The server had warned us we were going ‘on a journey’; she wasn’t lying
We dined at Amethyst, a very fancy Mayfair restaurant, shortly after 10 nights of eating out simply, yet satisfyingly, in south-west France. In Arcachon, dinner each night was unfussy yet always chic, because the French can’t help themselves. They can sling 10 large prawns at a plate and serve them with cold Orangina and still make a woman feel like Brigitte Bardot. Turbot was served whole, grilled, face glaring, with a bowl of fried baby potatoes and baskets of fresh bread with copious salted butter. Dessert was a scoop of homemade glace, or maybe two if you were feeling a little extra. Simple dining is where the joy of eating is truly revealed.
Then, bang: it’s back to Saturday night in central London, for a dinner by Carlo Scotto, who has quietly and painstakingly revealed himself over the past few years as one of Britain’s most imaginative chefs. This Italian chef has flown slightly under the radar. His previous venture, Xier, in my opinion, had all the cut-and-thrust of a two-star Michelin restaurant, despite not winning even one. I remember a succession of tiny plates of beurre noisette gnocchi swimming in warm kombu tea, then half a single arancino on a sticky, kohlrabi jus, then stracciatella with dehydrated wild strawberries. Scotto is one of the new crown princes of the fancy, finickety, finest dining scene. Xier was easily as impressive as the likes of Core by Clare Smyth or even Le Gavroche.
