Bob Bob Ricard

A good restaurant is one that transports you from the humdrum of everyday life into another world – a temporary cocoon of comfort. Diner deluxe Bob Bob Ricard is such a place. From the moment the black cloaked doorman ushers you in, the journey begins. Designed by David Collins, who previously prettified The Wolseley, Bob Bob Ricard’s lavish interiors evoke an Edwardian Orient Express carriage, from the plush midnight blue booths complete with pleated lampshades and velvet curtains, which allow for intimacy amidst the buzz, to the smoked mirrors and brass railings running from booth to ceiling.

Table tops are marble, equipped with an electric socket for the silver toasters brought out at breakfast and during afternoon tea, and a golden “Press for Champagne” button. Cubist chandeliers hang from a high Venetian-mirrored ceiling, while walls, covered in paper fashioned from Japanese book bindings, are festooned with ancestral portraits, the subjects of which gaze haughtily into the middle distance. Throwing gender stereotypes out the train window, waiters wear pale pink jackets and ties while waitresses sport turquoise waistcoats.

Russian owner, Leonid Shutov, is keen to please. Every last detail is considered, from the pink and white placemats, menus and plates etched with the BBR emblem, to the pink and gold coasters – even the water bottles have a pink and white label. Attention to detail is fastidious, each intricacy adding to the pleasure of the experience. Unable to resist the lure of the Champagne buzzer, I press it excitedly, feeling momentarily transported from train to plane. Seconds later, our waitress appears and tempts us into two glasses of rich yet refreshing Pol Roger NV – Churchill, I’m sure, would have loved buzzing for his favourite fizz.

Our feast begins with a taster platter of Zakuski (Russian canapés) taken with a shot of Kauffman 2008 Selected Vintage Vodka served at a brain-freezing -18ºC in a charming cut crystal glass. Among the Zakuski is a communion host of creamy foie gras topped with shaved black truffle, quail egg mayonnaise nestled in a lettuce leaf with a razor-thin slither of salty anchovy, and a tiny white dish filled with jellied ox tongue that recalls the meaty interior of a pork pie.

A duo of exquisitely executed cold starters arrives shortly after: a flamboyant take on the ever-popular beetroot and goat’s cheese salad, and a textured venison tartare. The paper-thin beetroot shavings resemble rose petals, with fluffy goat’s cheese sandwiched in between like cream. The meaty medallion of venison meanwhile, is smooth, subtle, pure and lovely. It whispers deer rather than shouting its origins from the plate. Resting on top is a raw quail egg, its yellow innards invitingly on display, begging to be drizzled on the meat. While the egg adds lubrication, drops from an accompanying bottle of Tabasco give a vivifying kick of heat.

Nicolás, our French waiter, urges us to try the three cheese soufflé, made with Parmesan, Wigmore and Shropshire blue, served with a peanut-flecked apple and endive salad. Bob Bob Ricard is fond of apple – it weaves its refreshing way into a large number of dishes as the garnish of choice. Also present in the soufflé is a ghostly trace of truffle. If dishes don’t visibly contain truffle, they are redolent with the ghosts of truffles past. Spewing forth from its ramekin like a Mount Etna eruption, the light and fluffy soufflé’s meringue-like form reminds me fondly of a cheesy baked Alaska.

Alongside the soufflé, we’re served a duo of scallops resting on discs of apple served with grainy black pudding and a truffle dressing. The scallops are pleasingly meaty, but for £13.25, more than two would have been preferable. To wash them down, Nicolás recommends a bottle of 2007 Kumeu River Hunting Hill Chardonnay from Auckland – a creamy white with hints of lime and limestone. Tightly woven and beautifully balanced on the palate, notes of honeysuckle, orange water and Brazil nut are given weight by the judiciously judged oak.

