An old, wrinkly man sat at the piano, and his wrinkles sat there with him. Happy notes were springing off the keys and hopped all over the place, gentle and soft. The lights were suddenly dimmed, to remind me of how much I currently lack any romantic interest in my life. Except cats.
It was high time for some decadence in my life – and what other better person to drag me to perdition than Kai?
The Gilbert Scott certainly has grandeur – mostly thanks to its positioning within the Renaissance Hotel near St Pancras (they even have an automatic piano. Or a hired poltergeist, the jury is still out on that). In rather sharp contrast to the Asian restaurants I typically frequent, the place had a lot of space and few diners, except the occasional stuffy looking banker.
Marcus Wareing’s (chef at the restaurant with the same name in the Berkeley) take on the British brasserie didn’t disappoint.
Sunday Roast Menu (27 pounds) let’s you pick from a few dishes from starters and desserts that are marked from an asterix, choosing for the main between fish, chicken or pork belly (guess what I went for?). The starters (the mackerel pate and the omelette) were rather average, so average I have managed to loose any recollection of how they tasted.
The mains were a great improvement. The pork belly was sublime – crunchy skin, cooked to perfection and seasoned well, they were melting in your mouth like a deadly sin. The mouth wanted more and more, gulping down the crisp potatoes that were very well made as well, crusty exterior and golden.
The dessert was a very nice surprise, Mrs Beeton’s Snow egg reminded me very much of my mom’s “Chicken Milk” dessert, the white egg hiding marmalade inside which complemented the sweetness very well.
Grade: Sainthood
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