A mighty chef …but I won’t be rushing back

The Secret Guests

B W Black

Viking £8.99

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We go back a long way, Claridge’s and I. Rather longer than I care to recall, in fact, somewhat nearer to a half-century than a mere quarter. Tempus bloody fugit. But some of my earliest food memories emerge from the mighty dining room of this magnificent hotel, where I’d sit, hair plastered to my scalp and coaxed into some insufferably uncomfortable collared shirt, alongside my grandmother, sister and the rest of our ilk.

And as the ever-present string quartet played gently in the corner, battalions of betailed waiters would gather around and lift vast silver cloches in military unison. To reveal a great plate of spaghetti Bolognese. I’m pretty sure that’s all we ate. That and immaculate scoops of bitter chocolate ice cream. Bliss. Pure bliss. My grandmother had a permanent suite at the hotel. As did my great grandmother before her. ‘So much easier than a house, darling,’ she’d say. Well quite.

Those elegantly sybaritic days are long past, but I continued to eat here, first at Gordon Ramsay, then Simon Rogan. Claridge’s has always managed to keep abreast of current culinary zeitgeist without ever resorting to the dumb chasing of trends. And so it goes on, with the appointment of Daniel Humm, a genial Swiss who first trained in the hotel’s kitchen at the age of 15. Before going on to establish and run the much-lauded Eleven Madison Park in New York.

I’d actually been to Davies And Brook once before, days after opening. I remember a lot of kerfuffle with a pair of heated tongs and a cheapish bottle of wine that cried out for an old-fashioned corkscrew. And a rather expensive caviar supplement, where the blessed eggs were served in a piece of cooked butternut squash. It looked pretty but I just couldn’t see the point. That said, it was in that crazed, genially debauched run up to Christmas. And I might have been a little over-refreshed.

So I return, in January’s glum, watery light, to that vast room, with its soaring pillars, expensively innocuous dove grey tones and chilly, Icelandic landscapes. It’s certainly not the warmest of rooms, something that has little to do with the heating. And a space that’s difficult to love, especially with irritating Muzak trilling in the background. Service is predictably immaculate and well drilled, although this isn’t the sort of place where ‘we’ll just pour the wine ourselves’. Dear God no.

At its best, though, the food is nothing short of exquisite, and simply confirms that Humm is an inspired chef with magisterial command of texture, acidity and umami. Handsome wooden boxes are borne to the table, containing the most delicate and deeply savoury of congees, spiked with mildly vinegary wild mushrooms. Simple yet sensational, it’s a dish that doesn’t feel the need to holler its brilliance. The same with the next freebie (and everyone gets these, not just your overfed critic), a cold enoki mushroom salad, sharp with lime and slightly pongy with fish sauce, with a texture that quivers between pert and slimy.

Then immaculate ceviche hidden under a layer of sliced avocado, beautifully presented and as gentle as it is pure. And the most astounding king crab chawanmushi, a Japanese egg custard, all silken curds, tart dressing and sweet crustacean. This is cooking of the very highest level, incandescently good.

A main of stuffed poussin is a little less exciting, technically adept and reassuringly safe. Like nursery food in a Chanel suit. But after the thrills of the starters, this left me unmoved. And despite Humm’s mighty talent, I won’t be rushing back. Because a great restaurant is never just about the food and service. Rather those ephemeral, all-important and impossible to manufacture qualities: heart and soul. OK, it’s still early days. And atmosphere can take time to seep in. But for now, Davies And Brook is a place to respectfully admire, rather than passionately love.

From £72 per head