The wine list is incredibly fairly priced, with a maximum mark-up of £50 per bottle added to the trade price, meaning many bottles are cheaper than high-end retailers. BBR is also the only place in the UK offering Château d’Yquem by the glass – the 1998 vintage is currently on sale for £26.75. I digress. Our main event is a slab of crispy suckling pork belly in a (gasp) truffle gravy dotted with glistening globes of apple sauce. The belly meat is achingly tender, while the crunchy cracking adds texture, proving a great match for the Kiwi Chardonnay.

Desserts are worth leaving room for, though this shouldn’t be hard, as portion sizes are fit only to fill up diners of Borrowers proportions. My companion’s Eton mess arrives neatly packed into what looks like an ice pink bath bomb drenched in strawberry sauce. I opt for the trio of homemade ice cream, the waitress kindly accommodating my request that all three of the trio be salted caramel.

Bob Bob Ricard is a one off. Interpreting classic British dishes like prawn cocktail and chicken kiev with a Russian twist, hat tips to the owner’s homeland can be found in frequent caviar cameos on the menu. While portions are small and prices high, there are few restaurants in London that offer such escapism. Clasped in its welcoming bosom, the restaurant takes you on a journey back to an age of elegance – a flight of fancy that requires a vivid imagination to get lost in, but a voyage worth taking. When we reach our final destination and disembark, having stepped out of the fantasy, I feel a pang of sadness, as I make my way home down the sodden Soho street.

Bob Bob Ricard, 1 Upper James St, London W1F 9DF; Tel: +44 (0)20 3145 1000; a meal for two with wine costs around £150.

The hottest cocktail in the world

Ben Norum, editor of Blue Tomato magazine, tackles the fiery Illiana cocktail at Zenna Bar in Soho, claimed to be the world's spiciest cocktail. Named after a mythological Indian dragon, the cocktail comes complete with a waiver form imbibers have to sign, and a fire extinguisher filled with Gin Fizz to assuage the inevitable burn.

Dan Thomson, Zenna Bar

Wine and the City chats to Dan Thomson of Zenna Bar in Soho, dubbed the word's first luxury Indian cocktail bar, about what goes into an Indian cocktail, alcoholic lassis, the infamous Illiana cocktail (said to be the hottest in the world) and the latest mixology trends in London.

Wines of Rapture at Quo Vadis

Supine on a striped sofa in the appropriately titled “Petting Room” of Quo Vadis in Soho, I’m surrounded by leather, lingerie and literature. Resplendent in his signature Burgundy suit and immaculately clipped beard, the dashing, debonair and dangerous Wine Chap, formally known as Tom Harrow, is holding court, explaining to his captive audience that smell is the most powerful, underrated and sensuous of the senses. “We’re drawn to potential mates by their smell – Napoleon went wild for the smell of Josephine’s unwashed body,” he asserts, “and I have it on good authority that I smell great. A dab of Grappa behind each ear and I’m good to go.” Exuding an almost Neanderthal sexual energy, Harrow cuts a swaggering figure in the room. His sidekick, Cecelia, a full-lipped Swede in a raspberry beret and scarlet velvet plus fours, is here to showcase her wares from erotic emporium Bordello, affectionately known as the “nipple of Shoreditch.”

The small square room is accessorised with candy stripe carpets, regal red curtains, art strewn walls and a bookshelf heaving with oddities. The low-slung wooden table in front of me is well seasoned with erotic paraphernalia, from a leather whip fastened with a pair of fur balls that look like they’ve been pilfered from a well-endowed squirrel, to a pastel pink copy of A Compendium of Kisses – an insightful guide to the art of locking lips.

A sprinkling of kinky couples and curious singletons populate the room. Raven haired proprietor Sam Hart perches impishly on the window ledge in the far corner as if hoping to dissolve into the surroundings. We are gathered for Harrow’s Wines of Rapture event, billed as “an inner striptease” celebrating the divine union of Bacchus and Venus. Urging us to use wine – faithful friend of poets and lovers, as a seduction tool, the tasting begins in the land of love (Italy) with Dal Bello Rocca d’Asolo Prosecco, its tongue tingling effervescence compared to the breath of a lover caressing your neck. Light, elegant and delicate, it’s the romantic equivalent of a peck on the cheek.

