QUINTESSENTIALLY | Insider | Food & Drink

Glenfiddich’s malt master’s hands are shaking, a look of love and fear flits across his face. If we were in a cartoon a bead of sweat would be rapidly forming on his brow. The reason? He’s pouring out a dram of one of the rarest whiskies in the world – and every drop of this light amber nectar is precious.

The whisky itself is splendid, it really is the drink of the gods and it seems they knew they were dealing with something very special; the cask was filled on New Year’s Eve 1955. My first impression of this 55-year-old dram was surprise. Despite its age it is an incredibly pale gold, the result of using a plain butt; a cask that has been filled two or three times before being entrusted with this, it’s final duty.

This lightness continues through the tasting. A quick swirl sets its aromas free – beautiful floral notes mixed with slight citrus are the first to play on the nose swiftly followed by a slight sweetness and smokiness. With anticipation building to breaking point we take our first sip. The flavours dance jubilantly on the tongue. Was that a hint of vanilla nestling among the sweet oak and slight smokiness? The excited hubbub gives way to awed silence as we take in quite how privileged we are to have tasted this whisky.

This remarkable liquid is being released in a very small bottling; just eleven are to be sold, to celebrate the 110th birthday of Janet Sheed Roberts (one for each decade of her life), the oldest living person in Scotland and granddaughter of the company’s founder William Grant.

The celebration of Janet Robert’s life continues in the design of this run. The beautiful leather box the whisky comes in is based around her travelling trunk and the bottle decorated with aquamarine – her favourite colour.

Attention to detail is the watchword here with the individuality and rarity of each bottle emphasised. The bottles are hand blown, hand numbered and come with an individual artwork inspired by Janet Robert’s graduation gown; she was also the first woman to graduate from Edinburgh Law School; a miniature of the whisky and a booklet detailing Janet’s life are also present.

The bottles are to go to auction individually with the proceeds to be donated to a selection of charities. The first of the eleven bottles will be at Bonham’s whisky sale in Edinburgh on December 14th with proceeds going to Water Aid, a charity dedicated to providing safe water for the world’s poorest families.

Whisky of this kind has become a hot investment opportunity. With some bottles adding as much as £10,000 to their value in just a decade. The unfortunate result of this trend is, however, that much of this whisky will never be enjoyed. Instead it will sit as a part of a large collection or accumulating value, a fate which, to me, seems a great pity.

This whisky, expected to sell for upwards of £30,000 per bottle is a fitting way to pay tribute to the extraordinary life of Janet Sheed Roberts.

www.glenfiddich.com

Bonfire Night feels, to me at least, like the true beginning of winter. It is an evening for mulled wine, scarves and the smell of roasting chestnuts, a night to stave off the winter blues. The ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’ that follow the explosion of the latest firework are sounds which massage the psyche, preparing it for the long nights to come.

Gin is the perfect accompaniment to this relaxation. One of its essential infusions, juniper berries, have been recognised for their soothing, restorative powers for centuries. As far back as the 11th century Italian monks were using an early relative of gin for it’s curative powers. These restorative properties came to England in the 1600s when soldiers fighting in the Eighty Years War noted the calming qualities of the spirit, a discovery that gave rise to the phrase ‘Dutch Courage’.

It seems fitting then that they should come together to create a perfect way to start your winter, and more specifically your Bonfire Night, with a bang. The Forge in Camden, is hosting a gin-making workshop where guests can learn the art of creating the perfect bottle of gin while enjoying canapés chosen to best compliment their tipple.

Lessons will be courtesy of Ian Hart of Sacred Spirits Company, a micro-distillery based in North London’s Highgate. Having already won numerous plaudits and awards for their remarkable gin and vodka, you can be sure that you’re learning from the best.

Guests will be shown how to create the perfect blend of fruit and spices for your gin. New flavours will also be on the agenda as the innovative distillers show you how to blend unconventional flavours such as nutmeg and frankincense; perfect for creating a modern spin on traditional gin that will see you through into Christmas.

This promises to be a real treat for gin lovers across the capital, so make sure you don’t miss out.

