What a thoroughly good Sport

Nick Foulkes10 April 2012

Considering that I'd told my dinner guest we were going to eat in the Grill Room of the Dorchester, he was remarkably sanguine when I switched venues at the last minute and we went to The Sports Cafe on Haymarket instead.

It was, I explained, a far more manly destination than the Dorch. Moreover, it was cheaper and, unlike the Dorch, we would be able to watch televised sports, enjoy a game or two of pool, and perhaps even get involved a light bar-room brawl.

The Sports Cafe is one of the highlights of the Haymarket, vying with such cultural attractions as The Phantom of the Opera for the attention of the discerning man about town.

Happily, we had dressed appropriately for the occasion: wing collars, spats, top hats, tail coats. And as we strolled into the neon-and-telly-screen-lit interior of The Sports Cafe, the melodious strains of Handbag House gently assaulted our ears. If music be the food of love, then I am sure that we would have left with severe indigestion.

I liked The Sports Cafe immediately. A quite pathological care has been taken with the d?cor. Unlike many top London restaurants, The Sports Cafe has not been made over by David Collins. Nevertheless, I'm sure that Sir David would approve of such witty touches as the brace of baseball bats used as door handles on the handsome plate-glass double doors.

The sporting theme is stretched to the limit. For instance, a sports motorcycle is suspended above a dancefloor, and anything from a boxing glove, with accompanying mugshot of John Conteh, to a seven-inch single bearing the name of a football team, has been shoved in vitrines and bolted to the walls - much in the manner that priceless religious artworks of the Middle Ages are exhibited at the V&A.

I had booked a table in the name of my guest, Jeremy Hackett. It seemed fitting: the Chairman's eponymous gents' outfitters is the supplier of branded polo shirts to Britain's sporting yoof. If you are ever fortunate enough to stumble across a pitched battle involving Our Lads at a sporting event in a far-flung corner of the world, you can be sure that, in the thick of the fighting, one of the brave bulldog breed will be wearing a Hackett polo shirt stretched over a beergut.

When I mentioned our reservation, a smile crept over the greeter's face that led me to believe that a more casual reservations policy prevailed at The Sports Cafe than at the Dorchester Grill.

We were shown to a booth-like table in a gloomy dining area off the main bar. Each booth is equipped with a small television screen showing sports, complementing the broadcast on the larger screens hung randomly around the room. However, I was far more interested in the action at the bar, where a man affecting the headgear of Badly Drawn Boy, accessorised with a pair of wraparound shades, was holding court.

Occasionally, from his group of acolytes, a ragged cheer would go up and, at one point, it seemed that a fight would break out as one man bumped into another fuller-figured fellow, toppling him from his bar stool.

At this point, our charming waitress, in a skimpy cheerleader-style outfit complete with cut-off T-shirt, distracted my attention from the brawl and made me concentrate on my order. The menu is a masterpiece of sporting nomenclature. It is divided into a number of headings: Warm Ups, Lightweights, Middleweights, Heavyweights, the Italian Open (pasta dishes), the Premiership Pizza, On the Sidelines and Extra Time (puddings).

The Chairman kicked off with a Power Play Satay while I toyed with a plate of Mile High Nachos. The Chairman had the better of the first half: his chicken satay was perfectly adequate.

My nachos comprised a large mound of corn chips coated in an adhesive mixture with the texture and taste of congealing molten cheese. It was accompanied by salsa, sour cream and guacamole. The guacamole had that reassuring darker outer crust that the connoisseur recognises as a mark of maturity. I devoured it in much the same way that a lager-crazed football hooligan might fall upon a burger, kebab or balti.

At half-time, we were tempted to sample the entire range of Red Bull cocktails in an attempt to fortify ourselves for the rest of our supper. But we pressed on with the second half, in which I had the upper hand.

My Sportsman Salmon Salad was not bad. It was covered in a thick, brown sauce, but when I had scraped this off, I found a perfectly reasonable salad and a rather adeptly grilled tranche of salmon. Meanwhile, the Chairman had Pole Position Chilli, which was a near action replay of my first course.

Instead of being piled in a heap, the tortilla chips were arranged in a circle around the chilli and accompanied by sour cream, cheese and jalape?os. He pronounced it 'entirely tasteless', but later modified his opinion to the oxymoronic 'memorably forgettable'.

Strolling upstairs to watch some pool, inspect a few cases of memorabilia and then depart, we noticed that the crowd of raucous men had left the bar. 'They've probably gone minging,' said the Chairman, explaining that minging is a colloquial expression that roughly translates as getting riotously drunk before attempting to attract members of the opposite sex. The Chairman really is a man of hidden depths. I've already booked a lapdancing club for our next evening out together.

The Sports Cafe
80 Haymarket, SW1Y 4TE

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