Hedonism Wines

Tomorrow a temple of fine wine opens in London. The Russian-owned Hedonism Wines in Mayfair boasts various vintages of all of the five first growths, along with Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, Super Tuscans Sassicaia and Ornellaia, Screaming Eagle, Pétrus, Le Pin and many other of the finest wines available to humanity.

Run by Alistair Viner, Harrods' ex head wine buyer, the most expensive single bottle on sale is Château d'Yquem 1811 at an eye-watering £100,000.  I was lucky enough to be invited to the press launch on Monday night. Descending into the cavernous basement, on catching sight of the giant large format bottles on display, from Domaine de Chevalier Blanc 2000 to Château Pichon Baron Longueville 2005, I felt like Alice in Wonderland after she'd imbibed the 'Drink Me' shrinking potion. Hedonism is more Ferrari showroom than fine wine mecca.   

Turning a corner, I stumble across a Surrealist cave filled with sinister hands, from Mickey Mouse gloves to lobster claws gripping the bottles in a scene straight out of a Salvador Dalí and André Breton film, with a little Labyrinth and David Lynch thrown in for good measure. Taking another turn into the unknown, I enter what looks like a forest filled with wine bottles taken captive in the corkscrew-like twisted branches.

Stopping to drink in the curious mise-en-scène, I hear a squeak and watch one of the bottles move of its own accord. It's all very Lord of the Rings – I half expect Frodo Baggins to come bounding in barefoot. Though most of the liquid treasures remain unaffordable to mere mortals, Hedonism is worth a visit for the experience alone. With so many iconic bottles on show – their lusted after labels naked and exposed – it's a wine lover's delight. Go forth and drool...

Usain Bolt treated to £80k Champagne at Movida

Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt celebrated his triple Olympic gold medal win in style at the weekend when he was treated to an £80,000 bottle of Champagne on Saturday night after breaking the world record for the 4x100-metre relay. As reported on db.com, a 15l Nebuchadnezzar of Armand de Brignac Champagne, known as Ace of Spades, was brought to Bolt’s table at Movida nightclub in Mayfair.

The bottle, the equivalent of 20 75cl bottles, has a retail price of £80,000. “Usain Bolt was given a Nebuchadnezzar of Armand de Brignac Brut Gold NV,” said Movida spokeswoman Martina Pokorna. The Champagne house only produces one bigger size bottle – the 30-litre, 40-bottle Midas, which has to be ordered in advance at clubs.

Bolt, who scooped three gold medals at the London Olympics, was joined in the VIP area of the club by Jamaican sprinting teammate Yohan Blake, who Bolt affectionately calls “The Beast.” The pair partied with boxer Amir Khan, double Olympic gold medallist Mo Farah and swimmer Rebecca Adlington, who picked up a bronze medal in London.

Across town at Chinawhite in Piccadilly, gold medalists have been treated to a cocktail priced at the Olympic sum of £2,012. American swimmer Ryan Lochte and South African swimmer Chad le Clos are among the recipients of the cocktail, which contains Hennessy Paradis Imperial Cognac and Luxor 24-carat gold leaf Champagne. Lying at the bottom of the glass is a pair of 18-carat gold rings.

“The golden cocktail is our special creation, and we have given some away. Every night we have a presentation for the gold medalists, and it has been very well received,” said Chinawhite director James Spallone. On arrival at the club, gold medalists are handed a 75cl gold bottle of Moët & Chandon Brut Imperial. 

Hibiscus

Claude Bosi, the ambitious and exuberant chef-patron of two Michelin-starred restaurant Hibiscus in Mayfair, has a soft spot for ornamental chickens. So much so, he has a collection of the creatures lining the staircase at the restaurant, whose beady eyes watch you as you venture down to the loo.