Foreplay begins in earnest with an unctuous white Burgundy – Domaine Emilian Gillet Vire-Clesse Quintaine 2007, representing, according to Harrow, a “thickening of the juices”. Rich, waxy, honeyed and seductive, there are few things less sublime than the first sip of a creamy white Burgundy. Having lost its primary fruit, brioche and cooked apple notes have made their way to the fore in the liquid embodiment of a lingering kiss. Glancing round the room, I sense the impending urgency of the situation. Lascivious looks are being exchanged and metaphorical clothes are flying off in all directions.

Moving on to the meat of the matter, we tackle Meerlust’s lusty Rubicon 2005, named after Julius Cesar’s historical crossing of the Italian river in 49 BC, and neatly symbolising the point of no return. Weighing in at a hefty 14%, the savage red, full of deep, dark fruit is brooding and sexy; it’s a full-throated roar of a wine, or, as Tom so elegantly puts it, “a man ripping his clothes off and leaping onto his maiden.” Now well oiled, the once timid crowd is engaged in animated banter. The chap opposite me picks up a wooden paddle and spanks his paramour with it, while the couple beside me, who are celebrating their 10th anniversary, appear to be seriously considering the squirrel whip.

Divine intervention follows in the form of Domaine Giraud Châteauneuf-du-Pape; the preferred wine of Pope Clement V. With a nose of lit match, meat, polished leather and musty church pews, it reeks of ecclesiastical vice. “If Bordeaux is your wife and Burgundy your mistress, then Châteauneuf-du-Pape is your dirty weekend,” Harrow quips. Virulently alcoholic and imbued with sweet fruit, the rugged red, with its masculine thrust, smacks of Oliver Mellors from Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

Visibly hot under the collar, and delighting in the debauchery, Harrow launches into an anecdote about the irreverent Italian nobleman Cesare Borgia, who one night swapped partners with his mistress’s 15-year-old daughter mid-stroke. He goes on to explain how a lady’s favourite wine determines how she will be in the bedroom, citing from personal experience that Pinot Grigio girls are pedestrian and predictable, while Barolo quaffers are sexual deviants.

We move swiftly on to the climax – La Giaretta Amarone 2007. Seductively speaking, we’re in the final throws of passion. At 15.5%, this is a beast of a wine. Hedonistic, powerful and concentrated, the lusty liquid brings us to the tipping point, where we dissolve into the mystic bliss of what the French so quaintly call “le petite mort”. At the moment of sweet release, having expended our life force, we transcend the terrestrial and connect with the divine, as our ecstasy takes on a spiritual purity. Post-explosion, we luxuriate in the glorious afterglow with liquid gold provided by delicate dessert wine Château Laurette Saint Croix du Mont 2006. Like the sweet fruit of the gods, the unctuous golden elixir is laced with honeysuckle and almond. This is the cigarette moment – the end of the affair. I’m spent.

For more information about upcoming WineChap events, visit the website

Ms Marmite Lover Bacchanalia at Blacks

“Follow the pineapples” Ms Marmite Lover announces, holding one under each arm like dumbbells. Resplendent in a mustard yellow dress (echoing the colour of a Marmite jar), flame red hair prettified with a black fascinator, and a frilly white pinny, Ms Marmite Lover, otherwise known as Kerstin Rodgers, leads her guests up the wooden staircase of Blacks members club in Soho, and into its power blue dining room.

My first encounter with Ms Marmite had been in the same room three months prior, when Tom Parker Bowles had whipped up Tequila-fueled Mexican feast with a little help from chef Alberto Figueroa. After the lunch, while a few guests remained drinking the dregs of their wine and eking out the afternoon, Ms Marmite had educated my friends and I about the joys of “figging”. We listened incredulous. Historical examples of horses were given, along with a suggestion that red chili works just as well as root ginger in achieving the desired affect.

