The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - The Telegraph Magazine
Sitwell stirs it up
William gives Chucs Belgravia four stars
William chews over Chucs’ latest restaurant
No self-respecting restaurant group likes people to refer to it as a chain. A chain is a grubby concept: it’s a rollout, with centralised kitchens and strictly controlled buying policies. God forbid if a chef in some backwater outpost gets ideas and then decides to add a twist of cracked pepper to a breakfast omelette.
A flash of genius perhaps, a twinkle in the customer’s eye, but this tweak adds a new cost line and new numbers ripple across a spreadsheet in head office. Before long, an accountant raises an eyebrow, there’s murmuring among the staff, and an emergency board meeting is called.
Soon, computers start to smoke, flagons of water burst at the drinks station, and by teatime this bleak monorail has come off the tracks and the PM is challenged on whether the supporting bank should be bailed out.
While every chef secretly just wants their one perfect restaurant, the affliction of restaurantitis (an addiction to opening restaurants), is unrelenting. And once they grow above five in number (Bill’s being a graceful exception), they go grey and dull before finally exploding.
Chucs, which now numbers around six (I’m deliberately vague; this dangerous affliction could mean there are seven by the end of the next paragraph), is currently at a sweet spot in its growth. It started as a single restaurant – designed like a glamourous yacht – in Mayfair in 2014. They have since spread around London and the latest is in Belgravia.
The company describes the group officially as a ‘collection’, which is suitably fashiony. But it is, of course, a flotilla. And very sleek, fancy and stylish it is, too. The Belgravia outpost is on a corner of Eccleston Street and Ebury Street and it really is very opulently yacht-like, with pale wood panels and polished brass.
And the customers – all female on my visit – seem to nicely match; Chelsea aristos, tanned Euros and, in a semi-private niche, eight 60-something ladies (I think Italian), who were plotting (I’m sure) to kill their husbands if they didn’t keep their mistresses in check or get a bigger boat.
The manager had dark hair, a neat beard, a svelte blue suit and bright white trainers – and no notepad. I mention this as he did that thing of taking our order down without writing notes.
How difficult can it be to remember a shared starter, two main courses, a side of zucchini fritti and a plate of green leaves? Well, actually, too difficult, as he forgot the green leaves – but more on that gripe shortly.
The menu, while not overlong, is one of those lovely concoctions that seems to be able to include every classic Italian dish you might dream of. There is pappardelle with duck ragù, for example, veal Milanese and melanzane alla parmigiana.
Al, my dining companion, and I shared a competent calamari: great batter but the squid is rarely perfect unless you are at the shore. Similarly, my crab linguine was al dente and crunchy with breadcrumbs. But as my Italian chef pal Aldo Zilli has admonished me, ‘Never order crab in London unless I tell you to.’
Al’s truffle and lovage risotto, with a soft egg to mix in, was exceptional. The risotto was so exact on the bite that I wanted to stuff it into my pockets and take it around with me as proof of perfection, and with its sprinkles of lovage and celery, it deftly oozed a spring-like essence. The zucchini fritti were delicious, too; un-oily and with crisp batter.
But as to our green leaves? The waiter said there was no record of it, which, of course, was true. But we yielded. It felt vulgar to row on this new flagship of the fleet.