Having upped sticks from its original home in Ludlow in 2007, husband and now ex-wife team Claude and Claire run a slick ship at Hibiscus. The restaurant is so understated, I walked straight past it. A polished desk on entry coupled with a partition screen give the impression you’re about to check in to a BA Club lounge. Inside, the interiors have been over-generously garnished with wood. Tones are hushed, lighting bright and flowers orange. On arrival, the restaurant is empty save for one or two tables, to give head chef Marcus McGuinness time to execute Bosi’s intricate dishes while he works his magic at new London pop-up The Cube atop the Royal Festival Hall.

Proceedings are kicked off in style when a pair of goody bowls arrive, one containing pudgy cheese gougères and the other ping pong ball-shaped yuzu and miso croquettes, both of which prove so addictive I’m suspicious they might contain crack cocaine. The croquettes explode with aromatic citrus liquid on biting, while the gougères ooze warm, creamy cheddar down my thankful throat. Chomping enthusiastically into a second, my skirt is christened with liquid cheese. Moments later, a concerned waiter arrives and silently offers me a starched white napkin from between two forks before swiftly departing so as not to draw attention to the incident.

Mackerel tartare with button mushroom cream

Obsessed with seasonality, Hibiscus doesn’t limit itself to the confines of a menu, but rather offers a page of seasonal ingredients, asking diners to choose the number of dishes they’d like (three, six or eight), and which ingredients they would like to see featured. I opt for eight courses and ask to be surprised. In a sweet and fitting tribute to the restaurant’s namesake, the feast begins with a vivifying hibiscus flower and pineapple soda amuse bouche, which I’m told to down like a shot.

Perhaps peaking prematurely, the first course is the apogee of the meal. Served in a small black bowl, a layer of foie gras-coloured button mushroom cream is prettified with edible flowers amid shards of shaved almond sticking out of the top like shark teeth. Beneath the teeth lies a smoky, meaty, mackerel tartare. When eaten together, the result is a rich, creamy and perfumed mouthful given texture by the almond shards in an exquisite example of the culinary pyrotechnics Bosi prides himself on.

Kaffir lime and spring onion ravioli

The next course is equally intriguing: a single, pleated ravioli stuffed with spring onion and Kaffir lime served with a buttery, broad bean and mint purée. The audacious use of lime highlights Bosi’s fearless approach. Out to surprise and delight, he takes flavour pairings to the edge of what is acceptable, assaulting and seducing the palate in one bite. Diners of a meek disposition may not warm to his gung-ho style, but, as each course reveals itself, I revel in the life-affirming flavour skirmish.

A pearl white hunk of roast Cornish John Dory was disappointingly mild on its own, but came to life when paired with the accompanying girolles drizzled in Lancashire mead and a salty sliver of Morteau sausage, the mead adding unctuous sweetness, the girolles earthiness and the sausage a savoury, meaty kick. Next up is a solitary, oak-smoked lamb sweetbread served with fresh goat’s cheese masquerading as a boiled egg, the yolk a pool of grass-green sorrel oil. Rich, juicy and oily, it tasted like a gourmet chicken nugget.

Roast squab pigeon with pistachios and cherries

Mention must be made of the wines. Chosen by natural wine pioneer Isabelle Legeron MW and enthusiastically poured by 22-year-old head sommelier Bastien Ferreri, the majority of the bins on the weighty list are organic and biodynamic, so what ends up in the glass is a bit of a lottery. While the opening wine, a 2009 Marsanne/Rousanne/Chardonnay/Viognier mash up from the Languedoc is cloudy in colour and spiteful in character, a 2007 Vermentino/Chenin Blanc blend from the Languedoc chosen to pair with the ravioli is bright, aromatic and elegantly spiced.

The only wine list in London to carry a page dedicated to orange wines, my wine find of the night was the curious and delicious Savasol 2007 from Loire renegade Julien Courtois. Made from the little-known Menu Pineau grape, Courtois deliberately oxidizes the wine to imbue it with wonderful, Sherry-like aromas of hazelnuts, toffee and sea air. Excited to be presented with a gleaming chunk of lobster, it turns out to be the least remarkable dish of the night. Much more impressive is an almost indecently pink slice of roast squab pigeon served with pistachio gravel. Sweetened by the accompanying cherries, the meat is achingly tender and exoticised by hints of spice. Finishing the dish, a crispy samosa contains creamy foie gras and an array of the bird’s innards.

