Like eating balls of compressed sawdust
Moncks of Dover St
33 Dover Street, London W1
It certainly looks the part, Moncks of Dover St – the very picture of a well-heeled Mayfair brasserie, with its buttery soft, oxblood leather banquettes, handsome wooden panelling, well-framed prints and sketches and the most tasteful of fabrics. It doesn’t so much scream wealth as whisper it, discreetly, in your ear.
Even the hubbub is cut from superior cloth, carrying hushed snippets of hedge funds and Hodgkin, St Trop and the Cinquante Cinq. Service, too, is immaculate, running as smoothly as a rose-gold Patek Philippe, with battalions of white-shirted waiters and waitresses, the former in white aprons, the latter in black waistcoats. All watched over by calm, professional managers who understand the art of front-of-house. The menu is purringly unthreatening and reassuringly Mayfair: fillet steak and fish of the day, burgers made from 35-day aged beef (wot, no Wagyu? The very shame) and salads for people who can’t be arsed to eat. Truffles are everywhere. Of course they are. On chips and asparagus and macaroni cheese. For an extra £24 you can, if the whim takes you, add 10g of caviar to your lobster roll. It’s that sort of place.
Moncks of Dover St – the very picture of a well-heeled Mayfair brasserie, with its buttery soft, oxblood leather banquettes, handsome wooden panelling, well-framed prints and sketches and the most tasteful of fabrics
And the food starts well. Blistered padrón peppers and sweet, succulently piggy Scotch quail’s eggs, which arrive, like baby Jesus, on a soft bed of hay. Janine is newly vegan, three weeks gone. I offer my condolences, which she bats away with a knowing smile. She likes her beetroot-and-avocado burger, and it’s not half bad. Not a patch on beef, but rich and succulent and most definitely plant-based. Jonathan’s asparagus is fine too, with a sharp mustard dressing and not too heavy on the truffle. Thank God.
But having just returned from Greece, where decent fried calamari can be found in even the most retsina-stained of tavernas, the specimens here are dull and overcooked, the batter glum rather than gleefully crisp, with a few underwhelming strands of under-pickled onions. Not bad, just drab. Like the chips that remind us of McCain’s. And the lobster roll, which chops the lobster too fine. For nearly £30 I want great chunks, not a crustacean take on Heinz sandwich spread. The bun is soft but the filling is meagre to the point of meanness. Not a patch on the beauty at Darby’s, which is exactly half the price. And ten times as good.
Baked quinoa falafel (what’s wrong with chickpeas?) is dustily dry, like eating balls of compressed sawdust. They lurk, slightly embarrassed, among an underdressed jungle of ‘seasonal leaves’. If these had the nerve to turn up at the great Mr Falafel in Shepherd’s Bush Market, they’d be shown the door. Sharpish. Janine gives up halfway through, having lost the will to live. A side of cherry tomatoes may well be from Sicily but they sure haven’t seen a lot of sun. I’ve had better from Tesco.
At least the steak tartare, a decent-sized cylinder of finely chopped beef, comes with a raw egg yolk. It’s perfectly acceptable, if a trifle under-seasoned. Mac and cheese, ordered sans truffle as a side, is surprisingly good. But despite the beauty of the room and the slick assurance of the service, Moncks leaves me cold.
Despite the beauty of the room and the slick assurance of the service, Moncks leaves me cold
It comes from the folk behind nearby Park Chinois, that rather fabulous folly of Cantonese deluxe. But here the kitchen struggles to match the splendour of the decor. It’s designed for people who care more about comfort than cooking, and never need look at the bill.
‘Not a patch on Scott’s or The Wolseley,’ says Jonathan, a man so fundamentally Mayfair that if you cut him he’d bleed pure Dougie Hayward. ‘I give it a year,’ he says. I disagree. Moncks of Dover St certainly knows its market. But that market most certainly ain’t me.
About £45 per head