As a birthday surprise for my beloved, I booked a table at The Ivy, a restaurant whose reputation precedes it like a pair of large but well-supported breasts, the name as familiar to most Londoners as the name of their own mothers.
And really, I wasn’t much bothered whether I liked it – I just wanted to go. After years of hearing second and third hand reports, I fancied witnessing the truth for myself. And I’ll admit that the ringing endorsement on the restaurant’s website from the mouth-watering A.A. Gill did a fair bit to whet my appetite further. Any friend of Adrian’s is a friend of mine. Apart from his girlfriend/mother of his children. She can get stuffed.
Anyway, The Ivy. It was nice. The staff was friendly and unpatronising. We had a good table where we could see everyone coming in and Alistair Campbell going out although the birthday boy was frustrated to miss my sole celebrity spot. Our herb salad starter was delicious. The Sunday lunch was fine – the roast beef was a perfect specimen – but serve the veg on the plate instead of in a silver dish and the whole meal could easily have been prepared in an average gastropub. My rhubarb pudding bordered on sickly, although perhaps the fact that it was called ‘Lardy Cake’ should have been enough for me to consider myself forewarned.
There’s nothing much wrong with The Ivy but there’s not enough right with it to justify the hype. The necessity of booking weeks in advance for what is, in all, a pretty unextraordinary dining experience will be enough to put me off in future. Still glad I went though. And fortunately, Simon seemed to enjoy himself which, difficult though it is for a self-centred only child to admit, is really all that matters.
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