‘It was a friendly, unassuming, bashfully smiling little place, entirely without frostiness or pretension’

A small but perfectly formed menu and a friendly vibe make a winning combination

BANNING PHONES in theatres, yes. Totally on board with that. They’re a nightmare. A young journalist was recently telling me about a production of Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood she saw in North Wales. The star of the show, Owen Teale, had just delivered the opening line – ‘To begin at the beginning’ – when somewhere in the audience a phone started ringing. The rest of the audience muttered and sighed while the phone’s owner scrabbled guiltily in her handbag. At last the ringing stopped. Relief.

‘Shall I start again?’ asked Mr Teale. The audience applauded. ‘To begin at the beginning!’ repeated Mr Teale, with a flourish.

Immediately, the phone started ringing again.

Disbelief. Anger. The tearing of hair. In panic, the phone’s owner flapped and fiddled. But still it kept ringing. ‘I don’t know how to switch it off!’ she wailed. The rest of the audience groaned and cursed. Up on stage, Mr Teale stood silent, arms crossed, his glare black as coals. And still the phone kept ringing.

Humiliated and helpless, its owner gave up trying to switch it off, and scuttled miserably from the auditorium. She did not return.

I do feel for her. It would save a lot of bother if, before a play, everyone was made to hand over their phone in the lobby, for collection afterwards.

Restaurants, though. Not so sure. A few restaurants have tried banning

phones: the Meat Bar & Grill in Newport, Grand Central in Chelmsford, Auradaze in Leamington Spa. This week’s restaurant, Darwin in south London, hasn’t banned them, but it does discourage their use. ‘It’s time to forget your phone,’ instructs its website, ‘and actually spend time with the person you’re with, and establish real connections.’

Well, it’s a lovely thought, albeit somewhat inconvenient for those of us using our phones to type surreptitious notes for use in a magazine review. Thing is, though: what was the restaurant going to do, if I did get my phone out? Was a waiter going to snatch it from my grasp and toss it disgustedly in the kitchen bin? Or would he spend the entire meal stationed like a prison guard at my table, to deter me from getting it out in the first place? ‘Deacon! Leave your inside jacket pocket alone! I want both your hands on the table where I can see them! Now – start conversing! Come on! Your friend’s not going to entertain herself, you know! And remember – we expect real connections! Serious, intelligent, state-ofthe-art discourse! If I don’t hear at least three deeply moving personal revelations in the next 15 minutes, that phone is going in the deep fat fryer!’

Thankfully, it turned out that Darwin wasn’t like that at all. In fact, it was a friendly, unassuming, bashfully smiling little place, entirely without frostiness or pretension. The chefs (who doubled as waiters) couldn’t have been lovelier. And no matter how many times I got out my phone to make a note, they didn’t so much as tut.

There’s no particular theme to the menu, other than that over time they plan to keep changing and improving it (hence the name Darwin: survival of the fittest dishes). First my friend and I were served some excellent rosemary bread with deliciously creamy butter. Said it before, say it again: if a restaurant’s bread and butter are both freshly made, the rest of the food is almost nailed on to be good.

For a starter I had the salmon, braised leeks and squid-ink mayonnaise. It was dreamy. The salmon was so light it might have been a mirage. I took a photo, to confirm it was really there. On contact with the tongue it simply evaporated. Beautiful. I wasn’t as keen on my friend’s pigeon, though; the blackberry and cavolo nero couldn’t quite disguise the scowling uptightness of the meat. (To be honest, though, that’s pigeon for you. I always say this about pigeon. I’m just not into pigeon. I’ve got to stop reviewing pigeon.)

If a restaurant’s bread and butter are freshly made, the rest of the food is nailed on to be good

Next we had the venison with potato boulangère (basically a little oblong wall of potato, lying on its side). The venison, a furious raging scarlet in the middle, was rich and lustily intense. It made me feel like Henry VIII. One more mouthful and I’d have been banging my fist on the table, bawling for ale and dissolving every monastery from here to the moon. We also tried the roasted monkfish: fluffy as a cloud.

For pudding, there was warm chocolate mousse, pure dark velvet, with Sichuan-spiced ice cream, bright and sparkling. There were also mini madeleines, which I wasn’t so impressed by: I found them vague and drab, despite the accompanying chunks of roasted pineapple.

In general, though, Darwin is really good. As well as doing mostly great food, it’s so small and modest and unpublicised that it feels like the kind of restaurant you can think of as your undiscovered gem. Although not for ever, I’m afraid, because word is bound to get out.

Still, you can try to prevent it. If you see anyone in there with a mobile phone, dash it from their hands. They might be telling their friends about this lovely new restaurant they’ve found. Don’t let them. This place is your secret, and you want it to stay that way.

Above Salmon, braised leeks and squid-ink mayonnaise. Below Venison with potato boulangère