5th November, 2011
4:30pm – 6:30pm
Tickets are GBP 25

www.forgevenue.org

Duke’s Hotel, in the heart of Mayfair, is one of London’s most discreet and celebrated hotels, and famous for the superb martinis served in the bar. Famously, Ian Fleming was a habitué of the place, and it’s rumoured that the famous line ‘shaken, not stirred’ was an allusion to the way in which the drinks were made. Everything about it radiates a sort of unfussed excellence, a strong juxtaposition against the more glitz-soaked establishments of nearby Park Lane – a place, dare I say, where the attitudes on display have that unassuming Parisian aesthetic we all try hard to imitate (sometimes).

One further reason to frequent Duke’s is the arrival of an extremely classy new restaurant, Thirty Six. As the subtitle ‘by Nigel Mendham’ suggests, it is now home to the titular Michelin-starred chef, who attracted much acclaim for his previous stint at The Samling in Windermere. Mendham’s interests are very much in the traditionally British vein, where dishes don’t go in for fancy frills for the sake of it, but instead focus on combining interesting and delicious ingredients in often unexpected and interesting ways.

Typical of Mendham’s techniques is a starter of quail which combines braised leg, terrine forestiere and – wittily – a miniature fried (quail’s) egg. It’s delicate, makes its point almost immediately and impresses in a subtle, unfussy fashion. Perfectly matched with a glass of 2010 Viognier Tabali, it’s a compelling start to a meal that prizes delicacy above flash. Excellent turbot is matched with rib of beef, horseradish and a native oyster, a combination of a lot of ideas that shouldn’t work by rights but, rather wonderfully, coheres beautifully. Even a more conventional dish, such as salt marsh lamb with sticky ribs, braised shank and caramelised shallot, shows that there’s a very simple formula to this: if you have a chef who knows what he’s doing, and using top-notch produce, the results will be excellent.

In fact, the closest that the menu gets to a real surprise comes towards the end, when a conventional cheese course (although available) is replaced by a golden cross clafoutis. Many people associate the clafoutis with something sweet and fruity, but this is definitely savoury, light and a definite change of pace from what people would expect. Much, in fact, like the rest of Thirty Six, a place that surely will become one of Mayfair’s most popular haunts before too long.

St James’ Place, SW1. www.dukeshotel.com

If the term ‘curry house’ summons up some sort of time warped establishment where the closest that the dish comes to a culinary highlight is chicken tikka – ‘but with a twist!’ – then the last decade or so’s influx of really high-end establishments in London has put this cliché to bed. But then calling establishments of the calibre of Tamarind, Quilon, the Cinnamon Club and Rasoi ‘curry houses’ is as wrong-headed a description as describing The Fat Duck as a former pub. They specialise in synthesising the various traditions and styles of sub-continental cooking with Western flair and pizzazz, offering menus that delight and challenge in equal measure.

One of the most notable examples of these new-style restaurants is Mayfair’s Benares. Situated in suitably grand premises on Berkeley Square, Atul Kochhar’s establishment has quietly racked up the plaudits over the years, including a Michelin star (one of the remarkably few Indian restaurants in the UK to have such an honour.) On a recent visit, it wasn’t at all hard to see why. Kicking off with a cocktail in the stylish wood-panelled bar, it’s quite clear that there’s a great deal of imagination going on here. A passion fruit chutney martini, something of a signature drink, combines vodka and passion fruit chutney to deliciously decadent and unusual effect.

It’s the food though that has attracted the plaudits. There are numerous different ways of enjoying it here – everything from bar dining menus and lunch platters (ideal for a quick in and out visit, though why on earth you wouldn’t want to stay here is beyond me) to the heartier options of a multi-course tasting menu, described here as a ‘grazing’ menu, or of course the a la carte. Whichever route you choose, you’re in for a culinary odyssey through many of the unique dishes. Mustard marinated chicken tikka and tandoori salmon trout are excellent starters, while some of the main dishes, such as the spice rubbed Romney Marsh lamb cannon (or the Maans Sukka, to give it its proper name) and the Hiran Boti (a roasted rack of deer) offer the perfect combination of fantastic English ingredients with Kochhar’s impeccable cooking. Desserts are easily worth leaving some room for – a chocolate fondant was particularly sublime.

