Restaurant Review: Riviera (St. James's, London)
The south of France north of the Thames...
I ended up at Riviera on a nondescript Thursday night in May sort of by accident. I had finished my business in London that afternoon, so decided to visit a nice cigar lounge near where I was staying in St. James’s to “sample” (what you have to call it to adhere to the legal loophole that allows for smoking indoors in London) a corona and probably a whisky before heading off to a pub for a quick bite and turning in on the early side. As it happens, I hit it off with a couple jovial Liverpudians who were also there for a “sampling” and my departure was delayed. More cigars were cut, the brandy started flowing, and before I knew it, it was past closing time for all the pubs and I hadn’t eaten anything except a handful of bar nuts.
I looked at my phone (10:30pm), and opened the maps app with fingers crossed, hoping to find a nearby orange circle with a knife and fork that still said “open”. My finger happened upon Riviera two blocks away - open until 1:30am. Score! Off I went into the night with my hunger increasing in inverse proportion to my fading brandy buzz. After a short walk I saw the sign and double entrance doors, which were tended by a doorman in a dark suit. As I approached, he greeted me and inquired about my reservation. (Uhm…..) He welcomed me to go in and speak to the maître d’, but the tone of his voice did not exhibit a high level of confidence they would be able to accommodate me without a reservation. So I headed in and approached the elegant-looking lady at the podium (it was either this or a bag of crisps and supermarket beers from a 24 hour Sainsbury’s…). She greeted me with a friendly smile. (“You’d like to join us for dinner?? Of course!”). Turns out it really wasn’t an issue.
I was advised the place had only opened two weeks prior and the finishes weren’t quite, er, finished. But you could see what it was to become and it was really beautiful, with a sort of modern art deco design aesthetic. The escalator leading up to the second floor dining room wasn’t yet “escalating”, but goodness knows, in retrospect, I needed a good stair climb for what was about to ensue.
I was seated at a candlelit table for two (in my case, one) directly across from a bar abutting the corner of the room that was very “on theme” - it practically screamed French Riviera. Seated at the table next to me were two young American women who, from the sound of them, were a special brand of obnoxious. While I had enjoyed the company of the strangers I met over cigars earlier, I really didn’t want to talk to these people, and since it seems like Americans who encounter each other in other countries react like dogs who encounter each other in parks, I was concerned about my own accent given me away. As the waitress approached, a pondered for a split second whether to just feign being English before realizing I knew people who did that and they were insane. So I just spoke quietly in my normal voice, and fortunately the women either didn’t care or were too self-absorbed to notice.
By now I was famished and everything on the menu looked extra fantastic. While my stomach yearned for something of substance, it was the “cartes des vins” that drew my eye first. And what a “cartes” it was… 1983 Château Margaux?? Wowzah! But drinking-brandy-with-northerners-past-closing-time-everywhere-else is not a special enough occasion for that. So I went considerably down-market with the 2019 Château Le Breton - a right bank heavy hitter at 55 quid.
Robust and tannic, the wine offered ample notes of leather, dry currants, and plums. The fruitiness got a bit more sprightly after the wine got some air, with some berry tones coming through at the finish. A solid table red for a guy eating with himself.
Speaking of eating, with wine corked and tummy still grumbling, what was it going to be? I opted to start with the Ratatouille & Feta Cheese Brioche, which was really nice - the sweetness of the tomatoes and squash in the ratatouille balanced nicely with the salty tang of the feta. Yum! Was the dish prepared by rat chef? Probably not, but who knows? I didn’t really care at that point… the brioche grillée was satiating me and it was bliss.
Next, came the main course, and for this I didn’t mess around. What else could I do but the “Côte De Boeuf Grillée & Sauce Poivre Vert” - a 1 kilo grilled ribeye, medium rare, and sliced thin with a green pepper sauce. Now, I consider myself to be a pretty advanced carnivore. I have consumed grilled bovine flesh at some of the places considered to be the very best in their respective geographies - Luger’s, Gibson’s, St. Elmo’s, Al Biernat’s, you name it. I don’t know exactly where this ribeye places among them, but I do know it is definitely top three I’ve ever had. The meat was succulent and perfectly prepared. It didn’t come out noisily sizzling on a 1,300 degree platter; no, the plating was elegant and understated. And eating it went beyond sustenance - it was experiential. It practically melted in my mouth, and the sauce poivre vert was perfection. If it were any nearer to the realm of social acceptability, I would have licked the plate.
As an “accoutrement” I got the “Purée de Pomme de Terre”; simple, lovely mashed potatoes. And they were divine. Mashed potatoes are one of the ultimate comfort foods, and when I make them at home I am consistently disappointed by my utter inability, no matter how I try, to get all the lumps out of them. These were not only not lumpy, but the presentation was a work of art, with circular swirls in a shallow pan. (I would have taken a picture but I couldn’t put down the fork…). I don’t know how much of the house’s homemade butter was in these potatoes, but it didn’t matter. I was in culinary heaven.
I should note that this was never going to be a “doggy bag” situation. I had to catch a flight to Frankfurt early the next morning and leftovers couldn’t travel with me. This left me in a predicament because, even though I had started out starving, having a kilo of steak set out before you can quickly change the stakes (no pun intended). But it would have been a sin to leave anything behind. So I did something very un-Francophile outside the context of foie gras… I gorged myself until every bite was gone. This left me fat and happy indeed, but wincing a bit when I saw my waitress (who offered spectacular service throughout) approach with the dessert menu. How does one cap off such a fantastic meal when even the dessert pocket is full? With brown liquid of course!
I had already started out my night with some brandies (I don’t know how many, don’t ask, I lost count) so I opted to, as they say, “stick with the one that brung ya”, finishing things off with a 1979 Vintage Bas Castarède Armagnac.
Can I say “dank apricots”? Is that a thing? It doesn’t sound right, but that’s the impression I got from it. Not in a bad way, quite the opposite. It was bulging with complexity, though it somehow gave me the sense that it was once “complexer” than it is now. This sucker needs to get drunk, and quick! (Waitress, bring me the rest of the bottle!!) Nah, by now the clock had ticked into the AM, and I was growing drowsy from a delightful evening. Tomorrow was a new day…
Riviera, 23 St James St, London SW1A 1HA - ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ (5/5)