White asparagus and white chocolate cream

The exhilarating flavour journey ends on a high note with a mystery dessert, the ingredients of which I’m asked to identify. Fashioned into a squidgy macaroon, I correctly guess the key components: white asparagus and white chocolate cream, and also manage to pinpoint the black olive splodges and coconut sorbet, but fail to decipher the elusive whey gel. The rich, savoury concoction seems straight out of the Great British Menu – a dish Matthew Fort would rave about and Oliver Peyton would peer down his glasses disapprovingly at. It was weird, but it worked. That’s the beauty of Bosi – he sends you on a crazy culinary adventure with no seatbelt or indication of the final destination, and the ride is all the better for it.

Hibiscus, 29 Maddox Street, London, W1S 2PA; Tel: +44 (0)20 7629 2999.

Novikov

I’m standing in a snaking queue populated by gazelle-like glamazons in six-inch Louboutins and slinky Issa dresses. Peering behind me, I spot former England football coach Sven-Göran Eriksson in a charcoal grey suit. He notices that I’ve clocked who he is and seems pleased at the recognition, beaming back at me with a toothy grin. We are in the coat queue at Novikov, the newly opened pan-Asian/Italian restaurant of friend of Putin, Arkady Novikov – Russia’s answer to Sir Terence Conran. Opening his first venture in Moscow in 1992, Novikov has steadily built up his restaurant empire, and now has over 50 sites in the city – including the GQ Bar and Vogue Café – under his diamond encrusted belt. Branching out of Moscow, the mogul has chosen to open his first outpost outside Russia in Mayfair.

Audaciously placed opposite paparazzi favourite Nobu on Berkeley Street, the 400-seater is the size of a small country. Manned by a burly black-clad bouncer, the revolving doors reveal a dimly lit bar prettified by the aforementioned glamazons. For Novikov is where the beautiful come to feed. All are tall, tanned, buffed and botoxed. Everyone looks vaguely famous. They probably are. Split into two restaurants, skip the more vanilla Italian and head East to the pan-Asian side, filled with more wood than a lumberjack’s holiday home. Everything that doesn’t move is wooden, from the ceiling and the floor to the tables and chairs, even the vases, home to snowstorms of white orchids, are wooden. I fear if I stay still for too long, I too will be turned to wood. A honeycomb pattern carved into the black wall panel reminds me of Doris Salcedo’s Shibboleth, affectionately known as “Doris’s crack” – the lightning bolt-like fissure that once spanned the length of the Tate Modern’s Turbine hall.

The glass-fronted kitchen is filled with nimble-fingered chefs frantically fulfilling orders. Giant king crab legs poke provocatively out of ice, as if engaged in a synchronised swimming routine. Despite its sprawling size, tables in the Asian side are so tightly packed, I’m privy to my neighbours’ Russian ramblings. From the open kitchen to the trendy lounge music, Novikov has cleverly been carved from the same mould as London’s chicest pan-Asian offerings: Hakkasan, Nobu, Zuma and Roka, like the stepbrother they never wanted. I’d turned up expecting Novikov to be a lesson in style over substance, but was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the food. Split into snacks & soups, dim sum, salads, sushi, charcoal grilled, wok dishes and rice & noodles, having perused the menu online, on asking for our order, I unscroll a sheet of paper besmirched with pink highlighter and proceed to reel off the dishes I desire, waiting for the waitress to flinch. To her credit, even after dish twelve, she kept her cool, diligently scribbling as I rattled them off quick as gunfire.

Round one consisted of an army of colourful California rolls wearing what looked like clown wigs of burnt orange flying fish caviar. Filled with fresh crab meat and just sliced avocado, we were off to a flying start. To follow came an artfully presented plate of new style salmon sashimi in a yuzu soy dressing. Cut into triangles, the translucent slithers of silky salmon were crack to the tastebuds, achingly fresh and lifted by the lemon tang of the yuzu. One of many culinary highlights was the crispy duck salad in an umami-rich Peking dressing. Flecked with jewel-like pomegranate seeds, the still warm duck was perfectly pink and pleasingly crisp, tamed by the yuzu-drizzled leaves into a refreshing, juicy, deliriously good dish worth returning for alone.