I digress. With Ms Marmite Lover pulling the apron strings, I was curious as to what I’d be served – would ginger make it onto the menu? Opting to take the 18^th century as a theme in homage to the Georgian townhouse playing host to our reveries, Rodgers explains that in the 18^th century, pineapples were the height of luxury. Much like a Louis Vuitton handbag today, the tropical fruits, grown in hot houses in Bermondsey, were excruciatingly expensive, and thus seen as the epitome of chic. Ladies could even pay to hire a pineapple for a few hours to serve as a centerpiece on their dinner tables in order to uphold the appearance of a luxury lifestyle, returning them after the meal.

Our feast begins in a sober fashion with unctuous lemon barley water. Thick with sugar, it tastes like lemon curd. Huge platters filled with fiery orange fritters then emerge, and are quickly devoured by the hungry crowd. “Gentlemen used to cook these on their bedroom fireplaces,” says Rodgers. “A dangerous pursuit,” I venture. The fritters are magnificently moreish – the batter light and crispy, the centre soft and gooey, and filled with those faithful bedfellows: pea and mint. Accompanying the fritters is celery soup with truffle oil, which, according to Rodgers, served as 18^th century Viagra. Slightly too cold, it’s refreshing and redeemed by the richness of the truffle oil.

Mid-feast, Rodgers explains that while seasonality is trendy today, in the 18^th century it was the poor who ate seasonally because they couldn’t afford to eat any other way. The lunch continues with an 18^th century classic that has Blumenthal written all over it: Stargazy Pie, served with garden peas and vermicelli. The pie is a visual spectacle, recalling the theatre of 18^th century cooking. While there aren’t four and twenty blackbirds backed in it, I count no less than five fish heads peeping out of the pastry.

I fail to notice them at first, and get quite a fright when I scoop a head onto my plate. Being so visually close to what you’re eating is an odd experience. As diners, we like to distance ourselves from the animals our food comes from. The Stargazy Pie brings you face-to-face with your plate mate and its unfortunate fate. Eating the rustic concoction was like going back in time to an era I’m not sure I’d want to live in.

Luckily, many a sweet treat was to follow, beginning with black pepper strawberries and a sugar mountain piece montée of profiteroles stuffed with orange flower water and drizzled, Jackson Pollock style, with toffee. Notching our sugar intake up to dangerous levels, we’re then offered tuck shop style salted caramels and sugar-coated candied orange peel. Both look and taste of childhood.

Rounding the lunch off with a fiery Bloody Mary, I step out into the summer sunshine and pontificate about the pineapples. Which foods today are considered the height of luxury – Lobster? Caviar? Foie Gras? Truffles? And more interestingly, what will the luxury foods of tomorrow be? In colonial times, lobster was considered poverty food in America, and was often fed to prisoners and servants. The law even limited the number of days lobster could be fed to prisoners before it became abuse. Today ordering lobster off a menu is the ultimate display of decadence. The beauty of food is its cyclical nature – you can never predict what’s around the next culinary corner.

Gauthier Soho

Gauthier Soho is a curious place. Set in a four-storey Georgian townhouse, admittance is granted through ringing a doorbell, at which point you are ushered either into a small, ground floor dining room, or up a narrow, thickly-carpeted staircase, as I was, to an intimate, sash-windowed space that feels like you've invaded a well-to-do, if aesthetically unadventurous, front room.

As tasteful as the white and beige colour scheme is, there is something of the dentist's waiting room about it – a location no diner wants to be reminded of while they tuck into their scallops. Matching the white walls in austerity are the acoustics. On my visit, I dined with my young cousin, who, fresh from a year-and-a-half abroad, enlivened the interiors with her bronzed hue and caused the sprinkling of diners populating the room to look on disapprovingly on hearing her animated anecdotes about motorbike rides across India and killing kangaroos in the outback. Such is the layout at Gauthier, that anything more than a whisper seems like a shout. Noticing this, we lowered our tones.