While there have been a few establishments opening and closing in the past couple of years that have dropped well below the excellent standards that Benares represents, there can be little doubt that this is a truly superb place, and let’s hope that it continues to go from strength to strength.

12a Berkeley Square House, W1.

www.benaresrestaurant.com

Minster Lovell, in the heart of the Cotswolds, is the sort of place that people like to imagine represents England at its most idyllic. It’s a small village, mainly consisting of one picturesque street, which leads up to a ruined abbey. There are glorious walks roundabout through bucolic countryside, and there are quiet spots to sit in and contemplate the passing of the seasons. If you had to pick anywhere to represent a timeless English country location, here would be about as good a place to pick as any.

Another reason to visit is to stay at the main hotel in the village, The Old Swan and Minster Mill. It’s set around two distinct buildings, each with its own identity. The Old Swan, as the name suggests, is a cosily bijou inn, with the rooms above the downstairs pub striking a fine balance between luxury hotel comforts and more sedate charms. A typical room might have a ludicrously comfortable four poster bed, swish bathroom and little treats such as a miniature decanter of sloe gin. Minster Mill, by way of contrast, offers more modern rooms, but what some of them lose in old-fashioned cosiness they make up for with spectacular views over the grounds, which make for an excellent walk.

You’re almost certain to visit the Old Swan itself for dinner or lunch no matter where you’re staying, and it’s a delight to report that the food here is solidly authentic gastropub excellence. Starters of potted shrimp with aioli and Lyme bay scallops offer unflashy but delicious appetite-warmers, and main courses are of a conservative bent, such as fantastic sausages and mash and rack of Berkshire lamb. It’s also more than worth popping down for breakfast, which offers a solidly enjoyable range of all the victuals you’d expect from a traditional country inn. Those who are keen on the more relaxing things in life would be well advised to head to the Windrush Spa for a treatment; it’s also worth noting that 2012 is going to see several developments, including an entirely new spa complex and expanded dining room, both of which will enhance the experience even more.

The Old Swan and Mill, School Hill, Minster Lovell, OX29 0RN. www.oldswanandminstermill.com

Quintessentially travelled with First Great Western. For best fares and further details please see www.firstgreatwestern.co.uk

The excellent Cubitt House group, who are responsible for such high-end destinations as The Orange and The Thomas Cubitt, have just opened a new restaurant, The Grazing Goat. It occupies that strange area between Marylebone and Baker Street where it’s often tricky to find a really decent restaurant, rather than just somewhere that will take your money and provide mediocrity. At last, there’s somewhere that breaks this tradition and is really, really good. As with The Orange, it’s something of an inn with rooms, which are decorated and presented in impeccably good taste in the country house hotel style.

The ground floor is a high-end neighbourhood pub, with an excellent range of all things alcoholic behind the bar. The first floor offers a stylishly decorated restaurant (antlers on the walls) which has a sense of it being a log cabin, but without any of the chintz or kitsch this might imply. The staff are lovely – extremely friendly and welcoming, meaning that a visit here is an absolute pleasure.

The food is delicious from start to finish. Our starters of chicken liver parfait and rich, juicy scallops with pea puree and smoked bacon were more adventurous than our main course, which was a mighty rolled rib of 28 day aged Aberdeen Angus beef, but the cooking is excellent and the food is presented superbly. A succulent 2009 Pulenta Estate Malbec was a fitting accompaniment. Desserts of dark chocolate mousse cake and an unbelievably moreish carrot cake are a pleasant way to finish an excellent repast, and a few well-chosen sweet wines, such as a 2007 Sauternes, are all very fine.

This superb place has already established itself as one of the leading restaurants in the area, and there will be little doubt that it will be a huge success, especially as word of mouth is likely to continue being exceptionally strong.

