House at the National Theatre - restaurant review

You could be in an airport or hotel, or, come to that, an airport hotel, anywhere in the world that brute modernism ever scarred, says David Sexton
Soulless: House at the National Theatre
David Sexton19 November 2014

Many, many years ago I interviewed the architect of the National Theatre, Sir Denys Lasdun, on the occasion of the exhibition Le Corbusier: Architect of the Century at the Hayward Gallery. Knowing that the National Theatre was then little liked, he approvingly noted architectural writer Mark Girouard had called it “a smoulderer, not a fizzer”, and admitted: “It may take a lot of smouldering before its classical aspects come to the fore.” When I questioned the appeal of concrete in our climate, he said it was the only way the place could be built and then added, with bitterness I’ve never forgotten: “And if people don’t like dirty concrete, for instance, then they should clean it.”

The place is still smouldering then, still dirty, and now all the carpets are worn out too. The National Theatre, as a building, in its foyers and ancillary spaces at least, remains one of the most disheartening architectural experiences in London, however rewarding the auditoria or the views from the terraces, away, over the river. Its catering operations have always been singularly dreary too.

Now its upmarket restaurant, Mezzanine, has been revised into “a new dining destination”, House, given a “standing ovation” by listings mag Time Out. The room itself has been redesigned, the false ceiling and wall-coverings removed to expose Lasdun’s concrete again, beautified with the one decorative effect his Brutalism allowed, the impress of the coarse wooden boards used to form the concrete: building site chic.

Metal pendant lights hang over each table shedding pools of bright light; white plastic bucket seats stand on bentwood legs; there’s decent table linen, attentive and friendly but formally dressed staff. But there’s no view, no atmosphere, and a soundtrack of lounge jazz. You could be in an airport or hotel, or, come to that, an airport hotel, anywhere in the world that brute modernism ever scarred.

House feels very much like a nationalised industry’s concept of luxury. On the positive side, this means its over-written but well-chosen and fairly priced wine list tops out at just £70 a bottle.

The menu is familiar New Brit, none too exciting (chicken liver parfait, or vichyssoise, anyone?). A starter of ruby and candy beetroot with bull’s blood leaf, pickled radish, goat’s cheese and raspberry vinaigrette”(£7.75) was in painful contrast to the perfect one at L’Amorosa last week. The beetroots had that pickled taste, not sweet freshness, and the indifferent salad was decorated with stickily sugared pecan nuts. The radish slices tasted so sour they were hard to swallow. Portland crab with celeriac remoulade (£10.75) was just a tight timbale of picked crabmeat, a few tired leaves and a dollop of shop-quality celeriac mayonnaise on an oblong glass plate.

Strategically defensive ordering would be the best plan here, we concluded after this — fish and chips, steak with fries, then. But we had already ordered. Short rib and ox cheek bourguignon with Alsace bacon, chestnut mushrooms and creamy mashed potatoes (£16.75) sounded juicy but it wasn’t. In a big white bowl was a dry and deconstructed dish, consisting of separate pieces of meat, stewed for different times, and entirely separate onions and mushrooms, the exact opposite of the comfort food this should be. Pan-fried wild halibut with brandade, chorizo and broad beans (£24.50) was a buttery, overcooked and not notably fresh chunk of fish, overwhelmed by a chorizo reduction and topped by some superfluous salt cod mush, accompanied by skinned and puréed broad beans which had, I suspect, actually been sugared.

Yet the prize horror was the pudding we shared, orange mousse (£6.50), a creamy ball full of pith, sitting on an inedible sponge base, crowned with a white rose of disgusting, chewy marzipan.

The South Bank is full of chains: Wagamama, Wahaca, Strada, Canteen, Giraffe. Take your pick: they are what they are. A better plan post-play would be to hit the streets of Soho. As for Lasdun’s smoulderer, one has to admit there are substantial obstacles to a brighter future. In 1994, it was Grade II*-listed. And it is made of reinforced concrete. However, the US has developed some impressive bunker-busters recently, capable of cracking many metres of the stuff. The GBU-57A/B Massive Ordnance Penetrator weighs 14 tonnes. It’d be a start.

Upper Ground, South Bank, SE1 (020 7452 3333, house.nationaltheatre.org.uk). Open lunch Wed, Sat and performance Sunday, noon-2pm, dinner Mon-Sat 5.30pm-11pm. £120 for two.

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