Casa Batavia

“Italians are particularly prone to the comfort and reassuring nostalgia of food. They eat with a childish verve and enthusiasm, and exuberant remembrance of their homes, their mothers, their lovers and their Vespas,” so says AA Gill in his review of Casa Batavia in last Sunday’s Style magazine in The Sunday Times. The Vespa reference is a national stereotype too far, but I get what Gill means. Italians have a love of food unequalled throughout the world. They worship at the altar of food, the architecture of their day built around what they are going to eat.

Nicola Batavia is a self-confessed “eggspert”. I met the chef a month ago at a Castello Banfi dinner at Camden curio Gilgamesh. His arrival at the table was met with much fanfare and clapping of hands, like the returning of the prodigal son. Unfamiliar with his oeuvre, I felt in the presence of a world-famous celebrity that had somehow got through my net. Peering through a pair of neon orange specs, he tells me, in a Dalínian fashion, of his beatific reverence for eggs – of their mystic duality: the hard and the soft, the white and the yolk; the eternal conundrum. Mention is made of a truffled egg dish, which recalls treasured memories of Spuntino’s truffled egg on toast. Noting my enthusiasm, Batavia invites me to try the dish when he’s next in town.

The Michelin-starred chef found fame in Italy with his Ristorante Birichin in Turin. He now has a regular spot on Italian TV, a book, wine line and olive oil to his name. This summer, he teamed up with seasoned London restaurateur Paolo Boschi to launch Casa Batavia on Kensington Church Street. White walls, black leather chairs and polished wooden floors lend an air of austerity to the space, which is softened by playful graphic prints by Italian cartoonist Osvaldo Cavandoli. The interiors are so pared down they border on corporate, but a glass-domed roof lends much-needed light to the proceedings. Tablecloths are a tasteful beige, mirroring the hues of the ladies who lunch that populate the room.

Boschi is so old school you couldn’t invent him. He takes my (beige) coat and sits me at the window table, in full view of the Notting Hillbillies passing by. Our feast gets off to a good start with a cupful of crunchy, lithe grissini sticks served with Batavia’s bright green, grassy, Umbrian olive oil. With it we’re served a generous-sized Riedel glass of Gancia Alta Langa Brut 2007. Aged for three years in oak, the northern Italian sparkler glints gold in the glass, offering a rich and toasty nose of honey and hazelnuts that could give Bollinger a run for its money.

We’re then presented with a silver slither of skate wing served with capers, tomatoes and olives. Soft as swan’s-down, the fish is tremendously tender, and enhanced by the autumnal accoutrements. The embodiment of Batavia’s “modern Italian” cooking philosophy, there are no foams or temperature tricks, just simple, seasonal ingredients. Then it arrives. I can smell it coming. The famous truffled egg. Hopes are high. Poached, it looks beautiful in the dish, nestled in a pond of potato fondu, a solitary sage leaf balancing on top like a fallen feather. The egg is expertly cooked, its orange yolk oozing into the cheese pool below. Rich from the truffle oil, it’s decadent, delightful and comforting beyond belief – what baby food would taste like in heaven.

To follow is a trio of oxtail ravioli blanketed with a snowflake-shaped shaving of Parmesan. Packing a flavour punch, the Parmesan has the intensity of a fresh cheese straw and works well with the tender ox meat. Astutely autumnal, Batavia is spookily in tune with the seasons, like a culinary weather vane. To match, the sommelier suggests Andrea Oberto Giada Barbera d’Alba 2005. An attractive bright ruby, the nose bursts with black cherry, plum and forest fruits. Growing in intensity on the palate, blackcurrant notes give way to a liquorice finish.

Mid-pour, the affable young wine waiter tells us he’s from Narni in Umbria, explaining that C.S. Lewis named his imaginary land of Narnia after the Umbrian hilltown, having stumbled across it in an atlas as a child. The final flourish before dessert is Batavia’s signature dish: pork tonnato in a rustic tuna sauce, latticed with courgette and carrot. Usually made with cold cuts of veal, the juicy medallion of hot roast pork loin is textbook. Dessert doesn’t reach the highs of the main event, though a bowl of molten chili chocolate doused in Amaretto lifts the spirits, while a Lavazza espresso from a bespoke machine imported from Italy delivers an invigorating and smooth caffeine kick. Judging from earlier reviews, the Haribo fried egg sweets presented with the bill have been wisely replaced with almond-filled biscotti.

Though heaving on my visit, Batavia made the effort to talk to each customer, gauging their needs and tweaking their order accordingly. You’d never get that level of service in Soho or Mayfair. My only criticism is that dishes are delivered at warp speed – we were served five in under an hour, giving us little time to luxuriate in the memory of what we’d eaten before we were onto the next course. With the pace of life accelerating, it’s more important than ever to be able to take your time over a meal and let the memory of each dish solidify in the mind before moving on, otherwise we’re just refueling.

Bompas & Parr Chewing Gum Factory

Culinary wizards Bompas & Parr have found a new plaything. Moving on from the jelly moulds that made them famous, the pair have turned their hands, Wonka-style, to chewing gum.

