The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - The Telegraph Magazine
Michael Deacon at Mere in central London
Michael Deacon’s cover is blown while eating at Monica Galetti’s latest venture
Hello. My name is Phil Turner. or at least, it is w he ni book a table at a restaurant. ‘Phil Turner,’ i announce confident lyon arrival, having spent the final 20 yards of my journey repeating it in my head (‘ Phil turnerphilt urn er philt urn er philt urn er ’) so th a ti don’t forget and blurt ,‘ Good evening, i’m Michael Deacon, the restaurant reviewer! i’m here to review your restaurant!’
it is, apparently, a rule of restaurant reviewing that reviewers visit incognito – in order that the staff don’t show us a ny ‘specia l t reat ment’, whatever that means (bonus yorkshire pudding? Brown envelope stuffed with vol-auvent s?). of course, you may a lready have ident if ied t he hole in t his pla n, namely, that many restaurant reviews are accompanied by a photog raph of the reviewer’s face, meaning that waiters can keep a handy line-up of mug shots in the kitchen. and so, when one of the people from that line-up comes blundering on to the premises and bellows, ‘er, Phil Turner!’, t he maître d’ can give an inward smile and say, ‘yes, sir. of course, sir ’, and escort the world’s least effective secret agent to his table, while signalling to a mini on to start stuffing the vol-au-vents.
That minor flaw aside, though, i think ‘Phil Turner’ is a brilliant alias. it’s so gloriously boring, no one would ever guess it was fake. sadly, however, i now have to retire it, thanks to what happened at this week’s restaurant.
My friend was running late, so i took
my seat downstairs and waited. After 10 minutes, I heard the door open, and a familiar voice say brightly, ‘I’m here for Phil Turner!’
She was led down the stairs– where upon she spotted me, and shouted, all the way across the room, ‘HI MICHAEL!!!!!’
Possibly we could have got away with it, if the restaurant had been packed and noisy. Unfortunately, it was only 6.15pm, and for the moment she and I were the only people there. Apart from the three waiters now staring at us.
‘Sorry, Michael !’ she stammered. ‘I mean Phil! Phil!’
After all that, I suppose it didn’ t much matter that she continued to loudly address me as Michael for the rest of dinner, chatted gaily about the
Telegraph, and at one point, having offered her analysis of the starters, hooted, ‘ I should be the food critic, not you! Oh. Sorry, Michael. Not Michael! PHIL! PHIL TURNER!’
Anyway. Looks like I’ll be needing a new name. Maybe, for the sake of my more forgetful companions, I should try something more memorable. Moonbat Santiago. Humperdinck Bratwurst. Mussolini Pontefract. Toggles Mackay.
I’ll keep working on it, and try not to let you know.
The rest aura nt t hat poor old Phil was visiting was Mere, in London. According to its website, t hat’s Mere not as in ‘mere’ but as in ‘mère’, t he French for mother – and also ‘Mere’, which is the name of the proprietor’s Samoan mother. So her mother is both mère and Mere. Although apparently the Samoans pronounce‘ Mere’ as ‘Mary’. Right, this is getting confusing. Well, whatever it’ s called, it’ s the new restaurant from Monica Galetti – formerly of Le Gavroche, and a judge on Masterchef: The Professionals.
The place is quiet and gleamingly swish, each table lit with a futuristic electric candle that looks like across between a light sabre and a Mini Milk. The menu is shortish, and draws here and there on French and South Pacific influences. My friend started with the black curry scallop. Delicious: the richness of curry, yet daintily light. Although it did leave dirty streaks of black all over the plate, like a charcoal drawing of Guy Fawkes Night. I had the ‘Mushroom and Marmite ’: tortellini with wild mushroom and melting Marmite butter. It was lovely, the pasta full and juicy, the Marmite unexpectedly subtle.
My main was the beef: 30-day aged sirloin, glazed cheek, sweet onion
beignet (a little French pastry thing) and tarragon. The steak was great, but very small. In fact, this was true of the dishes in general: beautiful to look at, but not a lot there, despite how expensive it all was (my bonsai beef was £34). My friend had the ‘Winter Tomato’ – a rectangular savoury base adorned at painstakingly creative angles with leaves and vegetables. It looked more like a Turner Prize entry than at art .‘ It’ s lovely ,’ said my friend. ‘But, to be honest, I could have done with a side of chips.’
Pudding was wonderful, though. I had the banana and coconut cream pie: a gorgeous airy puff of sweetness, floating from the crispest pastry. My friend had a creamy chocolate and peanut praline, which she liked.
Out of professional curiosity (greed), I went back the next day to try a couple more dishes. This time I star ted with the‘ Mammole Artichoke ’. Good, if mildly alarming. It looked like some monstrous man-eating f lower. I kept thinking it would snatch my fork off me and swallow it. Next, the squab: rhubarb-glazed pigeon breast with a fabulously crunchy pastilla (a tube of meaty pastry).
Since my cover had been ever so slightly blown, I’d booked under my real name. I waited expectantly, but the envelope of illicit vol-au-vents never came. Perhaps it’s in the post.