The Boy Who Loved To Eat

5-7 Blandford St, London W1U 3DB. Meal for two, tasting menu offer: £49 for six courses.

A beguiling winter’s eve in the heart of eminently stylish Marylebone, and backstage at one fortunate nay privileged venue, preparations are afoot for the launch of a new collection. Designed to showcase the pinnacle of British artistry, creativity and flair, it is set to be a masterclass in texture, colour and, rumour has it, rather eclectic taste. And yet, for all its wonderfully modish and contemporary features, this particular ensemble of garments is unlikely ever to be seen gracing the figure of any mannequin in this day and age.

Thank. God.

The venue in question could not, in fact, be more different from your typical fashion house. And the debutante making her grand appearance at the societal ball this evening? She is, likewise, far from average. For tonight is all about the VIPs. Those lucky few who shall be treated to the unveiling of a brand new tasting menu at L’Autre Pied, woven together to celebrate the return of this year’s London Restaurant Festival.

When I last tried Andy McFadden’s food, albeit on not such a fabulously gastronomic occasion, I concluded that I might as well give up eating altogether because never again would I have the opportunity of polishing off a plateful so perfect as the main course which had stolen my heart that day. A rustic and gorgeously lissom saddle of rabbit sustained by a mellifluous sunset-orange carrot purée, the memory of this dish remains as vivid and as comforting as the day the creature first scampered into its hole only to land safely and deliciously onto my palate.

I remember the taste like it was yesterday. Either that or, God forbid, some poor bit of the bunny has found itself interminably stuck between the confines of my teeth for the past two years. And no, I will not go and see my dentist about it, because anyone who wakes up each day with the real-life equivalent of Proust’s Madeleine permanently lodged in their choppers would be a fool to give up this joy.

So, anyway, here I am. Back at L’Autre Pied, now with practically ethereal expectations for the evening ahead of me and ready and hungry for round two.

It is not long before we are whisked off to our table; our laps adorned soon after with immaculate white linen napkins; our glasses flooded with wine so sophisticated it could park your car anywhere you wanted it to. And then, as I start to scan the room, it gradually dawns on me. Kitted out with an assortment of dark zebrawood tables, cherry leather banquettes and chestnut silk cushions, the place is rather more dimly lit and much pokier than I recall. As far as decorative features go, however, the prize for weirdest prop – hands down – goes to an oriental flower lightbox standing centre stage in the restaurant, illuminated in a shade of radioactive green which, for some quite baffling reason, the old boys over at Dulux decided they would omit from this year’s catalogue. Because, as we all know, there’s nothing quite like the menacing glow of uranium to solve a lighting issue.

The menu is short and reasonably priced at £49 for six rather obnoxious-sounding courses. For that kind of money, you could get yourself one tenth of an iPad, half a year’s worth of TV – legally – or even, and don’t read too much into this, twenty-four, yes, twenty-four double espressos. And what a night that would be. Mind you, I still think I’d rather go for six courses at a fancy pants restaurant, thank you very much. No matter how much my nostrils might flare at the slightly eye-watering whiff of ponce which seems to be emanating from our bill of fare.

Kicking off our entertainment for the evening, a petite and rather darling little pot of Jerusalem artichokes nestled snugly under a powdery blanket of parmesan snow finds its way to each of our placemats. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good. Very good. The sort of dish that ticks all the boxes in terms of flavour and still has time to give the deepest, grimiest recesses of your mouth a good spring clean. But even so – and this, I’m afraid, is the teariest part – it leaves me feeling a little unloved. Like a doting mother who remembers to tuck you in, reads you your favourite bedtime story – ‘The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin’, by the way, obviously – but somehow still forgets to articulate that all-important trio of words which, as all little boys and girls know, are ‘the’ sure-fire way of effecting a glorious night’s slumber. Hot on the heels of the artichoke enigma comes a beautiful and refreshing plate of scallop ceviche, sheltered under an emerald-green igloo of cucumber granita of the kind that could easily transport you to the glistening mountain peaks of idyllic Norway. For presentation, technique and downright audacity, it gets full marks – the oil drop of aged balsamic lurking underneath the ceviche, in particular, is a challenging but ultimately pleasant surprise. In demonstrating heart, intensity and sheer passion though, the dish is somewhat less successful. Like a cupcake without frosting, it is missing something pretty essential.

