Skylon

The South Bank is one of my favourite parts of London, so I was delighted to be spending my autumn family outing at Skylon in the Royal Festival Hall. We met in the RFH Bar, clusters of tables spread across the great space of the building, surprisingly empty on a Wednesday night. The bar itself felt a long walk away from the seating areas, moored centre stage while the chairs pushed up against the windows. With a G&T at £3.60, it’s not a bad place relax with a book or people watch on busier nights. Much better than the majority of pubs and bars clustered around Waterloo at any rate (the NFT bar on the river side is also a good spot, although I haven’t tried out the new one yet).

Skylon is on level 3 with its obvious selling point being the views across the Thames. We were eating in the brasserie and had a wonderful table next to the floor to ceiling windows looking out over the Hungerford Bridge and London Eye. The views don’t quite beat the OXO Tower round the bend which stretch across to the City but they’re pretty impressive all the same, all water and lights and reflections. We were asked if we wanted anything to drink pretty much as soon as we sat down, and before we’d had a chance to glance at the menu. My mother and I went for Kirs, which were pleasant enough – not too sweet! – while my father had a dry sherry (Tio Pepe, I think). The table looked elegant, round black leather mats and neatly rolled white napkins with knife and fork in the middle. This latter was slightly bizarre as we were given an additional set of cutlery when the table was laid for our starters and, unrolling the napkins, had our second pair in hand.

The brasserie menu is simpler than the restaurant, balanced between meat, fish and pasta and eggs. Eggs for dinner? Well, that’s what my brother went for. Bread and butter was brought round once we’d ordered our starters and wine: a Languedoc Sauvignon Blanc that was perfectly drinkable at £18 and an Australian Shiraz at £23 (the Argentinian Malbec had sold out). I couldn’t resist the bubble’n’squeak topped with poached egg to start. It was a risky move, the only time I ever have it is at my grandad’s house the day after Boxing Day and it’s something I always looked forward to. This was a neat golden pattie topped with a grilled flat mushroom and poached egg and was quite delicious, albeit in need of a little pepper. My father went for the same and was similarly pleased – it’s a very satisfying, comforting dish. My brother went for steak tartare having been keen to try it but not spotted it on any menus. It came in a ring with the egg yolk sitting perfectly in the middle and was, apparently, really interesting; “not what you’d expect it to taste like at all” (I believe this was a compliment). Fish soup was top of the list for my mother, appearing in a deceptively small but deep bowl with a side plate of traditional accompaniments. It all looked very pretty and tasted darn good.

Popping to the loo between courses is a bit strange – you head out of the restaurant, across the hall and next to the lifts. If you timed it badly you’d be fighting people at the interval. It’s an eerie experience padding across the carpets of a near-deserted RFH, and rather disconcerting having just left a bustling brasserie.

As I’m trying to cut back on my meat intake I opted for the lemon sole with brown shrimp for my main course. It was an enormous hunk of fish with a lovely flavour, complemented by the salty shrimp and the buttery sauce. I personally think I got the star of the bunch but my family were equally keen on their choices: pork tenderloin on polenta for my mother, guinea fowl with puy lentils and Iberico ham for my father and my brother’s eggs (poached, with white crab meat and hollandaise). We had sides of rocket and parmesan salad and French beans which were fine – hard to go wrong really. It’s a bit cheeky but not at all unusual to charge £3 for a small side when the main dish doesn’t come with any vegetables but that’s a minor complaint.

More of an issue was the service which, while charming, almost vanished after we ordered our puddings. Time taken from finishing pudding to getting the bill (ordering coffee in between) was over an hour, giving us plenty of scope to debate the class system in this country, whether we could use economic definitions to label people, whether this counted if it differentiated from how they might identify themselves, whether it is possible to identify yourself as one thing when the parameters have changed, and how the cult of celebrity contributed to the situation. Outcome? No-one likes to call themselves middle class, although most of us probably are (certainly my family at any rate – but don’t tell my mother!). Or maybe we just think that because of the circles in which we move.

Puddings were fantastic: an amazing chocolate brownie with vanilla ice cream and butterscotch sauce for me, warm, moist and nutty; pear poached in red wine with honeycomb ice cream for my father and special of the day, pecan pie, for my mother. And a glass of port for my brother. With three coffees and still and sparkling water it came to £216, service included. The food is great but the service, while cheerful, isn’t. It’s an experience worth having but be prepared for a wait and a fairly steep bill. The restaurant menu looks interesting and at £37.50 for three courses doesn’t look ridiculously pricey so I might be persuaded back for that in the future, once they’ve had a chance to iron the waiting issues out.