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‘It wrenched us from the fabulous to the disgracefu­l

- Tozi Grand Cafe, London

It is heralded as a grand café at Battersea Power Station, bringing together so much that appeals: the bold and impressive redevelope­d power station – a triumph – and a restaurant that claims to evoke the classic elegance of the grand cafés of Europe. All that chintz and bustle, a paradise of peoplewatc­hing and glorious dishes. The menu promises Italian, described by the chef as a taste of the ‘dolce vita’, all within a space designed by a chap saluted in press blurb as a visionary.

I’d arranged to meet my pal Carlo, an Italian mover and shaker who likes to indulge in a little hospitalit­y one-upmanship. ‘This place I’ve discovered is better than anything you’ve got up your sleeve,’ he might claim. So I planned to rub his nose in this new establishm­ent, with its high ceilings, tapestries and pasticceri­a mignon. Carlo got there early by car and started sending grumbling texts. He couldn’t find the place and no one seemed to have heard of it. More texts flooded my screen but I ignored them. Victory would be mine.

I so wanted to enter the great fourchimne­yed edifice but I discovered (as Carlo eventually did) that the grand café is within the art’otel adjacent to it, a hotel whose tiresome grammar is on a par with its non-conformist swirling design, clashing, as do other neighbouri­ng new-builds, with the power station.

The hotel lobby was empty, but I trotted on, ready to be stunned by Tozi. As I approached I spotted Carlo at once, sitting forlorn in near-darkness. Just two other tables were occupied. On the Novotel-claridge’s scale, this is rather closer to the former.

Where there isn’t vast curved glass, the grey walls are hung with stark portraits of angry fashionist­as. Hung from the high ceilings are blobs of red that house lights and, it seems, speakers.

The service was prompt, very friendly and profession­al, and the first two dishes were exemplary. There were divine zucchini fritti (fresh oil, perfect batter), light and delightful and every bit as good as the crisp sage leaves that hid a glorious bite of anchovy.

But then came the most grotesque dish of 2023 – or possibly the decade. Raw Sicilian prawns. I’ve had these things before; I’ve eaten them at their peak. I have savoured that sweet, fresh taste of the Mediterran­ean, their beautiful bright-pink translucen­t magnificen­ce. I appreciate their cost.

But here they came, three modest-looking shellfish. They didn’t taste particular­ly fresh, they had no zing, no vim nor vigour. They were no melting fantasy and were served with a clumsy, Masterful chips and a tasty salsa accompanie­d a ‘Sugar Pit bacon chop’. Think gammon in granulated fat wedge of lemon, pips lazily still in, sitting on top. They attracted my forensic analysis because they cost £16.25. That comes to just over £5.40 for one lousy prawn served in what could be a transit lounge in Doha.

A heavy dish of leaden veal and pork meatballs that a chisel would have helped us cut through brought scant comfort, but a plate of wild boar pappardell­e assuaged our grief somewhat, being richly tasty with well-cooked pasta. Some Tenderstem broccoli on the side was also decent. There were, too, some fabulous ‘confit layered chunky chips’, crunchy and masterful, and a tasty salsa – but they accompanie­d a truly awful ‘Sugar Pit bacon chop’. The chop tasted exactly as if it had been dipped in a pit of sugar. Think gammon in granulated.

Dinner, therefore, was like being in a bumper car, wrenched from side to side from the fabulous to the disgracefu­l. Carlo wins, hands down, and picks the next one…

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