Interiors aside, there is much to recommend at Gauthier, which was awarded its first Michelin star in January. After a 12-year stint at renowned Pimlico restaurant Roussillon, where he picked up a Michelin star along the way, Alexis Gauthier set up shop last summer in the Romilly Street townhouse, formerly home to Richard Corrigan's Lindsay House. The upstairs downstairs atmosphere is enhanced by the nimble-limbed young waiters, who scurry about, silver platters in hand, trying to transport dish after dish from the kitchen downstairs, up to the dining room in an almost comedic display of adroitness. I'm sure they could balance the plates on their heads if the situation required it.

Our five hour feast – the longest dinner I've ever had, began on a high note with ice-cold Gosset Champagne and a dizzying array of bread, highlights of which included salty bacon and spicy chorizo rolls served warm, with a fluffy interior. This is the second restaurant in a row where the bread has been a talking point, having recently enjoyed the wondrous, anise-flecked Grissini sticks at Tempo in Mayfair. Mon cousine and I opted for the tasting menu, reasonably priced at £68 for eight courses. After our bouches were amused with iced salmon eggs, beetroot tartlets and Parmesan twirls, the meal began in earnest with a terracotta-hued langoustine velouté, exotified by the addition of coconut and mango, which reminded my cousin of her time in Thailand.

Before continuing, mention must be made of the wine list, or tome as more appropriately describes it, which charmingly begins with 'Ode to Wine' by Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. Alexis cleverly brought Italian sommelier Roberto della Pietra with him from Roussillon to Gauthier, where he is doing a sterling job with the wines. A different wine was poured to match each dish, and with it, an impassioned explanation as to why said wine had been (seemingly painstakingly) selected. Our velouté, for example, was paired with Château Khoury Réve Blanc from Lebanon's Bekaa Valley – a blend of Riesling, Chardonnay and Torrontes, alive with grassy, green-fruited notes.

Dish two was silky scallops, lithe langoustine and a dollop of meaty bone marrow in a brown butter jus (pictured), served with asparagus – Gauthier is mad about vegetables, weaving them into his dishes wherever possible. Dish three stole the show: perfectly al dente black truffle risotto in a pleasingly rich brown butter jus, the risotto barely visible through the paper-thin truffle shavings that emitted glorious forest floor aromas. The truffle proved so strong, I could taste it in my mouth the next morning, serving as a ghostly reminder of our culinary epic. Nutty and full bodied, with a mineral core, the accompanying 2009 Minervois more than held its own against the dish.

Dish four: glazed monkfish tail with clams, mussels, and artichokes in a basil jus, having unfairly come after such greatness, proved unable to entice my tastebuds out of their truffle-induced slumber. The risotto should have come afterwards, overpowering anything other than red meat in its wake. Luckily, dish five was meat shaped: a melt-in-the-mouth fillet of Angus beef with morels and – you guessed it – spring vegetables, matched with Viña Casa Tamaya Carmenère Reverva 2009 from Chile's up-and-coming, cool climate Limari region – a fruit forward, unmistakably New World wine with attractive vegetal notes that mixed with juicy blackberry and black olive into a velveteen finish.

A curious pair of wines accompanied our trio of desserts: a 17% abv, marzipan-fuelled Floc de Gascogne Blanc, imported by Les Caves de Pyrène, which matched wonderfully well with my potent slither of Munster cheese, and the final flourish, Cristian Drouhin Pommeau de Normandie, made from unfermented apple must and Calvados, that sang of baked apples and cinnamon, and won immediate Brownie points for its lustful label, featuring an Adam & Eve-like nude couple swirling round the bottle, intoxicated by the apples they've eaten. Much mention has already been made of Gauthier's signature dessert: Golden Louis XV, a Wagon Wheel-shaped chocolate and praline pud finished with a decorative swoosh of gold leaf. It was predictably decadent, but by this point I was too high on apples to fully appreciate it.

