Bertorelli, Frith Street

I met my father outside the Curzon Soho for a meal before heading off to see fantasy romp Stardust (the sort of film that gives me unconditional happiness). With so many places in Soho we couldn’t decide where to go, but I wanted to check what had opened on the site of my previous favourite Frith Street Italian, Tomato. It turned out to be Barrafina, which from the outside looking in appeared to be pretty authentic and very lively. Probably tremendous tapas too if it’s anything like its sister restaurant, Fino on Charlotte Street. But we weren’t in the mood for a la plancha cooking and headed off to the Bertorelli opposite.

The room was large and rather characterless but non-offensive, although the tables for two were a bit too close together in a pack ‘em in way. On being seated we were offered a choice of water: tap, still or sparkling and went for two glasses of tap with lemon. It’s rare to be offered tap water in a restaurant and should be done in more places. The menu is pretty straightforward with antipaste, pizza, pasta and meat and fish dishes with a selection of sides. Not the cheapest chain but the food looks more interesting than Strada or Café Uno. After a very heavy meal the night before, I went for a buffalo mozzarella caprese salad with basil and pine nut dressing. Unfortunately the bocconcini were too cold and rubbery, lacking the creaminess I was craving, and the tomatoes didn’t have enough flavour to carry the dish. The pine nuts seemed to have disappeared altogether. For around £6.50, this was a disappointment that I could have made better at home with the helping hand of Waitrose. My father had calamari which looked much as it always does when fried.

The service was very fast and our main courses arrived almost as soon as our plates had been cleared. This is fine for pre-theatre, but as we had time to kill it felt a little rushed. I’d decided on roast salmon with balsamic roasted onions, cherry tomatoes and black olives with spinach while my father had settled on ravioli with salami, mortadella, spinach and a brandy sauce. We shared a side of zucchini fritte. The salmon was cooked well, rare, if you can do that to a fish, nicely pink and wobbly on the inside. The onions were somewhat acidic on their own but worked when teamed with the fish. The olives overpowered the dish but had good depth of flavour. It worked, just, saved by the salmon. Sadly the zucchini were a let down. I adore the things and order them pretty much whenever I see them on a menu, but these were cut too thickly and were subsequently too hard. They weren’t bitter and the batter was fine but they could have been the star of the show. The pasta looked tasty enough but I neglected to steal a forkful.

As the food had come so fast we decided to have a peek at the puddings. There were a number of tempting options with an emphasis on ice cream. While we deliberated, my father filled me in on family developments stemming from his trip over to Gloucester to see the relatives. Top of the list was the news that my cousin’s husband, the undertaker, and somehow acquired a surplus to requirements coffin that he was intending to turn into a drink cabinet. Given that the house is already stuffed to the gills with gargoyles, masks and photos of red telephone boxes, it will certainly fuel gossip at the school gates. In the end I predictably went for the tiramisu and my father opted for the raspberry sorbet with amaretti biscuits. The tiramisu proved to be the surprise hit of the meal – not as good as homemade of course (they always skimp on the mascarpone) but much better than the bricks of cream, sponge and cocoa you often get. This was properly steeped in coffee, moist and fairly rich.

We polished off the food with a bottle of Orvieto Classico from the all-Italian wine list. It was appley at first and easily drinkable, ok but not one I’d go for again. I didn’t see the bill but for around the same price you could get a better meal in a place with bags more character. Or something a lot worse. So it’s a safe bet, but uninspiring. Next time we’ll squeeze into a spot at the counter of Barrafina.

Smiths of Smithfield

Smiths can be intimidating with its bouncer, heavy doors and rows of men in suits lining the long wooden tables. The ground floor bar is also rather dimly lit and I had a couple of near misses before finding my friend M who was nursing a glass of house red (a Sangiovese) and her blackberry. The long metal bar was in keeping with the exposed bricks and pipework of the place and the Chilean Cabernot Sauvignon felt suitably macho, although after the couple of G&Ts earlier it was a little cloying. It’s a noisy room, rather echoey, the music (dance) matched the buzz. Lifts, stairs and a cloakroom/bookings/info window in the corner with the different floors labelled, much like a department store. Autumn has properly set in and the draft from the door (despite its weight, slow to close) and the practical rather than comfortable benches didn’t lend well to lingering.

We decided to eat on floor 2 – the Dining Room. Brief stop at the loo on the way up where I was disconcerted by the broken light in the cubicle, and by the toilet attendant manning one of the hand dryers. Staff in toilets make me uneasy – I can wash my hands perfectly well by myself, and I don’t tend to take my purse in with me. So it’s awkward smile and thanks but no thanks if I’m not stealing the lollies (hmm, there’s something wrong about sweets in loos). There was no problem getting a table for two: at 7.30pm the room was still fairly empty and we were seated by the window looking out over the roof of Smithfield market. As the evening drew on the room filled up – the high ceilings and centre well didn’t help the acoustics, although it’s not meant to be a place for an intimate meal.

Bread was rosemary focaccia with a crusting of salt and a traditional granary which we dunked in oil and vinegar and wolfed down. It would have been nice to have the option of butter but no hard feelings, I think my arteries took quite enough clogging. As the cab sav had been a bit heavy we went for the house red which started off going down well but ran out of steam before pudding. More likely it was us that were flagging, the portions were quite substantial. The menu was easily decipherable, split into larder, starters, soups, mains, grills and puddings, all grouped at the same price. I went for the fois gras and duck liver from the larder while M had squid with chilli jam. A creamy brick with two generous pieces of toast and a large blob of onion marmalade, it was quite a plateful and very tasty. The crunchy toast acted as a foil for the pate which melted like butter in the mouth. The squid was similarly plentiful and according to M very nice indeed.

Between courses we caught up on the gossip: new jobs, why on earth school friends hadn’t moved back to London after university and the problem with Luxemburg (everyone lives in France or Germany so the country empties after 5.30pm). Births, deaths and marriages – well, one out of three – and what to do when a living room’s effectively out of bounds. Deduct money from the rent? Our main courses arrived quickly, 9oz steak with chips and 5 spice duck (M going for an Asian theme). The steak was great, cooked exactly as requested (medium rare). Being a fusspot I left some bits that were overly fatty but I appreciate what they add to the flavour. Chips were so-so, not crispy enough and needed dunking in the wholegrain mustard mayo. I ended up leaving about half of them although M picked at them until they came and cleared the plates. I am somewhat culpable in preferring skinny fries to chunkier chips, but lack of crisp is NOT a Good Thing.

Some excitement when someone who might have been John Torode whizzed past with a wave; I only caught the back of a leather jacket and some wavy black hair as he headed from the kitchen and down the stairs. I decided I had enough room for pudding for the blackberry and ginger nut cheesecake, but its texture was rather too similar to the parfait and it lacked the necessary bite to cut through. Once again an enormous portion that I couldn’t finish – almost unheard of! I may have been better off with the chocolate and mascarpone torte with poached plum that initially tempted me. M’s apple tart thing got the thumbs up. We weren’t hurried along and chatted some more over the remnants of the wine but had run out of enthusiasm sometime before so got the bill. At around £70 including tip, this was pretty much on the money. Note to people insecure in heels: do not grip the wooden banister on the way down the stairs to support yourself, you run the risk of whacking your fingers against the sharp edge of the metal struts. Or maybe that’s just me. Twice.