Boxwood Cafe @ The Berkley Hotel

My college 3rd year work placement was five weeks at Gordon Ramsay's Boxwood Café. I wrote at the time: "There's absolutely nothing wrong with cooking pumpkin ravioli with a balsamic reduction, goat's cheese and soft herbs followed by confit leg of duck with pan-fried wild mushrooms and celeriac puree. Nothing, of course, except that hundreds of other restaurants are cooking the same meal." Good food, but not creative.

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The Boxwood Cafe, owned by Gordon Ramsay holdings, is in the Berkeley Hotel in Knightsbridge. It has a smart, modern interior. Bread was just brown or white rolls, and frankly these were very ordinary, lacking seasoning and indeed much interest for me (3/10). My starter of crab tagliolini was very capable, with good quality pasta, fresh crab laced with wild garlic, a little chilli and parsley, the flavours working well together and the chilli under control (5/10). This was better than a glazed pea and leek tart topped with a soft boiled quail egg and salad leaves, which was pleasant but one dimensional (2/10).

My main course of roasted loin of suckling pig had nice, crispy outside and tender pork, served with a pleasant grain mustard sauce and roasted potatoes infused with garlic (4/10). This was much better than the veal and foie gras burger, which I am afraid to say had a distinct burnt taste, though served with good chips (1/10). Service was reasonably good, though they forgot one drinks order. When a piece of plastic was found in a glass of wine they were at least apologetic and took it off the bill, though of course it would have been better if this had not happened in the first place. Coffee was pleasant (3/10). A rather erratic meal, averaging around 3/10. However at this price there is a major issue with value for money.

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I CONSIDER Gordon Ramsay (or ‘Old Celeriac Head’, as Liz at Gastronomy Domine calls him) fascinating. His international modus operandi of culinary command and conquer seemingly occurs without compromise. I was even motivated to rendezvous with a Ramsayite at ‘G.R.H.Q.’ a few months ago in pursuit of a position at his ‘chic’ take on ‘informal dining’, the ‘Boxwood Café’. The experience was expectedly fraught, especially considering multiple interviews take place at once within an open plan suite. Alas, sommeliers chez Ramsay need to commit full time (meaning ‘life’), which I could not…

Anyway, as a consumer, I had a lovely afternoon amongst the ‘Perfect Day’ pictures at the Berkeley Hotel. As rain rinsed Knightsbridge of all but the most determined of Saturday shoppers, I sipped a bittersweet cardamom vodka martini in the venue’s little bar, lodged in a trellis between the upstairs and downstairs dining rooms. Despite slightly low rent piped jazz, the smart, restfully toned, gold and silver leaf restaurant felt like a haven. The occasion: my father’s 75th birthday. My family can be a little disorientating for restaurant staff. My mother, wanting the best, scrutinised two tables before deciding on a cocoa coloured banquette at the back. The staff, possibly in fear, never flinched. When eventually seated, a basket of warm, crumbly, lightly seasoned bread came with small saucers of mannequin pink Taramasalata (refreshed when depleted). Writing this I am reminded of a tasting with a rep from 'Bagatelle', baker to the (Michelin) stars... I asked, "so how long have you been in bread?" to which I received a frosty response.

This was followed by the “set lunch soup”, a cool, creamy amuse bouche of soft melon spiked with a dot of uplifting basil. It was absolutely sweetly delicious and fully appetising (I had two in fact).

With the assistance of a gracious sommelier who never attempted an upsell, but did pour a little eagerly, I chose a light red Burgundy. Beaune Teurnons 1er Cru ’04 (Dom. Chanson) was translucent with a pretty, balanced palate perfumed by light berry fruits. The texture was soft and refreshing. Acids were never intrusive. This worked beautifully with generous waves of San Daniele Ham spotted with dark, fleshy Vanilla Marinated English Cherries. Although I liked the rather romantic thinking behind the dish, the vanilla seeds, visible like finely milled pepper, almost drowned Parma’s delicately flavoured competitor.

Whilst the loos are adequate: understated and spotless, a number of people seem keen to preserve their memory in photographic form. I was first alerted to this phenomenon by critic Alastair Bathgate (Confessions of a Wino). He described the gents as California designer Barbara Barry’s ‘coup de grace’. He was particularly taken with the urinals: ‘…the reflection in the glass panel is of the one on the right, not a transparent view of the left hand one through the glass.’ There's more: ‘…with the Mona Lisa in mind, I moved my head around and from pretty much any angle the reflection aligned with the urinal behind the glass - how so?’ Such behaviour could get a chap in hot water. Regardless, when I visited, I caught another wayward diner snapping a loo view. He was clearly flushed by my interruption...

Interval over, a bottle of white Burgundy accompanied latter courses. Pernand Vergelesses ‘06, vineyards of which neighbour Corton Charlemagne, was made by the same producer as before: lightly mineral, a little young, but cleansing. Oak was strong on nose but only a picture frame to the palate.

Staying clear of the Veal and Foie Gras Burger (which can burger off), my Pan fried Black Bream with Cauliflower and Almonds had sweet flesh beneath scored, crisp skin. Short samphire strands were woven under the main attraction rather than left as a beaver’s dam on the side.

My father and sister chose Rib Eye of English Beef only to be told that they had been given the wrong menu. Rump of Veal was a much better understudy. The almost cosmetically striped, smokey, tender pillow was simply served with lemon, capers and mashed potato. My sister, who feels lost without a heavy ration of vegetables, felt the dish was wanting for more. A pint of wheat grass would be a tough love cure for her love of legumes.

To follow, making use of the season, which is what the Boxwood is all about, Elderflower and Wild Berry Jelly (a mildly regressive dish) was almost pretty, but not quite. The disparate, tender berries were quelled by a somewhat heavy-handed raspberry sorbet (which unfortunately looked like a prolapse, peeping from its bowl). A flute of blood orange coloured musky Bouvet sparkling wine complementarily added the flavour of rhubarb compote.

Bless the staff, who unlike Rex Whistler, marked the birthday being celebrated. My father’s cocktail triangle of Panna Cotta was illuminated by a silver candle lodged in a marshmallow cube. He was also given a little box of caramel truffles, which he offered to adjacent diners. Staff, thankfully, did not sing.

Despite one or two incongruous design details, including an old fashioned bread bin marooned in a corner, this is a well-groomed restaurant. ‘Café’ is misleading. Unlike the Patron Saint of Pétrus, Head Chef Stuart Giles talks of having ‘never chased an accolade’. This no doubt makes it a particularly good venue to spruce staff for other cogs in the Ramsay chain.

Whilst I think slightly stricter simplicity could lead to cleaner flavours (with particular reference to the vanilla cherries), ingredients were worth celeriating (apologies, celebrating). And compared to that other recent birthday meal which ended in a stand-off, Boxwood's staff were divine.

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