Cocktails: You can tell that a restaurant is going to be a bit posh when the coat check attendant nips out from behind the counter with a coathanger to grab your jacket. Thankfully the Oxo Tower restaurant was on the relaxed side of posh, although I wasn't convinced that my attempt at "smart casual" had quite cut the mustard with the Friday evening clientèle. I hovered self-consciously near the private bar, unable to sit down because the nearby seating was clogged by little black dresses and their gentlemen partners. As I scanned the drinks menu I could sense that my presence was obstructing the passing table staff, but they all smiled with good grace as they scuttled by. What to have? I suspected that this was not an appropriate time to request a bottle of Becks, so turned instead to the list of cocktails and attempted to select something both classy and classic. A dash of rum in a reservoir of icy fruit juice sufficed. As I raised my glass in celebratory toast, at least one pound's worth of alcoholic mixture spilled over the rim and formed a embarrassing puddle on the floor. I was somewhat relieved when the waiter announced that our table was ready, and offered to carry our drinks for us on his tray.
Starters: We were led through the restaurant between tightly packed tables filled with impeccable couples. Our designated table was some way back from the window, with a better view of the fire escape than of riverside nighttime London. I viewed the menu with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. I'm a picky eater, and these haute cuisine a la carte menus usually combine several scrumptious-sounding ingredients with at least one thing I detest. Sure enough, the list of starters proved disappointingly tainted. That looks lovely... ah, no, pesto. How about this... hmm, no, pickled prunes. Neither did this seem the ideal time to risk cuttlefish minestrone, nor crab salad, nor king scallops. It soon became clear that the only starter option I would safely stomach was the "ballotine of foie gras". I decided that my conscience would allow me to eat it, just this once, in order to find out what all the luxury fuss was about. My force-fed liver arrived in a medallion-shaped dollop at one end of a smart rectangular plate. I watched others carefully to confirm that the appropriate method of consumption involved cutting a slice of reassembled offal and smearing it on bread. It was, incidentally, damned gorgeous bread - a mushroom and tarragon brioche whose consistency reminded me of the very finest Chelsea bun. As for the foie gras, I was underwhelmed by its unexpectedly bland tastelessness, which was presumably why I'd been given a goblet of plum chutney to tart it up. All of this was accompanied by a challenging glass of smoky South African red, brought to the table by a cheerily obsequious sommelier. I never saw quite how much the bottle cost but I suspect that, even by this early stage in the evening, my allocated portion of food and drink had already cost the best part of forty quid.
Main course: Table cleared (and crumbs quietly brushed onto the floor), we awaited the arrival of our next food parcel. The atmosphere on the eighth floor was convivial, with those at nearby tables seemingly rather more West End than City. I tried not to wreck the elevated penthouse feel by looking upward through white slats into the rooftop air conditioning. Eventually our next platters arrived. I watched with mild jealousy as BestMate's suckling pig was carved at the table, although it's probably a good thing that my arteries were spared its fatty slices. Instead I was presented with yet another conscientiously objectionable foodstuff - a sirloin of veal (sorry, it was that or the salmon, and I'd overdosed on salmon already this week at home). This was accompanied by a "five pepper crust", essentially a broad swirl of saucy peppercorns, and a tear-shaped splodge of parsnip and apple purée. Not a combination I shall ever eat again, but the veal was unexpectedly delicate and tender, and the peppercorns made a very welcome change to the usual steamed veg that lesser restaurants serve. However I had perhaps goofed by failing to order any side dishes (at three or four quid a time, I'd thought best not), so my meaty course lacked anything green, or spudlike, or even healthy. Damned tasty, though.
Dessert: After an appropriate hiatus, and the finishing off of the second bottle of wine, the maître d' approached our table with a smile. A table had become vacant by the window, and would we like to move there to complete our meal? Too right, even if diners at the surrounding tables eyed us with muted jealousy as we moved off. This time, much closer to the bar, there was a far better view of the Thames-side panorama. It's not the most exciting stretch of the river, to be honest, but the mesmerising sight of the floodlit dome of St Paul's more than made up for a certain flatness elsewhere. The dessert menu was uncompetitively priced, with even a small slice of lemon and pine nut tart costing rather more than might be charged for a main course at a decent Norfolk pub. One particularly cryptic item - "Richard's last wish" - appeared at the eye-watering price of £75.00, so we enquired as to what that last wish might be. Extra-vintage cognac, as it turned out, accompanying a trio of matching puddings. So thanks, but no thanks. BestMate plumped for the cheeseboard, so a waiter duly rolled up with the cheese trolley and cut elegant triangular slices of soft, hard and veined for his delectation and delight. I went instead for the Chocolate Plate, which turned out to be a collection of four very different cocoa confections. One saucy sponge, one cubic mousse, one cream-filled tube and one tub of almost-drinkable custard. All quite delightful (and, just for a change, nothing that any animal activist could get seriously wound up about).