Last week, the boys set up shop in Whiteleys, with a pop-up artisanal chewing gum factory. On arrival I'm swiftly lead to the dimly-lit Flavour Library, complete with haunting music on a loop, and scientific diagrams linking the 200 flavours on offer, from the play-it-safe strawberry and cotton candy, through the more adventurous white truffle and green pea, to the downright ludicrous curry, anchovy and hot dog.

I whiz around the aroma room, frantically opening flavour-scented jam jars in a bid to whittle down 40,000 possible combinations to my final two. Watermelon is divine, as is caramel, but they're both too predictable. Peanut jumps out of the jar, along with banana and almond, but I'm looking for something a little more playful. A mix of sweet and savoury perhaps? I strike upon what I believe to be an ingenious duo: foie gras and crème brûlée, having tasted something similar at a basque gastronomy evening the week before. It'll either be delicious or disgusting.

I write my flavour combo on a raffle ticket and hand it to the lady in a lab coat across the counter. She glances at it disapprovingly. The factory is proving so popular, punters have to wait for their numbers to be called, Bingo-style, by a bespectacled man on a megaphone. To ease my wait, I indulge in a Hendricks and tonic from a jam jar.

Finally my number's up, and I'm lead into the gum factory, a pink room lined with long wooden work benches. I'm given a gum-making tutorial by Sam Bompas himself, who dashes out the back to retrieve my flavours. He returns with a vial full of caramel coloured liquid, which I'm told to squirt on my clear gum base and then stir furiously. Icing sugar and citric acid is then added, and more stirring ensues.

'Would you like to add a colour?' Bompas enthuses. 'Why not make it bright green?', he suggests, squirting a few drops of green food colouring into the mixture. I stir it furiously, until it's the texture of Play Doh, then pick it up, douse it with icing sugar and roll it into small gum balls. Impatient, I pop one in my mouth, fearful of what I'm about to chew. Luckily, the crème brûlée dominates and it's surprisingly tasty.

The foie gras is definitely in there, but it's the custard-like, vanilla backbone that lingers. I finish rolling my pea green gum balls and pop them into a tiny white Bompas & Parr box. For their next trick the boys want to go one further and create a gum that changes flavour mid-chew, from savoury to sweet, recreating the Three-Course Dinner Chewing Gum Violet Beauregarde has the misfortune of eating when still in the testing phase in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, turning her into a giant blueberry. Wonka would be proud.

Black Moth truffle vodka launch at 33 Portland Place

I'm standing in the hallway of the grand 18th century residence of Lord Edward Davenport – 33 Portland Place. The walls are mint green, and to my left is a sweeping staircase I desperately want to climb, but I'm ushered through to the cocktail room before I get the chance.

I'm here for the launch of Black Moth, the world's first all natural truffle infused vodka. I'm a truffle nut, so the event was a no brainer.

Before we sit down for a truffle-filled dinner, a selection of Black Moth cocktails await. First up I try the Black Moth with Tio Pepe Fino Sherry. It sounds like a strange combination, but somehow it worked. I bypass the Black Moth Martini and go straight for the stronger poison – Black Moth and Absinthe, with a few drops of Sauternes for good measure, expertly mixed by Panu, the Finnish mixologist.

Cocktail in hand, I get talking to truffle aficionado and self confessed 'forager' Paul Thomas, a young blond with corkscrew curls in a cream suit. 'You'll have to excuse me, I'm a complete truffle geek', he warns me, before explaining how the vodka is made, from sourcing the highly sought after black Périgord winter truffles from Périgord in South West France, chosen for their rich, earthy flavour, to the vodka's vigorous distillations process – each batch is distilled five times and triple filtered for a soft, velvety mouthfeel. 'It took two years to refine the flavour', admits Paul. 'It's been a labour of love'.

The vodka is 100% British, made from grain. A bell tinkles and we're summoned to dine. We move into a wonderfully shabby chic conservatory with a domed glass ceiling and paint peeling off the walls. In keeping with the theme, everything is black, from the chandeliers to the table cloths. Silver platters piled high with black truffles are decadently dotted about the room. It's all very gothic chic - like a scene from Anne Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho.

We begin with a Black Moth shot. It's interesting to taste it naked. I think I prefer it straight; more of the flavours come through. The nose is incredibly potent – earthy and slightly oily, it smells remarkably like the Périgord truffles it's infused with. I wasn't sure if they'd be able to pull it off, but they have. The palate is surprisingly smooth for a vodka.

Dinner begins with a palate cleanser – Black Moth sorbet, swiftly moving on to a starter of Lobster Cornish crab salad with truffle beluga caviar jelly and soft poached quail egg. It's a work of art, finished off with three big slithers of Périgord truffle. I'm in heaven. On to the main: Welsh Salt Marsh lamb stuffed with truffle, with a pistachio crust in a wild mushroom sherry jus. I deviate from the Black Moth and move to the Rioja on offer – an excellent wine match for the juicy, tender lamb.

Desert is an exciting affair – white chocolate pannacotta and truffle vanilla sorbet served with a trio of Beatrix Potterish blackberries in an exquisitely crafted golden sugar cage. The truffle sorbet is subtle and delicious. I can't quite believe, after three courses and numerous cocktails, that I'm not truffled out, but I clearly can't get enough. To round off the evening we're presented with a pretty pink Moth Flower cocktail in tiny egg cup glasses. It tastes of Palmer Violets and takes me straight back to the playground.