Out of the frying pan came golden brown nuggets of rock shrimp with chilli lemon mayo, neatly packed into a china bowl like deep fried popcorn, their light and crispy batter enhanced by a satisfying kick of heat from the dip. One of the only duff notes of the entire meal was the tuna tartare. Molded into a candyfloss pink mound, in a hat tip to Russia, the crest was decorated with a spoonful of Royal Beluski caviar fashioned into a blackberry. The dish had a disconcertingly smooth texture more akin to wallpaper paste than the shard-like fragments you expect from a good tartare. Amplifying the horror was an entire absence of flavour. Equally bewildered, my dining companion stopped shuddering when served a trio of pork su mai dim sum finished with tiny pocket squares of black truffle. Appearing like cupcakes in pleated cases, the meaty morsels packed a serious flavour punch, the juicy interiors complemented by the earthy truffle.

In terms of liquid pleasure, the wine list has a heavy Italian bent, with many bottles borrowed from the sister restaurant’s stock. Happily, our ebullient sommelier went off piste, offering us a bottle of Domaine Schlumberger Les Prices Abbés Riesling 2007 from Alsace, its mouthwatering, off-dry, lemon sherbet and sour apple character refreshed by searing acidity, which, in turn, assuaged the spice in the food. Lingering over the wine, we moved to the main event – the litmus test of any pan-Asian restaurant: black cod. Novikov’s arrived enshrouded in a crisp brown leaf that had to be theatrically unwrapped, revealing an enticing slice of fish gleaming with glaze. Falling off the fork, the ice white slithers were enchantingly sweet. You can’t cut corners with black cod – it needs to lounge in a miso marinade for 24 hours before being cooked, further proof of the substance behind Novikov’s style.

Desserts are an event – I opted for the chocolate orange praline, recalling the interior of a Jaffa Cake, served with a tennis ball-sized scoop of palate cleansing blood orange sorbet. With courses hovering around the £17 mark, reaching a peak at £55 for the 150g seared wagyu sirloin, feasting like an oligarch at Novikov doesn’t come cheap, but the rewards are plentiful. The food is well considered, artfully presented and nearly always expertly executed. Nobu should be worried – the (sushi) knives are out.

Novikov, 50 Berkeley Street, London, W1J 8HA; +44 (0)20 7399 4330

Laurent-Perrier dinner at The Greenhouse

Forgive me, dear reader, for being too late off the mark to inform you of the glittering offer Michelin-starred Mayfair restaurant The Greenhouse and Champagne house Laurent-Perrier devised for the festive season. The best I can do is recount the experience and hope they have a repeat performance in 2012. In December, The Greenhouse ran a bespoke five-course menu, with each dish matched by its flavour profile to a different Laurent-Perrier Champagne.

Invited to try the menu for size, I seized the opportunity, stumbling upon the restaurant's Zen-like wooden decking festooned with climbing plants almost by chance. Navigating its verdant path, I felt instantly transported from the stresses of city life. And once within its warm clutches, glass of Laurent-Perrier Ultra Brut in hand, any worries I may have been harbouring dissolved with the first sip. Launched in 1889 – the year the Eiffel Tower was completed, the super dry Champagne has become a favourite with super models due to its zero sugar count. Guided into the round, glass-fronted, private dining room filled with a sprinkling of bright-eyed fellow food and wine bloggers, we were welcomed by L-P UK's managing director David Hesketh MW, who regaled us with a brief history of the house.

