Cut, London(2)
If the technical term for Cut is “steak house”, this is misleading. Steak palace comes closer for a high-ceilinged space of such narrowness that the room may qualify as the planet’s most opulent glorified lobby. On the wall behind us sat a Damien Hirst, while other strangers to the decorative bargain basement were zeppelin-shaped chandeliers covered with squiggly strands to resemble malignant cells under the microscope.
The room is far from unpleasant, thanks to the view of Hyde Park through slatted blinds, and the light wood panelling that softens the butch clubbiness. But it is studiedly sterile, while a quartet of startling howlers further undermined its appeal.
I love Debbie Harry as much as any middle-aged dullard whose adolescence she richly graced, but who wants to hear Blondie tracks as background noise?
Worse were reflective tables which obliged me to see right up my friend’s nostrils, and become acquainted with the gold tooth – he denies ever having been a pimp – at the left-bottom corner of his mouth.
Worse still was a banquette so dementedly deep that you would need to have spent at least 30 years practising the Alexander Technique to sit comfortably. Both Goldentooth and the nice, chatty French woman at the next table eventually cracked and requested cushions.
The fourth and gravest error concerned service which, while friendly and willing, was strangely confused and at times plain naughty. One waitress repeatedly tried to coax my friend into upgrading his glass of Brut house champagne to one of a pink bubbly which, a glance at petrifying wine list revealed, cost £8.50 more. Another echoed this distasteful attempt at profit-maximisation at the other end of the meal, by claiming not to know whether service was included, as it was, in the bill.
Given all these reasons to give Cut a kicking, the starters were annoyingly brilliant. “I’m not sure about £17,” said Goldentooth of his beautifully presented tartar of tuna with wasabi aioli, ginger and togarashi crisps, “but it’s fantastically melty and delicious.”
My crab and lobster cocktail probably was worth £17. The portion was colossal, the vibrantly fresh seafood mingled happily with great avocado, the Marie Rose sauce and the ensemble was hugely enlivened by fresh basil and a spicy tomato horseradish. It was much the best dish of its kind I have eaten.
The same may only half be said of my steak. The tenderness of this 14oz rib eye, from Kansas and certified by the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA), was just sensational – you could have cut it with a plastic spoon – while the blackened surface had that marvellous chargrilled twang.
But Americans are phobic about strong flavours and however long the beef is hung (in this case five weeks) I still haven’t met a USDA steak with a hint of gamey savour.
My friend felt the same about his 10oz New York sirloin, loving the texture and “outdoorsy” barbecue surface, but being underwhelmed by the taste. Herby chips were impeccable, a vast tower of crunchy onion rings superb, and the sauces and condiments a delight (who knew about “violet mustard”?).
So were the cinammony beignets with a chocolate emulsion and raspberry marmalade and by the time we’d finished coffee and lone glasses of a fine, oaky Washington red, our initial reservations about this arms dealers’ Nirvana had largely faded.
“A lot of that was outstanding,” said Goldentooth, as David Bowie’s China Girl replaced the Pretenders in this curious cavalcade of early Eighties hits, “and this crazy banquette has done wonders for my posture.”
Then the waitress professed ignorance about the service charge, and they rapidly resurfaced. The proprietor is clearly a talented chef and clever businessman, and doubtless also a splendid chap. But is this Puck, we wondered as we left, a robbin’ goodfellow?
