When the government party-poopers thought up the smoking ban legislation, I don’t suppose they realised that their policy would have interesting social dimensions. Firstly, we have the phenomenon of smoking widows. You can spot them easily. One moment they are engaged in conversation with another human, fully enjoying the restaurant experience. Next moment, they are suddenly alone. Devoid of company, they push their food around the plate, glug their wine and try to create the impression that they are absolutely fine on their own – in the process, of course, creating exactly the opposite impression.
The other phenomenon can be seen outside restaurants, clubs and pubs up and down the country. Groups of people huddled together, stamping their feet and trying to keep warm while puffing away. And pretty scruffy it looks too, if you ask me – I smoke, but I go for a walk down the street. Still, for those who do hang out together, it adds to the dining experience. You think you’re going on a date, for example, but you also get to mingle, legitimately, with other people. I suppose there can be good and bad things that come of this. For a couple not getting on so well, a quick fag break can alleviate the tension. But it could also break up relationships. I gather the word ‘smirting’ has already been coined to describe smoking-flirting; I wonder how many illicit relationships will spark up over the mid-dinner fag.
The chicken livers were very, very good. When it’s done well, i’d far sooner eat chicken liver than foie gras
I was pondering all this as I arrived at The Wells in Hampstead and had to edge my way through the cluster by the door. They spoiled an otherwise wonderful façade. It’s a great building and I wish there were more pubs that looked like it. It’s owned by Beth Coventry, whose sister is the restaurant critic Fay Maschler, and the walls are hung with paintings by Fay’s husband Reg. This is a good thing, by the way – I have a few Reg Gadneys of my own.
The place has a nice, discreet, clubby feel to it and the menu is equally welcoming. I started with the pear, Roquefort, baby red chard and pecan salad, which was rightly generous with the cheese. The last thing you want is a plate of leaves with a tiny bit of blue – you need big chunks to get the taste balance right. I also tried my wife Mati’s chicken livers, top right, which were very, very good. Whoever cooked them clearly understands how to remove liver from a chicken. Too often people are clumsy and deliver it broken and torn up like a sponge. Not this one, though, which was sweet-tasting and perfectly cooked. When it’s done well, I’d far sooner eat chicken liver than foie gras.
For our main course we shared the chateaubriand. It was a big portion served with lovely green beans and mangetout. I asked for medium rare and that’s how it came. It was nicely caramelised on the outside and showed that the chef had the confidence to do a good piece of meat justice.
Pudding was a little chocolate pot, bottom middle. Max Renzland, one of my favourite chefs of all time, cooks a rich, near-perfect pot au chocolat. I say ‘near-’ because until now I thought it was perfect. Beth’s is better. Dishes at The Wells allow ingredients to shine, and the no-nonsense menu means you don’t have to reach for a dictionary to be able to order.
Oh, and this place has games. Even solitaire, which you can play using olives as counters – so you don’t have to sit there like Norman No-Mates when your other half swans off for a cigarette.
Mr Ishii says...
"I hear this place does a good steak,” says MPW’s special assistant. “Well hung. But I only hear this as I have to sit in the car. Hampstead has big hills. Very big, like in Japan. My car is at a 45-degree angle when I park outside the restaurant. I feel like I am at the top of a cliff and nearly start screaming."