Our next course, however, is quite the revelation. A fillet of Cornish cod draped in a shawl of potato scales and festooned with a veritable rainbow of different coloured brassicas; the whole thing, encrusted with tiny gemstones of rose-tinted grapefruit and miniature pearl barley. It’s the Betty Boop of fish dishes. So attractive you wouldn’t be at all surprised if it strutted up to you, stared you right in the face, spun on its heel and then buggered off back down the runway again.

To be quite honest, though, I sort of wish it had.

As I strip the fish of its scales, rendering it very much in the buff, I can now at last see the delicate cod that the chefs would have me enjoy. Why on earth they choose to bury it away, hidden almost entirely from view, is beyond me. But then I actually try the fish and, all of a sudden, it is as clear as day. As what the cod makes up for in appearance, it lacks in, well, everything else. At one point I even find myself wondering if I’ve been unfortunate enough to catch one of those extremely rare colds. You know the sort I mean. Those colds which completely obliterate all sense of taste and, curiously enough, only seem to last for a matter of minutes, seconds, even. You know, those colds which don’t actually exist. Even more discombobulating, however, is why there should be such a vast array of broccoli hues all vying to get my attention. I don’t wish to brag, but I have actually seen colours before, and lots of them too. If each tree were blessed with its own unique fruit, then fair enough, but as it stands, selecting one of each colour seems about as pointless as suiting up to attend a swingers’ do.

Next up, and dressed to impress, a devilishly handsome loin of fallow deer prances onto the catwalk, flaunting her bewitching apparel and sporting a pink t-shirt with the letters ‘S-W-A-G-G-E-R’ embossed in gold on the front. Riding on her coattails, beetroot, radicchio and cocoa subsequently all perform the same routine. Tired and weary, I now tentatively shovel the ingredients onto my fork and into my mouth, only for my expectations to be proved completely and utterly wrong. The texture of the venison is superb. As good as I’ve had anywhere, in fact. The beetroot is perfectly cooked. Seasoning complements the meat marvellously too. The crunch of the radicchio restores a hitherto absent sense of sound to the meal, whilst simultaneously also restoring my faith in the restaurant to produce the soul-satisfying food I knew it could. It’s a real crowd-pleaser and one which, when all is said and done, makes my heart weep tears of inextinguishable delight. What a relief.

Coming to the end of tonight’s dinner, we gaze upon the duet of citrus-themed desserts which is delivered to our table, before questioning what on earth we have done now to offend the poor bod who designed the menu. And it was all going so well. A nice calorie-free lemon yoghurt to start off with, followed by a skinny lime and coconut rice pudding. Perfectly appetizing and good for you, but killer puds, they ain’t. It’s the difference between hurtling your big brother’s Ford Mustang down the A4 and riding your little sister’s bicycle to the local shop. One is undeniably safer while the other could potentially shave years off your life. But you just don’t care because the Mustang will give you more thrills than the bicycle ever could.

And it is this feeling which captures what, for me, has been missing from this whole experience. For the overriding problem with a place like this is that it’s simply too textbook. Like someone has read and mastered the official guide on how to run a Michelin-starred eatery without encountering any pitfalls along the way. But I haven’t come here looking for a pitfall-free plate of food. In fact, what I love most about food is the reality that it can be so perfectly imperfect and still leave you with a warm and fuzzy glow in your tummy.

I still believe that L’Autre Pied is capable of achieving this feat with its cooking, but as to when this will happen exactly, only time will tell. Probably worth waiting a few months until your next visit, I’d say.