6 New Quebec Street, W1. www.thegrazinggoat.co.uk

The first in Anthony Demetre and Will Smith’s acclaimed group of restaurants (the others include Wild Honey and Les Deux Salons), Arbutus initially opened in 2006 and soon attracted a great deal of acclaim for its mixture of simplicity and sophistication. Offering dishes that nodded to the neo-British techniques of Fergus Henderson’s nose to tail eating without potentially alienating the Soho audience it acquired, it won its first Michelin star in 2007 and has been steadily full and popular ever since.

However, Demetre and Smith (no, not that one. Nor the other one) are not two men who would rest on their laurels, and so this year has seen a small but effective refurbishment. The furniture is new, as is some of the contemporary art, creating a hip, creative atmosphere that one imagines would have attracted Soho types of yore, just as much as it lures the well-dressed and well fed today. The bar, always a focal point, is an excellent option for solo diners in search of a quick meal, and offers a welcome source of seating when the restaurant is invariably full.

The food has retained its extremely high standards. A famous starter is the squid and mackerel ‘burger’, though I opted for the apparently even more extreme slow cooked crispy pig’s head. This was a delight, oozing meaty and rich flavours, and helped immensely by a salad liberally doused in a tangy mustard mayonnaise. Some of the main courses might seem offputting – lamb’s tripe parcels and trotters – but they all by all accounts some of the most delectable stuff on the menu. I decided to go with the rather more conservative option of roast rabbit, which came with its own cottage pie, made up of shoulder. Portions, perhaps unusually for a Michelin-starred establishment, are hearty and substantial. Desserts stick with the English theme; a treacle tart was a thing of beauty and joy.

Special mention must go to the wine list, which not only offers a fine selection of bottles at reasonable prices (the vast majority fits snugly under the £50 mark), but also has the entire cellar available to be served by the 250ml carafe. In terms of particular recommendations, the 2010 Picpoul de Penet is both inexpensive and excellent, and a meaty red dish thrives on a hearty glass of the 2005 Rioja Reserva from Lealtanza. But someone will know what to recommend, and this certainly isn’t a place to be shy about asking for advice from the oh-so-helpful staff.

Arbutus, then, is only newsworthy in that it’s managed to emerge from a makeover with its credentials and kudos firmly intact, without trying to do anything clever-clever or pretentious. And frankly, that’s a blessing when the operation is this effective.

63-64 Frith Street, W1. www.arbutusrestaurant.co.uk

One of the most beloved places from the popular Cubitt House group, The Orange occupies that curious area between Victoria and Chelsea where it’s hard to get a decent and unpretentious meal at a reasonable cost. Thankfully this high-class establishment offers well-heeled locals and casual visitors alike somewhere of a decent standard to quench their thirst and sate their hunger. This might describe itself, perhaps knowingly modestly, as ‘a public house and hotel’, but rest assured the usual images of dank, depressing rooms and frowsy bar that this summons up couldn’t be further from the truth.

The ground floor offers a busy, boisterous neighbourhood pub, with a good wine list and a range of beers and ciders on draft. The first floor offers a stylishly decorated restaurant which manages to be both approachable and in keeping with the salubrious area that it’s situated in.

The food is superb, offering a Mediterranean twist but not labouring too slavishly under that particular yoke . Our starters of aubergine and tomato terrine with soft, creamy mozzarella and oysters were both excellent, the terrine in particular seeming to follow in the footsteps of Elizabeth David to winning effect. As it was Sunday, we eschewed the tempting-looking pizzas and pies in favour of roast beef and pork, which came served up as enormous slabs of delectable meat with all the trimmings that you could imagine. Washed down with a decent bottle of Chianti, these superbly cooked monsters were as filling and satisfying as any to be had in London today.

Thankfully dessert, so often a disappointment, lived up to expectations. A chocolate and cherry roulade managed to wittily subvert the usual expectations of a black forest gateau, and a baked cheesecake proved altogether lighter and tastier than others of its wont. The staff were superb throughout, even when I had to entertain myself in my guest’s temporary absence – the weather outside might have been atrocious, but the warmth of the welcome inside more than made up for it. We’re looking forward to our next visit to this lovely place extremely soon.

