Ottolenghi. Otto...leng...hi. Already you're in for something different. And you know it the minute you hit the lengthy queue of very very trendy people waiting to be seated. But it's OK. It moves along... unless you arrive at the end of a Saturday lunch where the previous diners want to sit there smacking their lips and rabbiting away to all their cool friends. But you would too, so shut up.
The food is a revelation. Fresh salmon or steak or quiche with two or three stunning to use Foxton-speak salads. Cold sweet potato with lemongrass yoghurt or fresh green beans with chili. Or any combination Mr. Ottolenghi and his magical crew have put together which you would never have thought of. Yum yum and again yum.
Mid week at around three thirty it all gets a bit Islington breast feedy. As appetising as if they'd sprayed the tables with bleach. I know I know it's tough when you're in purdah. But still, not here. Not now please. Try to remember life before you went out to restaurants.
So almost a perfect ten. Oh yes, and the cakes. To die for. This is a patisserie after all.
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