Flag Malfunction on HMS The Georgian
Knightsbridge was once the prefecture of plutocratic silk-scarved bouffanted battle-axes beating a path to the corner shop with their mahogany topped umbrellas and patent leather handbags. Said corner shop, Harrods, would service all their violet cream needs and offer a chance to purloin some sirloin for their equally fearsome canine companions. Upstairs from the fabled Food Halls, Harrods was also home to The Georgian, a vast pastel-hued mausoleum of a dining room. Part carvery, part peddler of passable nursery food and wheeler of trollies piled high with crustless sarnies that kept tourists and denizens of an old-world elite fed and watered throughout the day.
That breed of blue-blooded biddy has passed into lore and wealth of an international, particularly Emirati, flavour now flows through this neck of the woods. Harrods is the fountainhead of this Gulf stream - an association fostered during the despotic tenure of the Retail Pharaoh, Mohamed Al- Fayed, with whom scandal, traffic-stopping Jacko visits, bat shit design interventions and more pertinently, allegations of deplorable abuse at the 180-year-old West London institution became the norm.
The newish owners, QIA (Qatar Investment Authority), have since ladled time and money into making Harrods a destination to eat at as well as gawp at. The reimagination of The Georgian is part of that tireless programme. Cue a phalanx of designers from David Collins Studio who’ve breezed in to install a circuit of velveteen booths, reanimate the Art Deco flourishes and take a duster to the ornate plasterwork. Largely the renovation works, but it does look like some giddy kipper may’ve hit the Babycham hard one Friday lunchtime and tipped a bottle of glitter over the blueprints, The Siegfried and Roy-friendly gold lamé curtains shouldv’e stayed unbought and the miles of burgundy embroiled upholstery fabric evoke an after-hours US Supreme Court.
Michael Cummings ©
Calum Franklin, he of pie fame and ex of the Holborn Dining Rooms takes the helm in this chandelier-clad hanger. Franklin, is an amiable sort, telegenically-modified even. Kent’s answer to Jamie, A steely-eyed cheeky chappie, brimming with missionary zeal and ambition. It is his express wish that The Georgian become a beacon for chefs worldwide, drawn by his meticulous focus on ‘elevating British classics’. He’s done wonders for the humble pie and now wants to bring polish to other national dishes. A noble aim, not entirely mirrored in the menu of the restaurant for which he seeks to hold up as an exemplar. For all the talk of flying the flag and championing the best of British, this is a very curious list. I’m not sure Pâté en Crôute or Mittel Europa favouite, Veal chop with smoked paprika and sour cream sauce evokes Britishness per se. This is much less a jingoistic stand at the World Expo and much more like Friday night at Oslo Court. Neil Heshmat, the legendary master of ceremonies there, would feel right at home here, especially taking the reins of The Georgian’s newly-minted trifle trolley.
Proceedings kick off with ‘Snacks’ and a fine piece of buckwheat basketry topped with a Godminster cheddar custard and bejewelled cubes of glistening apple. Earthy crunch, cheek-sucking crystalline cheesiness giving way to pops of crisp sweetness. Clever. If it was starter sized - even better. Next, an old friend, the scotch egg. But oh my, why the sad face? What have they done to you? Why are you so cold little fella? What happened to your warm crunchy coat? Why is there onion marmalade all over your bum and why (oh WHY) have you been drowned in cockle-infused sauce escabeche? The scene has us reaching for Scotch Egg Line - surely we’ve found their poster boy. A soggy haddocky quail’s egg cowering in a dimly-lit suburban bus-stop dripping in vinegary molluscs. Poor bairn, we’ll say, as we liberate it from such callous culinary treatment.
High time for pies. The main event and the buzz was all pointing to the Georgian Pie (£90) - the result of much vintage menu research, we were told, This lamb pie, an intricate glossy shortcrust version with a bronzed David Dickinsonesque hue filled with well-rendered shoulder meat looked the part. However the research committee alighted upon the misguided idea of accompanying said pie with a smörgåsbord of side dishes that once graced lamb dishes of yore at The Georgian. OK, but as it turns out, not okay. Again, energy-saving on the deep-fryer was in evidence. Cold tempura anchovies, and oh Lord, tepid ratatouille, again not a natural John Bull bedfellow to a pie, lastly ‘deep-fried’ sweetbreads - fine but like the tormented scotch egg, fry it and serve it straight way. All the while, trollies, silver domes and great ceremony was attached to every element of the presentation which only underscored the utter folly of what hit the table. Even the pie, once ‘carved’ sat there mouth agape with it’s miserly filling slumped before it. This called for spud salvation, alas our single roast potato arrived slathered in sour cream. The sheer chutzpah of billing this kitchen as a sort of MIT-level finishing school for British cooking left us itching to wrap things up. We passed up the trifle trolley and sought refuge in a baked lemon tart which had the requisite snap and blistered gloss to snatch back a late goal.
A real knack with pastry is obviously in evidence here from Markus Bohr’s afternoon tea through to Franklin’s evening pies but it’s the fumbles and folderol that leave you wondering whether the boardroom demanded one thing but really wanted another. Much like it’s position in the department store, sandwiched between bed linen and woman’s fashions, this endeavour purports to be a grand British dining room but doesn’t quite have the nerve to be just that - which makes for a Pushmi-Pullyu restaurant.
This is a worrying turn for a chef who has won plaudits for talking openly about vanquishing his alcohol addiction and blew minds at the Pie Room in Holborn. Only to miss the mark with Public House, his British brasserie in Paris that lurches from Croque Monsieurs to Chicken Tikka Masala. In short, another hollow concept that didn’t dare meet it’s stated aim. It feels that his longheld desire to ride to the rescue of the capital’s faltering pie and mash shops is a good one and may just be his best bet from here on in. Slap a TV series in there and job done. Meanwhile, this unwieldy room seems set to drift back from whence it came, destined to serve another generation of idle rich and disappointed tourists whilst the trollies squeak and the plasterwork starts to peel once more.