Mari Vanna

Stepping inside Mari Vanna is like entering a scaled-down version of Miss Havisham’s mansion before its slow descent into decay.

Entering through a hectic hallway with bicycles on the ceiling and pot plants covering every free square of space, the main dining space – an imagined living room of mythical babushka, grandma Vanna – is all glinting chandeliers, gilt mirrors, lace curtains, rustic rugs, Fabergé eggs and cupboards heaving with knick-knacks in an ensemble so sumptuous and satisfying, I could dine on the interiors alone. Furniture and accoutréments are French Regency meets chaotic kitsch – the Ritz during the Blitz. China geese nestle among empty wine bottles, while pickled roots rest ominously in jars and wistful Bolshevik lyrics float melancholically through the air.

Opening opposite the Bulgari Hotel in Knightsbridge this March, the London outpost of Mari Vanna is the newest addition to the international Russian chain, which boasts sister restaurants in St Petersburg, Moscow and New York. Appealing to affluent oligarchs abroad – Chelsea owner Roman Abramovich is reportedly a regular – Mari Vanna is unashamedly and endearingly over-the-top. Every last detail has been considered, from the ornate china salt sellers to the cut crystal glasses – even my handbag is given a pouffe of its own. Ushered to one of the exquisitely laid tables, I clock a picture frame with the words: “We are waiting for Lucy” inscribed in English and Russian inside – an adorable touch to make me feel at home.

Salmon roe blinis

Before ordering, we’re presented with a wooden paddle stacked with homemade rye bread and garlic butter flecked with salt crystals. Created by St Petersburg-based executive chef Alexander Belkovich, the menu – printed in both English and Russian on brown paper – is extensive to the point of intimidating, featuring a kaleidoscope of variants of Russian salad – who knew potato, mayonnaise and carrots could be tweaked in so many ways? After much deliberation, I opt for the beetroot and salted herring version, which arrives in a galleon-shaped cut crystal dish. Cold yet comforting, it turns my white bone china plate pink.

Next up is a quintet of blinis served with a small bowl of salmon roe – burnt orange spherical delights that look like they’ve escaped from Heston’s kitchen. As delicate as the doilies adorning the tables, the pancakes are light, fluffy, and an ideal casing for the salty salmon balls that burst in the mouth, filling it with saline fluid, assuaged by the temperate soured cream. I’d first tried the dish on Shrove Tuesday, when, having gate-crashed a Notting Hill dinner party, two tattooed travelling Russian girls pimped our pancakes with salmon roe, much to my delight. They left London for Moscow the next morning.

Courgette fritters and smoked salmon

I digress… Mini courgette fritters served with smoked salmon are wonderfully moreish, but could have done with more bite. A homely bowl of borscht meanwhile, proves the culinary highlight of the night. The purple broth of beef and beetroot served with a side of soured cream and pampushka – a garlic-topped bread roll, is so comforting and warming, it’s like a hug from the inside, the fragrant, beety broth enriched by generous dollops of cooling soured cream.

Disconcertingly, I’m as stuffed as the cupboards by the time the main event – chicken fitters with pickled cucumber and mash – arrives. Expecting goujon-like strips of fried chicken in breadcrumbs, I’m instead greeted by two meat cakes the size of Mr. T’s medallions, the interiors of which are moist and juicy, but prove insurmountable. The mash meanwhile, is rich and creamy, while the cucumbers offer a pleasing vinegar kick. My companion’s seabass is a wiser choice. Silky and aromatic, it falls off the fork and delights in the mouth.

Borscht

The wine list, featuring Russian sparkler Abrau-Durso and Château d’Yquem 1999, is small and ambitiously priced. Its diminutive size is a relief after the biblical array of dishes on offer. Side stepping the natural wine offering from Georgia, I opt instead for an Italian Chardonnay in the form of Marchesi de’ Frescobaldi Pomino Castello di Pomino Bianco Riserva 2009. Its golden-hued contents is unctuous and divine, the oak judiciously judged, adding texture and depth without overpowering the ensemble.

If you have room for dessert, you’ll be richly rewarded with the likes of milky homemade vanilla ice cream sluttily drizzled with warm chocolate sauce and crêpes served with hand-crafted strawberry jam washed down with 5cl shots of homemade vodka, from the soothingly sweet honeycomb, to the autumnal apple and cinnamon. Mari Vanna is a one off. Its cosy interiors and hearty home cooking are a surprising comfort during our times of economic uncertainty. Gone are the days when we long for gloss and glitz; today’s diners yearn to nestle in the ample bosom of grandma’s floral pinny and be plied with reassuring retro classics. Before departing the dream-like landscape, be sure to pay a visit to the loos, home to fairy tales narrated by the Russian equivalent of Roald Dahl.

Mari Vanna, 116 Knightsbridge, London, SW1X 7PJ; Tel: +44(0)20 7225 3122. A meal for two with wine and service costs around £130.

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