Like the famed widow Clicquot, Veuve Laurent-Perrier ran the Champagne house for many years, with the Veuve only being dropped from the Laurent-Perrier name in the '60s. Marie-Louise Lanson de Nonancourt bought the house on the eve of the World War II in 1939, and continued to produce still wine during the war years, but production had dropped dramatically from 600,000 bottles to just 12,000 before the war. Mid story, we were invited to try an amuse bouche of warm hens egg with cobb nuts, which surprised and delighted in equal measure. Deconstructed into a creamy foam with the yolk at the bottom, the crunchy cobb nuts brought texture, and the foam richness. With this playful dish, head chef Antonin Bonnet was firmly flexing his culinary muscles, whetting our appetites for the courses that followed.

Continuing with the tightly-woven Ultra Brut, we were presented with an exquisite, ethereal plate of apple cider marinated mackerel with a dusting of powdery horseradish snow and pickled radish, which rested on the fish like a dislodged cornea. The potent flavour of fish was assuaged by bites of the cold snow and crunchy radish, culminating in an elegant whole. Mackerel devoured, we moved swiftly on to a glass of the acclaimed 2002 vintage, Champagne's best in decades. A lovely expression of the vintage, it showed toasty notes of biscuit, butter and brioche, with a smooth and rounded palate. To match, was a plump slice of swan white Atlantic cod served with leek fondu and smoked potato in a Champagne and yuzu sauce, which, though expertly cooked, failed to enchant like the previous dish.

Adding to the theatre of the evening, our next Champagne, Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle – named after the reign of the "Sun King" Louis XIV, was ceremoniously poured from a gleaming silver aiguière cradle. Housed in a jet-black bottle in L-P's signature 17th century shape, the house's prestige cuvée is a 50:50 Chardonnay/Pinot Noir blend of multiple vintages – on this occasion '96, '97 and '99. More like a still wine than a sparkler, it displayed aromas of honey, hazelnuts and almonds, its character complex, refined and multi-layered. Harmonizing with rather than overpowering the wine was a serving of meaty Scottish lobster, its spine seemingly brushed with red paint. Swimming in the creamy lobster bisque were delicious discs of earthy cep ravioli and a solitary chicken oyster.

We then moved to the sweet end of the flavour spectrum with a zingy pre-dessert of pineapple sorbet and coconut foam, which recalled a Piña Colada cocktail in food form. Making for possibly the most harmonious pairing of the evening, the tropical pudding was matched with Laurent-Perrier Demi-Sec, an off-dry style steadily creeping back into fashion, the softness of its slightly sweet palate serving as a reminder of pleasures past. With 40g of sugar per litre, this sweeter style is not to my taste, but it paired undeniably well with the sugary sorbet.

The final flourish came in the form of an exquisitely crafted rhubarb and apple millefeuille served with a teardrop-shaped scoop of pear sorbet. Resting under a white chocolate shard glinting with a fleck of edible gold paper, tiny balls of apple took the top bunk to the pink rhubarb's bottom, separated by a paper-thin layer of crisp, crunchy pastry. The intense tang of the sour rhubarb was softened by the Milkybar-like layer of creamy white chocolate. To pair, we were treated to the houses's signature wine and Victoria Beckham's Champagne of choice – Laurent-Perrier Rosé, which showed delightful notes of summer fruits, from redcurrants to raspberries. Feminine and yet full bodied, L-P Rosé more than merits its elevated reputation.

Before we made our way into the cold London night, we were offered a selection of petit fours, including an especially cheeky chocolate shaped like a perfectly pert breast with a gold nipple. It was great to see Antonin having fun on the plate, and proving that Michelin-starred restaurants are allowed (and should be encouraged) to have a sense of humour. Injecting Asian influences into classic French fare, dishes at The Greenhouse are painstakingly thought out and artistically executed. The fact that I didn't even register I was drinking Champagne throughout the meal rather than still red or white wine is testament to the triumph of the pairings and proof that sparkling wine can be the thread upon which a whole meal is spun.

Tempo

On the surface Japanese and Italian cuisines have very little in common. But scratch a little deeper, and similarities emerge, from the preoccupation with fresh, seasonal, regional ingredients to the focus on simplicity and purity of flavour.