37 Pimlico Road, London SW1. www.theorange.co.uk

Interlude

The defining motto of this journey, I decided, would be ‘Eat well, Sleep Well, Drink Rum.’ It didn’t have to be rum, of course, but it sounded good, and that’s all I was really searching for in a defining motto.

I got off to a bad start. On arrival in Mali’s very 70’s airport café/boat lounge – at that moment but a hazy apparition of very happy folk bedecked with confusing sartorial embellishments – I realised that my own luggage, which itself held a collection of hats and a tiny guitar, was still at Columbo’s International Airport.

Coming out of a trance, I now saw myself quite clearly in the café mirror. The outfit I was wearing was not fit for five days in Paradise, hobnobbing with what seemed like high society at two very five star hotels.

I ordered a glass of cheap red wine. Ill fortune is best offset with a sickly glass of wine, together with the faintly optimistic odour of suncream, daiquiri cocktails and the ‘ Pirates’ theme tune ringing in your ears. I soon wore an outlandish smile, quite at odds with my vampire-pale complexion and a hat I bought off a strange gentleman selling roses.

‘They’ll bring it on the next flight, probably tomorrow morning. And besides, I don’t really need to quaff my hair. Or shave. And I really only need one hat.’ I said to anyone that would listen, before jumping aboard a cruise missile-type speedboat for Sheraton Maldives Full Moon Resort & Spa.

Now, this is a ride, a real, memorable one that you need to take the kids on. Even the steam fair of my youth that got closed down for insufficient safety measures didn’t have a ride like this one. Every five seconds I flew a few feet in the air, got a plume of spray in my face, a leg in the back and a jolly hand on the shoulder by one of a giggling trio of Chinese businessman (they also wore hats). ‘We like Maldives’ they screamed, and I wiped my Lemtosh shades with a euphoric, nauseous feeling that made me smile even wider.

‘Your hat. Where did you get it?’ The captain lisped in perfect English. He looked like a cross between a young Keith Richards and Mohamed Nasheed – the Maldivian president.

‘I found it in my attic. It’s vintage.’ I lied, too tired to explain. ‘Probably my grandfathers.’

‘Your grandfather?’

‘Yes. He liked hats.’

He eyed my clothes carefully. ‘Your suitcase will come soon. Don’t worry.’

Sheraton Maldives Full Moon Resort & Spa

The boat slowed and a sea of shining faces greeted us from Sheraton’s Furanafushi Island, just one gem in a trove of 1200 islands that, together with their surrounding lagoons, impress the mind and soul of man with the most sublime juxtaposition of form and colour this side of eternity. Slither of bright white moon and dark tropical plant against water the colour of pure green Versace dress, the water turning from amethyst to emerald to sublime tints of jade and sapphire.

I leant over as Captain Jack hit the brakes and I jumped off, scooped up a little, and got overly emotional as they fixed me a welcome cocktail that had rum in it. They then told me how much they liked my hat, and made me believe that my person, in the superficial sense, at least, was quite welcome at the resort.

This is where I met Milja, a sprightly, intelligent Scandinavian girl with a persuasive accent that reverberated in a joyful major key, picked up, it turned out, after circumnavigating the seven seas in her own good time. My five senses battling with each other to distill these vital first impressions for my audience back home, I only picked up threads of the conversation I was supposed to be having. ‘Yes, we have the best of both worlds here…The scuba diving is great…some of the best marine wildlife…dolphins? Yes, there is a cruise tomorrow afternoon…go to the Spa later for an hour long massage if…yes, amazing…no, I don’t recommend it. The surf is for advanced boarders…now promise, you’ll sleep then meet me at the Coconut Grove for lunch…’

She was very sweet, and informative, and steady like all Scandinavian’s are, and helped me into a green buggy with a couple of Latin American footballers. ‘You from England, man?’ Someone said behind me. ‘Yes. I know, I should have taken my boots off.’ I replied nonsensically, before Milja said ‘Take him to Ocean Villa. It’s the best on the island.’ She winked at me cryptically, then added; ‘Believe me. It’s to die for.’