With lunch priced at two courses for £18, or three for £25 (without wine), Gauthier Soho offers remarkable value for its Michelin-starred status. The wines are thoughtfully matched, and the menu has much to entice and delight, I only wish the décor was less bright, less white, less not quite right. If Gauthier can translate the soulful character of its food and wine into its surroundings, then the restaurant will shine as bright as its new star.

Gauthier Soho, 21 Romilly Street, London W1D 5AF

Tel: +44 (0)20 7494 3111

Tom Parker Bowles bacchanalia lunch at Blacks

Tequila is having a moment. Once the preserve of the Aztecs, who used to drink it an a digestif, the spirit fell spectacularly from grace, and until recently was more readily associated with cowboys, bandits and stag weekends than discerning drinkers. But with ultra premium brands like Patrón now on the market, Tequila has got the makeover it desperately deserves, and is not only cool again, but the fastest growing spirits category in the UK.

To toast Tequila's newfound success, I was invited to attend a Mexican-themed bacchanalian lunch whipped up by Tom Parker Bowles and Alberto Figueroa at Soho institution Blacks members club. Reached by descending a black steel staircase, the 18th century Georgian townhouse is modeled on the dining club created in the same spot 300 years prior by writer Samuel Johnson and painter Joshua Reynolds. Quintessentially English, Blacks is furnished with roaring fires, creaky wooden floorboards, powder blue walls, painted ladies, fraying armchairs and the odd ghost or two.

Taking my place by the roaring fire, a welcome Margarita is thrust in my hand. Noticing it contains no ice, I sheepishly ask the barman for a few cubes, to dilute the super strong concoction. Gesticulating wildly to my left is flame-haired one time Kenny Everett sidekick turned Tequila ambassador Cleo Rocos, who is so potty about the drink, she founded The Tequila Society to promote Tequila in the UK. To my right are Guardian food writer Matthew Fort and MasterChef winner and Wahaca founder Thomasina Miers, sporting a perfectly round bump.

Rescued from the fire before I begin to melt, we are ushered upstairs and asked to take our seats among the school-like wooden bench. On my table is Zeren Wilson of Bitten and Written fame, boy about town Ben Norum and Scotch eggspert David Constable. Foodie banter soon ensues. Having just been asked to be a food critic for the erotic review, Constable whips out his black notebook and begins writing sordid descriptions of our citrusy sea bream ceviche and crunchy tostadas served with lashings of luscious guacamole.

We all get in on the act and take to reading our lewd passages aloud. In need of slaking after our literary endeavours, we crack open a biodynamic Cortese from Piedmont producer Valli Unite. Golden in colour, it has a mineral core and a green fruited nose of apple and pear. After scandalously simple and pleasingly cheesy quesadillas, we move onto the main event, 'Drunken Lamb' – made tipsy by its beer marinade – served with fluffy tortillas and juicy black beans, and silky slow roast pork with Seville orange wrapped in banana leaves.

The highlight of the feast is raspberry red hibiscus and Tequila sorbet served in a modest glass goblet. Fresh, fruity and fun, the forest fruit flavours are lifted by the Tequila kick. Whilst savouring the sorbet, Tom PB emerges in a besmirched Tabasco apron and grey T-shirt. Humble as pie, he immediately defaults to thanking Figueroa, then scurries back downstairs. Catching up with him after the meal, I ask whether it's possible to do a quick video interview, but he concedes to having had one too many Tequilas to be sufficiently coherent for the camera. Disappointed, I ask him what he thinks should be served at the forthcoming royal wedding. "Cottage pie!" he exclaims. "I had it at my wedding and it's the ideal dish to serve to hundreds of people: it's simple, full of flavour and unmistakably British."