It seems fitting then, that Japanese chef Yoshi Yamada is at the helm of Tempo in Mayfair. An economics graduate, he worked for L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon in Japan, then cooked in various restaurants in Florence, Sorrento and Naples during a four-year stint in Italy before becoming sous-chef at the now defunct Corbin and King’s St Alban.

Decked out with tastefully upholstered (and pleasing to the touch) turquoise velvet chairs, wooden floors, glass-topped tables and marine-like round mirrors, Tempo's pared-down interiors allow the food to take centre stage. The restaurant, whose former incarnation was the less forward thinking and more peppermill-waving Italian establishment Franks, is part owned by hotelier Henry Tonga, who decided to open Tempo last summer rather than retire after the lease of his townhouse hotel 22 Jermyn Street came to an end.

The menu is divided into cicchetti (small, tapas-like plates), antipasti, pasta and risotto, and meat and fish. The cicchetti, priced between £2-4, originate from Venice, where they are served in traditional Venetian tapas bars, known as 'bàcari'. I tried the full spread on my visit, which included wild garlic prawns, hot as Hades Calabrian pork sausage, marinated peppers and beautifully bitter puntarelle flecked with apricot-coloured slithers of salted gray mullet roe. While amusing to the bouche, I felt we had barely scratched the surface of Yamada's potential.

Before I continue, I must make reference to the bread. In most restaurants bread serves to keep your palate entertained until the starters arrive, but at Tempo bread is an event. We were presented with a small basket heaving with treats, from fluffy, salt-strewn focaccia to heavenly grissini sticks, flecked with aniseed. Never before (and probably never again) have I got so worked up about bread. The savoury, twig-like sticks from Turin, rolled by Yamada that morning, had a slight sweetness from the aniseed and wonderful crunch. I munched my way through the entire offering in under a minute.

We moved swiftly on to calamari, which proved so light and grainy, that one bowl wasn't enough. Having been weaned on Spanish calamari, the dish felt naked without aioli. A quick request to the waitress, and a giant bowl filled with freshly-made garlic mayonnaise appeared. In the end it went largely undipped - the light, airy calamari working best with a simple lemon spritz rather than an aioli bath. The next dish (pictured) proved the culinary highlight: razor-thin slithers of Scottish beef, adorned with hazelnuts, parmesan, rocket and a glug of olive oil. So thin, fresh and flavoursome, it was almost sashimi-like, with Yamada's Japanese influence apparent in the dish. Lemony, light, and brought to life by the hazelnuts, it was a pleasure to eat.

Before the main event, we indulged in a pair of pasta dishes: wild boar pappardelle with chestnuts and parmesan, and Cornish crab linguine with chilli and lime. The former was rich, earthy, succulent, warming and utterly delicious. It made a perfect match for our smooth and approachable Barbera d'Alba 2008 from renowned Piedmont producer G.D. Vajra, with its spicy notes of black cherry, bramble fruits and black pepper. The linguine was perfectly al dente and had a lovely citrus lift from the limes, but, crab-light and lacking in bite, it was a little too dainty for its own good.

The main event for me was pan fried scallops with golden beetroot, chilli and lemon, and for my companion a mammoth grilled veal chop with spunta potatoes and peperonata. Lightly crispy on top, the meaty, silky-soft scallops were perfectly cooked and full of flavour, lifted by the zesty lemon sauce and tangy, crunchy blonde beetroot – my culinary discovery of the evening. Of the sides there was a hit and a miss, the hit being sublime olive oil mash, and the miss over-oily zucchine fritte.

Desert hit a high note with the best lemon tart I've ever experienced, recommended by the waitress as something of a Tempo institution. Served with a crème Brûlée-like crunchy top and perfectly crumbly pastry, the interior was creamy and so packed with zing, it tasted like lemon curd. I could have happily eaten the entire tart. The beauty of Tempo lies in its simplicity. From the finely tuned wine list featuring top boutique Italian producers, to the tasteful interiors and fresh food, there's nothing shouty or showy about Tempo. The restaurant is a lesson in refined elegance – an Ozu rather than a Fellini.