Now, all I saw at first was a hammock. I slipped off my tattered boots, my wine-stained Savile row trousers and quickly fell into a coma as the water crashed against the rocks just inches away. I heard music playing in gasps of warm salty air – Beethoven and Wagner and then laughing from a fishing schooner on the surf. My eyes opened. I grinned, like a pirate, stretched my arm out, lifted a warm bottle of something expensive I had taken from the mini bar earlier. ‘Bring me that horizon’ I said, popping it open with a burst of laughter.

Inside, with Beethoven for company, I wondered at myself in the mirror before slipping into a bath of warm oils and creams and lotions. Basically, I threw the whole lot in, as is my wont, and gave the interior design five stars after a strong thirty minute inner dialogue that brought every detail into focus – the LA style lighting fixtures, the shabby-chic sofas and rattan armchairs, the play of white, green and tan furnished mahogany panelling and a bathroom probably designed for a beautiful mermaid that lives here in off-season. You feel important in that bathroom, drinking cold beer and reading some inane biography that makes you want to take up oil painting again.

That’s when I jumped into the swell. Now, I had been warned. I knew the risks. But I had gotten hold of the scuba gear, and instead of heading out over the quiet water like most, I decided that there was better fishing up on the rougher East Side of the island. I had a couple girls take pictures of me as I waded out to look for Stingray, Sweetlips, Snappers and Bat Fish. ‘I might even see a shark’ I told them, but they didn’t understand what I was saying and just looked horrified as I dove into a five foot wave. After an hour of thrashing around aimlessly, narrowly missing the schooner, I came up for air, my snorkelling crown stuffed up my nose. I went back in, counted 20 species of day-glo oddities, then threw myself onto dry land, chilled with wonder at the mystery of the ocean. A girl was bathing outside her water bungalow (these are for the true Romantics – with a private sun terrace right up on the lagoon), pouting at the sun with just a hat dipped low over two raven-black eyes, smouldering quietly as they do in a Peroni commercial. She rolled over and shook her finger, and I just stood there, staring, trying to remember what I had just been so excited about.

The next day, at exactly 6pm, after a delightful al fresco lunch of grilled prawn, haloumi and watermelon salad on the beach, the sun was a tiny red disc in a smoky blue sky. I stood on the upper deck of a small tender and hummed along to Keith Richards haunting rendition of ‘The Nearness of You’.

We were headed due South, looking for dolphins. The Jolly Roger wasn’t flying that day, and the Captain stood up front, staring with dreamy eyes towards the horizon, his eyes blinking quietly, waiting for his sweethearts to arrive. ‘They may not come.’ He whispered dramatically. The loved-up Chinese and Dutch on the boat around me let out a faint cry. ‘But I’ll try and find them. For you, just for you, I’ll bring them in.’

As if hearkening to that aloof gaze, or to the melancholic breath that escaped my now crooked smile, a moment later the angels flew before us, carving silver rainbows above the prow. I took off my fedora by way of salute. I had even grown a small goatee, and my pendant swung back and forth across my coppered chest in the 2ft sway. ‘Marvellous, intelligent creatures’ said I, and a girl with ringlets and little Chinese shoes tugged my arm and smiled at me for a moment.

The same night I told Milja as much. We sat down to dine at Seasalt Restaurant– a pantheon of torches and enchanted tropical faces inside a circular wall of coconut trees. They were playing Chopin’s Etude, and the chef was there, decrypting the laws of gastrodynamics. He had a fragrant smirk on his face, one, I imagined, that might only come with creating edible art for folks that really, truly, sincerely appreciate it. He liked me, I could tell, and so spent more than enough time pointing out the necessity of each dish on the a la carte and the flavours that go to make it so unique on the islands. The fish was fresh from the boat and the giant lobster and other delicacies had people murmuring the poetry of love, their hearts softening in that diffused glow, their life stretching out so long and beautiful beyond the tropical flowers, red and yellow and white, beyond the still warm sand and the cool lilac sheen where the moon had found its perfect reflection.

I commended the food heartily, spearing the fish with gusto ‘Milja, I don’t quite know what to say.’ My eyes were full of emotion, and so were hers. ‘I have never tasted such fish, so soft and tender and with that after-taste our friend was talking about.’

