The Greenhouse occupies a strange place in my affections. I first met Gary Rhodes there when he was chef-in-residence before he became a supernova. It was also the site of the memorable occasion on which I cooked for a concatenation of unruly chefs. And, finally, it was the scene of my last great beer binge (they still serve the brilliant Arkell's bitter), when one Charles Nevin, ex-flying second row for the Berkshire Press XV and the redoubtable Captain Moonlight, and I sank pints too numerous to count and still remained sober as temperance votaries while he was seeking my advice connected with the imminent arrival of his first child.
Curiously, Clovis, with whom I was taking lunch now, was also expecting the arrival of his first-born imminently. So imminently, in fact, that he kept his mobile phone turned on in case he was summoned mid-forkful.
Tucked away beneath a mini-tower block in recherché Mayfair, the Greenhouse has a curious, slightly clubbish atmosphere, the result in part of the agreeably amber light, the fans revolving in the ceiling and the many suits habitually seated there for lunch and dinner. It is, however, a far from male enclave and, rather to my surprise, the ages of those lunching when Clovis and I pottered in embraced everything from early 20s to early 70s.
What had brought me back was the arrival of a new chef, Paul Merrett. He's a fellow whose progress I have followed with some interest ever since I ate lunch a couple of times at the late lamented Interlude, in Charlotte Street. The cooking then was unusual in several ways. It was very good, to start with; stylish and well constructed. Merrett employed a lot of spices, which few British chefs feel at home with, and used them with unusual brio and confidence. And there were several curious cross-over dishes that, while not exactly a fusion, made use of Indian techniques and combinations.
At least one dish has made the journey with Merrett from Charlotte Street to Hay's Mews: fried sea bass with onion bhajee, sag aloo and spiced tomato pickle. I remembered this with particular affection, so ordered it again. It was, as before, an admirable dish. The darkening of the seared fish brings out the spices with which it competes in the other bits of the dish. The onion bhajee was not out of the top drawer, being slightly limp, but the sweetness of the onion is integral to the excellence of the dish. The base of potato was gentle, and again eloquent spicing gave the dish extra dimensions.
Before this, I had grilled spiced pork belly on a vegetable salad with ginger and lemongrass dressing. This was closer to Asian fusion cooking, but was handled with deft skill. The pork had had much of its fat rendered out, but its richness was tempered both by the star anise, cumin and cinnamon with which it was spiced, and the animated salad on which the scored slices rested.
Clovis was equally drawn to the exotic. He dipped his spoon into a soup plate of coconut, chilli and coriander broth with mussels, squid and monkfish. The fish are well chosen, as they can all stand a bit of cooking without losing their integrity. The dish caused a relaxed, contemplative, satisfied look to come across Clovis's normally forceful features. His main course of fillet of cod on mustard lentils with spring greens and bacon was more prosaic - or mainstream modern European, shall we say - but no less expertly handled or less impressive for being so. Clovis praised the lentils in particular because, he said, they were not a pulse for which he normally had much time. Perhaps he was unsettled by the prospect of fatherhood.
As a further bolster against imminent change, we both had puddings, he an espresso custard with warm maple and banana compte, which, even on paper, you felt, would provide a high comfort factor. And it did, with the added pleasure of a softly sexy custard. The lemon plate put in front of me was of an altogether more searching order. I searched and destroyed with a good deal of vim.
And that was it. The phone call never came. We had a brace of grappas with the coffees, to top off the couple of pints of Arkell's best bitter, a bottle of elegantly muscular Tyrell's Lost Block Semillon at £23.50, and sundry other liquids, which came to £49.20. The food side came to £62.50, of which Clovis's three-course fixed-price lunch accounted for a modest £22.50.
This does not make The Greenhouse one of London's major bargains. Nevertheless, in terms of value for money, I suggest, it's pretty fair. For it, you get a quirkily handsome dining room, smart, sharp service, and exciting and very accomplished cooking that follows a track that is distinctively different from anything else in London. And I got another charming memory of The Greenhouse to add to my store
