggle, but still affable. Pears are not bad, but could certainly do with a little more mulling, if anything. And then there is the gingerbread snow which, I will admit, leaves me yearning for the crunch and bite of an actual gingerbread biscuit. The dessert is not a terrible dessert though; far from it. It just needs work.

So, what does this tell me? Well, first off, it is that Picture Fitzrovia is well worth the visit; its hype much merited. Nonetheless, it seems that all the effort which Picture has gone to in creating sparkling starters and moreish mains is, unfortunately, not quite replicated enough in its sweets. And there is no reason why this should be the case, given how fabulously competent the chefs here are.

But, word to the wise. It ain’t over until the fat man sings. And this fat man left the restaurant that day, still in search of a soul-satisfyingly good pud.