William Sitwell reviews Francatelli, London: ‘From the outset it felt like a rank Christmas in 1974’

I was a little surprised to hear that the Victorian chef Charles Elmé Francatelli was the inspiration for a new restaurant in Mayfair, housed in St James’s Hotel & Club, which is tucked away down the cul-de-sac of Park Place. Because 
I remember coming across his 1852 tome, A Plain Cookery Book for the Working Classes. To me it’s the Most Revolting Cookbook of All Time.

This Englishman of Italian extraction, who trained under Marie-Antoine Carême in Paris, first published The Modern Cook, a masterclass in monumentally impossible ornamental puddings, soufflés and unpronounceable French dishes, then turned to his intended gift to the poor. For those grateful, genuflecting working-class cooks he listed essential utensils that would have cost a labourer several months of wages. And then there were the recipes – for pigs’ feet (salt for four days, boil for three hours), potato pie (boil onions and potatoes, put in a dish, top with mashed potatoes), and his pièce de résistance: toast water (toast bread, put in a jug, add boiling water, cool, then drink). I’m not making this up.

One hundred and seventy-two years later, his name is on the door of a smart St James’s establishment, one of those semi-subterranean, fine-dining, small, discreet, tables-in-cubby-holes places with waiters shimmering left, right and centre. Except from the outset it felt like a rank Christmas in 1974.

Out from the kitchen came a freebie of six plums in blankets (think sugared slug in burnt bacon), followed by six cubes of cheddar in olive oil scattered with rosemary. Then a motley collection of misshapen ‘artichoke beignets’: deep-fried veg of a dull flavour, useful only if you wish to break wind savagely in two hours’ time.

We experienced considerable menu confusion, perusing it in the hushed, deep-carpeted room with feature walls of silvery flowers, ugly portrait caricatures and ceilings dripping in test-tube-like shimmering lamps. It advertises ‘bites’ (think cheese, artichokes and bread), ‘special’ (ham, scallops, oysters) and a variety of ‘sides’, and a chunk in the middle of the page lists mackerel fillet, terrine, Dover sole, shepherd’s pie and venison. No clue as to what might be starter or main course, apart from price, and pork terrine at £18 seems a bit steep for a starter even in these parts. But, after guidance from our waiter, that’s what I had. And what a miserable, oily little sliver it was, so sad next to some greying and vinegary piccalilli. But then again, as with that 70s Christmas (at the house of the uncle who couldn’t cook), we drank a nice French pinot.

It wasn’t quite enough to stop my pal Charlotte baulking at the bitter combo that was charred mackerel and pickled veg. The vision of bright-orange carrot, yellow onions, the pink skin of the fish and its white flesh was… How can I put this? Ill-advised.

Next up was Charlotte’s cep risotto, a gloopy heave of a dish. Marvellous and filling, perhaps, for those working-class Johnnies (at £30). And my ‘St James ham’. The fanfare of simplicity delivered three fat cuts of ham, topped with large carrots in thick gravy. It tasted as bleak as it sounds.

Sides were French beans and some delicious, crunchy roast potatoes, so proper congrats for that. And finally pud: tarte tatin (a little dry) with a pot of caramel. Which is cheating in my view, the caramel (molten sugar) being intrinsic to the making of the dish.

We left bewildered. But if, in some retro leap of the imagination, you’re a fan of Francatelli the Victorian chef, step this way…