Arriving at The London, we were immediately whisked through the casual, outer area, filled with hotel guests and tourists with subway maps, through large doors to The London's formal inner chamber, a square, jewel-box of a room, decorated in soft tones. Everyone spoke in hushed voices, at the twenty or so tables, placed within earshot of each other. We knew this would make for an interesting lunch. We were meeting our friend Peter, who took his name a little too literally. It was his duty to loudly preach the gospel of his sexcapades to his dining companions. We called him Mr. Fun. The other patrons were likely to call him Inappropriate.
We started with a salad of skinless heirloom tomatoes and an oval of ricotta and basil, doused with nutty brown butter, paired with Mr. Fun hitting on a fashion intern at the Royalton. Arranged like a quilt, stripes of bright yellow and red tomatoes, the presentation reminded us of a carousel or Disneyland. We were momentarily transported back to childhood reveries (that occurred for us only on TV).
Next up was halibut with oyster mousse and tender potato cubes in a salty broth of pig tails, paired with the intern massaging Mr. Fun's crotch after finishing off a bottle of the Royalton's cheapest champagne. (Usually Mr. Fun didn't go for the inexpensive stuff, but he had no plans of ever seeing this girl again.) There were eyebrows rising around us, nothing we weren’t used to. It was the flourishes like oysters and tails that sparked our interest but, while Mr. Fun’s stories might have been overcooked, they didn’t come close to this dish’s rubbery chewiness.
So far, The London was like those box condo buildings developers have been throwing up around New York. They attract potential buyers with flashy touches like sommelier-staffed wine cellars in the building's basement or free bagel and dry cereal breakfast Monday through Friday in the entertainment lounge. They can only hope these flamboyant details will distract buyers from the building's shoddy construction.
The dessert course was the lunch's crescendo, for both the cooking and Mr. Fun's volume. A pineapple soufflé with a scoop of spicy Thai curry ice cream, paired with Mr. Fun banging the intern from behind at his kitchen island, then flipping on his dvr'd Sports Center. As we scooped up the last of the cool, gingery ice cream plopped into the middle of the piping hot soufflé, Mr. Fun's laugh drowned out the quiet coughs and sharp intakes of breath that surrounded us.
The London isn't horrible (some might not be as charitable about Mr. Fun), but it's not a place we'll hurry back to, no matter how catchy the presentation. Mr. Fun on the other hand? We've already scheduled dinner with him for next Wednesday.
Review: The London –
Mr. Fun’s Sexcapades – 3 olives – It’s like the pineapple soufflé – delicious every now and then, but you wouldn’t want to eat it every day.
Gordon Ramsey’s conspicuous absence from the kitchen – 3 olives – Being a reality TV fan – we were disappointed that he wasn’t at the service station, screaming at the sous chef. Though, we realize that he is a busy man. He must have been out back beating the bus boys.
Beauty without substance – 2 olives – Didn’t those who plan the restaurant realize that flashy touches can’t hide shoddy construction? It's like a reality show without the crying chefs that beg for forgiveness. Just not that interesting.
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