Coffee: No, I didn't, because even posh coffee's not me. But I did enjoy a couple of petit fours before BestMate whisked the bill away and asked the head waiter if we could pop out onto thebalcony before we went home. No problem sir, this way please. And so we ended the evening leaning over the rail between the empty exterior tables, gawping down across the glittering Thames and gazing back at the illuminated tower directly above us. Perfect.
Was the food excellent? Too damned right it was, in fact I'd even go so far as to say exquisite. Were the staff good? Absolutely faultless, and never once in any way snooty. Was the evening value for money? Not if you're judging portion size, although the experience was certainly priceless. And would I go again? Sure, but infrequently. Maybe next time BestMate has a milestone birthday. I'd better get saving now.
Cocktails: You can tell that a restaurant is going to be a bit posh when the coat check attendant nips out from behind the counter with a coathanger to grab your jacket. Thankfully the Oxo Tower restaurant was on the relaxed side of posh, although I wasn't convinced that my attempt at "smart casual" had quite cut the mustard with the Friday evening clientèle. I hovered self-consciously near the private bar, unable to sit down because the nearby seating was clogged by little black dresses and their gentlemen partners. As I scanned the drinks menu I could sense that my presence was obstructing the passing table staff, but they all smiled with good grace as they scuttled by. What to have? I suspected that this was not an appropriate time to request a bottle of Becks, so turned instead to the list of cocktails and attempted to select something both classy and classic. A dash of rum in a reservoir of icy fruit juice sufficed. As I raised my glass in celebratory toast, at least one pound's worth of alcoholic mixture spilled over the rim and formed a embarrassing puddle on the floor. I was somewhat relieved when the waiter announced that our table was ready, and offered to carry our drinks for us on his tray.
It soon became clear that the only starter option I would safely stomach was the "ballotine of foie gras". I decided that my conscience would allow me to eat it, just this once, in order to find out what all the luxury fuss was about. My force-fed liver arrived in a medallion-shaped dollop at one end of a smart rectangular plate. I watched others carefully to confirm that the appropriate method of consumption involved cutting a slice of reassembled offal and smearing it on bread. It was, incidentally, damned gorgeous bread - a mushroom and tarragon brioche whose consistency reminded me of the very finest Chelsea bun. As for the foie gras, I was underwhelmed by its unexpectedly bland tastelessness, which was presumably why I'd been given a goblet of plum chutney to tart it up. All of this was accompanied by a challenging glass of smoky South African red, brought to the table by a cheerily obsequious sommelier. I never saw quite how much the bottle cost but I suspect that, even by this early stage in the evening, my allocated portion of food and drink had already cost the best part of forty quid.
Dessert: After an appropriate hiatus, and the finishing off of the second bottle of wine, the maître d' approached our table with a smile. A table had become vacant by the window, and would we like to move there to complete our meal? Too right, even if diners at the surrounding tables eyed us with muted jealousy as we moved off. This time, much closer to the bar, there was a far better view of the Thames-side panorama. It's not the most exciting stretch of the river, to be honest, but the mesmerising sight of the floodlit dome of St Paul's more than made up for a certain flatness elsewhere. The dessert menu was uncompetitively priced, with even a small slice of lemon and pine nut tart costing rather more than might be charged for a main course at a decent Norfolk pub. One particularly cryptic item - "Richard's last wish" - appeared at the eye-watering price of £75.00, so we enquired as to what that last wish might be. Extra-vintage cognac, as it turned out, accompanying a trio of matching puddings. So thanks, but no thanks. BestMate plumped for the cheeseboard, so a waiter duly rolled up with the cheese trolley and cut elegant triangular slices of soft, hard and veined for his delectation and delight. I went instead for the Chocolate Plate, which turned out to be a collection of four very different cocoa confections. One saucy sponge, one cubic mousse, one cream-filled tube and one tub of almost-drinkable custard. All quite delightful (and, just for a change, nothing that any animal activist could get seriously wound up about).