‘The caramelized hazelnuts are good aren’t they?’

‘Yes. Each dish is full of sympathetic flavour and texture. Nothing goes missing – the prawns are just rapturous’

‘How is the wine.’

‘Obsessively brilliant – and not too heavy with the sauce. And have you tried this cake! – I think I may just have to give the chef my compliments – by which I mean one from my collection of hats. A strange gentleman I met gave it to me – but on deep reflection, I think it would suit him far more.’

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Let me start with a sweeping statement: an evening that begins with noisy lovers will end well.

That is, when Noisy Lovers is a cocktail concoction of vodka, cointreau, raspberry and lime, sipped in good company at Blakes Hotel, South Kensington. You’ll leave satiated and giggly, nipping round the corner to catch your bus to bed.

The cocktail list has us oohing and aahing, but it is the food that is the real firework display at this calm basement restaurant. Dark and oriental in decor and feel, stepping downstairs in W8 lifts the weight of the world. It is cool out of the solstice sunshine and delicately scented, instantly draining the stresses of another day in the smoke.

Having procrastinated at our desks over the menu, we’ve made the kind of pre-decision food decisions that would let us order without even glancing at the menu. We’ve discussed the merits of salmon sashimi vs. carpaccio of beef vs. diver scallops, but we look at the card, all the same – to avoid giving the waitress the creeps, if nothing less.

We rattle off orders – the diver scallops with ginger and basil made the cut, along with a warm chicken salad with avocado, pomelo, cashews and nam jim sauce – until we’re surprised to see a raised eyebrow and look of pure doubt on the face of our waitress. It’s the Soufflé Suissesse. ‘It’s pretty big,’ she warns, and it seems there is some discrepancy between eyes and stomachs. We agree to share, and the panic disperses as quickly as it had arrived.

When the soufflé comes into land we take a moment to scrape our jaws from the floor, such is the monstrosity of the thing. If you’re in need of a talking point – or a conversation stopper for that matter – this is all you require. Made with seven eggs, the soufflé is the size of a sandcastle, transformed into an awakening volcano with the oozing of gruyère sauce, its cheesy lava. With an extra dose of sauce in the centre, the volcano erupts and the party really starts.

The soufflé is light and fluffy, yet possibly the most richly cheesy dish I’ve ever come across. Quite frankly, it is extraordinary. The chicken salad is the perfect accompaniment for a little light relief, and the pomelo like it’s fresh from a market stall in Vietnam, while the scallops are delightfully tender and delicately flavoured, dwarfed by the soufflé yet packed with flavour.

So the soufflé has set the precedent, and the man calling the shots in the kitchen has got it sorted. We move on to black cod with miso and ginger sauce, beef fillet teriyaki with hot sake and crispy ginger chicken, with garlic and ginger sauce, with forks flying between plates to snatch a taste of each. The beef is plain delicious, the cod soft and fresh and the chicken the right side of spicy, with the combination descending into a tour of Asian cuisine. Accompanied by baby broad beans and coriander rice – a triumph in itself – the clash of cutlery on empty plates soon fills the air.

Having made it this far, and having heard recommendations from previous diners, dessert is all but irresistible, especially given the caramel soufflé heading up the list. We all know what is coming next: another sand castle, another volcano, and even more fireworks. Though we think we know what to expect, the caramel edition enters a whole new realm. A caramelised crust, chewy with slightly burned sugar and inside the sweetest treat you can imagine and jug full of butterscotch sauce, just in case it isn’t caramel-y enough.

The chocolate fondant with pistachio ice cream and green tea ice cream we’ve also ordered are scrumptious in their own right, though they fall by the wayside for a few minutes as that tense situation where four people attempt at politely getting their fair share of one pudding takes over.

While we’re smiling sweetly and taking ladylike spoonfuls, really each of us is plotting on legging it with the lot and locking ourselves in a cupboard until there is none left.

Well that’s what I was thinking anyway.

Blakes Hotel, 33 Roland Gardens, SW7 3PF

www.blakeshotels.com