Tempo, 54 Curzon Street, London W1J 8PG, Tel: +44(0)20 7629 2742. A meal for two with wine costs around £100.

Sumosan restaurant review

Nobu and Zuma dominate London's modern Japanese dining scene, gaining column inches as much for their celebrity clientele as for their food. Sumosan is something of a modest younger sister flying slightly under the radar.

Tucked away on a quiet side street off Green Park next to a Vietnamese art gallery, Sumosan's light, airy space is decked out in tasteful beige and lilac. The pared down interiors are very zen-like and calming.

I visited on a Wednesday lunchtime and the place was reassuringly buzzing with a mixture of wealthy Russian expats (the restaurant is Russian owned), office workers and ladies who lunch. Bypassing the á la carte menu offering the likes of seasonal Toro stuffed with foie gras, and sea urchin risotto, I opt for the reasonably priced five course lunch menu for £22.50, with a side of rock shrimp tempura.

Lunch begins with a refreshing cup of miso soup with tiny shiitake mushrooms, that serves as the perfect palate cleanser. Next up is a delicious, umami-rich Kaiso salad crammed with sesame seeds and peanut butter, which I enjoy with a glass of Domaine de Joy Ugni Blanc from Gascony. The rock shrimp tempura doesn't disappoint - made up of heavenly chunks of fried shrimp, lifted by the citrus Yuzu dressing.

A sashimi selection follows, featuring the usual suspects: salmon, tuna (which is air-shipped from the US at -80 degrees), prawn, and richly flavoured white bait, all of which match incredibly well with my crisp, lime-fueled 2008 Hunter's Riesling from Marlborough, New Zealand.

For the main event, I go for the Black Cod with Miso, keen to see how it fares against the Nobu version. I was slightly disappointed by its diminutive size - call it the Kylie Minogue of the fish world, but what it lacked in size it made up for in flavour. Sweet and rich with a melt-in-the-mouth texture, there are few flavour experiences that top that of well cooked Black Cod. It's all consuming, transcendental even, and I feel almost beatific reverence for the fish and the pleasure it produced. A tricky one to match with wine, my 2008 Tasmanian Pinot Noir from Devil's Corner, whilst not harmonizing completely, far from jarred.

Pudding is a decadent affair. I choose Sumosan's signature dish - a white chocolate fondant, which arrives in an exquisitely crafted golden cage made of latticed sugar. Gooey and toothy tinglingly sweet, it tastes like liquid Milky Way and matches surprisingly well with my Thienot 2002 Champagne, for which Sumosan are the sole suppliers.

Although I chose to drink wine, there's an extensive saké list to experiment with. Head Sommelier Jean-Louis Naveilhan offers eight different sakés by the glass, and saké flights – three sakés by the glass for £10.50. Naveilhan is adamant that the rice wine, which should always be served chilled, can be enjoyed throughout the meal, from apéritif to pudding.

Sake tasting at Sumosan

Wine and the City caught up with saké expert Jean-Louis Naveilhan, head sommelier of Sumosan restaurant in Mayfair, to find out how saké is made, from polishing the rice to the importance of the spring water. Like grapes, there are dozens of different varieties of rice, and only the best are used for making saké.

Seven sakés were on show at Sumosan, from the Grand Cru of sakés, Betsukakoi 2009 Junamai Daiginjo, made from rice polished down to 50% of its original size, to the crowd pleasing Pink Nigori Saké Jyunmai that tasted like strawberry milkshake due to the white peach yeast. As with wine, there are entry, mid-priced and premium sakés, and if Naveilhan's sales are anything to go by, the popularity of the transparent drink is soaring in the UK.

Tamarind restaurant review

Tamarind was the first Indian restaurant in Europe to be awarded a Michelin star. Now in its 16th year, head chef Alfred Prasad clawed back the coveted star in January, after losing it last year, so it's business as usual at the golden-hued the Mayfair haunt.

Located in a basement on Queen street in Green Park, the cosy space is paved with gold, from the suede columns to the gold spattered etched glass. Middle Eastern filigree panels abound, creating an ambiance of luxurious exoticism.

