You probably owe it to yourself to try this place unless you’re fat in which case it will only make it worse and should be avoided.
The Athenaeum stands on Piccadilly opposite Green Park just down the road from the Ritz. The tired dilapidated, possibly haunted buildings that line the rest of the road are all jealous of the Athenaeum’s contemporary class.
Step inside and the super-model maitre-de will escort you to your table, which will be far enough away that you will not have to hear your fellow diner’s dull puerile conversation, though close enough so you can eavesdrop.
Our waiter (I shall call him Emilio), was short, geeky and oily, almost certainly a lonely, awkward outcast at school – these types make the best waiters as they are desperate to please and impossible to insult. Emilio brought us shot glasses full of an unidentifiable cloudy liquid, with what appeared to be fish eyeballs floating in them and some miscellaneous cold meat on the side. This was all served on a black slate that he probably found in the park. From Emilio’s muttered explanation I gleaned only the words ‘tomato’ and ‘duck’.
Duck was apparently the two sad slices cured meat, though as V correctly pointed out, could not be identified by its taste and could have been Bison for all I knew. Still, it was pleasant, especially when taken with the cloudy drink or soup or whatever it was, that turned out to be an intense concoction of tomato. I never did identify the strange spheres that floated therein but they have caused me no long term damage.
For starter I predictably ordered the Scottish West Coast Diver Scallops
Garlic and Almond Puree, Fresh Green Apple and Lime. V opted for Marinated Violet Artichokes Golden Cross Goat’s Cheese Fritters, Olive Sour Dough and Orange Dressing. (What the Artichokes were marianaded in was never confessed – I suspect is was something very rare and expensive that the restaurant was too modest to put on its menu.)
My three scallops were served on a plate that could have comfortable contained every scrap of food we ordered that evening, thus making the serving appear a little mean. Perhaps the diner’s paying full price get six scallops, or a least a smaller plate.
The scallops themselves were sensational, perfectly cooked, sweet and moist – I could have eated about a hundred of them, though after the first twenty I may have started scraping off the strips of apple piled on top. The Almond Puree proved a well balanced accompanyment if it did look like snot, however the acidity of the Apples along with the lime proved a little overpowering. Emilio suspected nothing as he cleared away my pristene plate.
V’s Violet Artichoke based slate had a lot going on and she later confessed she was disappointed to find no actual Violets included (V, it turns out is not the thistle expert I thought she was). Her major complaint was that the orange dressing didn’t seem to work with the dish as a whole. I could have collaborated on this opinion if I have been allowed to try any, but my fork, that I thought was gliding unseen towards the plate, was deftly rebuffed. I was permitted a corner of cheese fritter with a bit (a bit!) of Aritchoke. It was certainly very tasty but not up to the standard of my awesome scallops, a seniment that V never tired of hearing. The dish was served on a slate, twice the size of the ones containing the amuse-bouche - either that or Emilio had just glued the first two together.
A resounding triumph for both starters apart from all the meaningless, pretentious critism. For main we steadfastly stuck to a gender steriotypes, with V ordering the Seared Black Bass Fillet, and me, the New Season Devon Spring Lamb Nettle Risotto, Sweetbreads and Cured Vine Tomatoes.
My car crash of a plate was impactive to say the least, the various hunks of flesh and protruding bone with the deep red wine sauce reminding me of an episode of grays anatomy. I had been initailly a little wary at the prospect of nettle risotto but my fears were groundless as there was hardly any of it. What I did taste of it I confess I enjoyed and the lamb was tremendous, perfectly cooked, just as I like it, pink all the was through and still twitching in the middle. As I ate I mused to myself that one of the cuts of lamb was quite fatty, but I soldiered on regardless and eventually fooled Emilio again.
V’s Sea Bass was definatey Sea Bass. Perhaps the good lord intended for such a thing to be appricated by those with palets more refined than mine, but it didn’t really do anything for me. Yes it was well cooked, yes is was definitely dead, but taste-wise, it failed to produce the culniery boner that the lamb had. V didn’t say as much but I could tell she was thinking the same thing.
Emilio tried his best to entice us with desert by asking us if we wanted desert. I felt bad for the guy and asked to see the menu though we both knew it was an farce. An experienced server such as Emilio will have fathomed our game from the start; people who order tap water and eat all the complementary bread, aren’t going to waste money on a crème brule when theres an M&S Simply Food down the road.
The warm smug glow of getting our moneys worth dutifully arrived with the bill – 42.00. I’ve spent more in Nandos. Emilio got his just deserts as we rounded up to £50, and also the last laugh….M&S was closed.