I've been to Tamarind once before, as an over-enthusiastic student journalist on one of my first interview assignments. My subject? Fellow journalist Toby Young, a restaurant critic for the Evening Standard at the time. His paperback How to Lose Friends and Alienate People was riding high in the book charts, and he revealed in the interview that the book was going to be made into a film, with Simon Pegg playing the lead. Young had brought along Jerry Springer's lawyer in the hope of him landing him a slot on Oprah. It never happened.

This time around I brought my mum for company. We began with a glass of ice cold Taittinger Brut Champagne, an ideal apéritif, which we drank whilst nibbling on paper thin poppadoms served with a trio of dips: date, tomato and black currant.

Tamarind's food is rooted in tradition, but allows space for innovation. The food, like the room, is punchy and memorable without being overpowering. Derived from traditional Mogul cuisine, the bread, meat, fish and game are all cooked on a North West Indian tandoor oven, imbuing them with their signature smoky finish.

The à la carte menu is incredibly simple and pared down at a mere two pages. We began with a trio of starters: their signature grilled scallops with fennel and star-anise, ground lamb cakes with lentils and cinnamon served on mint chutney and spiced potato cakes filled with spinach and drizzled with tamarind. The scallops were mouthwateringly tender and exquisitely cooked – I could have eaten a shoal of them, while the lamb cake was full of flavour and had a lovely crumbly, melt-in-the-mouth texture. The potato cake was the least impressive, overpowered slightly by the potent tamarind.

Our wine pairing for the starter was the impressive, almost comic sounding 3 Amigos, made from a blend of Marsanne, Rousanne and Chardonnay from Margaret River in Western Australia. It had a lovely golden hue and a distinctly Burgundian nose, due to the area's cooler climate. Rounded, creamy and mellow, it was surprisingly elegant.

Next up we were presented with a fish duo: a jumbo tiger prawn marinated with ginger, yoghurt, ground spices and paprika, and kingfish marinated with yoghurt, lime-leaf, green chili and saffron. I was seriously impressed - the kingfish was tender and aromatic, and yet full bodied and meaty, while the juicy prawn had a lovely smoky quality from the tandoor, and was both flavoursome and elegant. We were also served the moreish channa chaat, a popular Indian snack composed of spicy chickpeas and wheat crisps drizzled with sweetened yoghurt and blueberries.

During a brief interlude in which to somehow try and find space in my tummy for more, we munched on delicious date, coconut and poppy seed naan. Unfortunately, by this point I was a little too full to fully appreciate the main event. The curries were served in quaint copper pots, adding to the authentic Indian feel. We tried a creamy chicken tikka flavoured with crushed fenugreek leaves and a lamb masala with puréed spinach, garlic and cumin, served alongside tadka dal and dal makni – black lentils from the Northwest frontier.

Both curries were delicately spiced, which suits me, as I was born to to mild. The lamb masala got a bit lost in the sea of spinach, and it was hard to tell what animal I was eating, but the chicken tikka was deliciously rich and creamy. It's incredibly difficult to successfully match wine with Indian food, but we opted for a half bottle of Boyd-Cantenac 2000 from the Left Bank in Bordeaux. Black currant and mint dominant, it was elegant, youthful for its years, and, according to my mum, 'like drinking silk'.

Pudding (yes, I found space), came in the form of the odd sounding but delicious tasting carrot fudge topped with pistachios and rich, milky vanilla ice cream. Tamarind is a place that divides critics and loyalties alike. Some say it's overpriced, others that the food is underwhelming. I disagree. I can see why it won its Michelin star back this year.

While the food may be priced highly, it is exemplary Indian cuisine as close as you can get in London to the real thing. Ingredients are expertly used, spices are subtle and flavours are aromatic and elegant rather than knock-out hot. Like the menu says, it has changed my perception of Indian dining, which is a million miles from a fiery vindaloo. Authentic Indian cuisine is as elegant and refined as anything in Europe, and we could learn a lot from it. Britain's love affair with Indian food is far from over.