Review: Jamie Oliver Catherine Street
It’s 2pm on the Jubilee Line to Wembley. I’m surrounded by Luton fans chanting about their desire to kick Graham Taylor’s head in, ignoring the fact he’s been dead for nine years. I was not expecting to be walking into the roast-dinner-soaked air at Jamie Oliver’s flagship restaurant on Catherine Street just four hours later.
After three Luton goals, my Stockport supporting chum had seen enough and we fled the stadium, hankering for the safety of central London. As we raced down Wembley way, I searched for a bargain dinner. Splurging nearly £5 on a Pepsi Max had left my budget squeezed. Enter First Table and 50 per cent off food at Jamie’s.
With discounted meals expectations should always be low. If a place is popular, they don’t need to give the food away. And true to form, our visit didn’t get off to the best start. The hostess at the front desk didn’t have our reservation. Perfectly understandable - I’d only made it an hour before.
Did she apologise earnestly? No. Did she apologise superficially for keeping us waiting? Not even. She prodded the screen with her nail extensions without looking up. Then came the inevitable “follow me this way”, a phrase that never fails to transport me back to being led to the headmaster’s office. I know no one wants to work on a Sunday night. I know cheapscates are a pain. But a warm smile buys a lot of goodwill.
The restaurant is smaller than I’d imagined, mirroring the shrinking of Jamie’s stature from the nation’s favourite cheeky chappy to one of many celebrity chefs. But the decor is harmless - faux wood beams, white walls, an American style mirrored bar - and we’re getting our food half price. Things can only get better, right?
Wrong. For £7, my pals are treated to what looks like schooners of Guinness. Just charge more and give people a pint. It’s the perception of being shortchanged, not the reality of paying premium prices that irks.
Not wanting to take the Michael on discounted food, we skipped starters in favour of nibbles: bread, olives, and the ubiquitous whipped cod’s roe. Here, my softboi food intolerances caused chaos when I enquired as to whether they “might” have some gluten-free bread.
Our waiter was not certain. He’d have to check with his manager and report back: get this man a job in Whitehall. Ten minutes later, he’s before us again. They have gluten-free bread, but they’re not sure where it is. Everyone ordering gluten-free bread expects it to come straight out of the freezer, we are just hungry and in need of carbs. Bring it to us as quickly as you can with as little fuss as possible.
Sure enough, when it eventually arrives, the sad, thin squares taste like the inside of an ice pack. As our waiter drops off some butter, his colleagues bellows at him and into my ear “OH GREAT is that the parmesan I’m waiting for?” The fridgey white blobs look nothing like grated cheese.
The cod’s roe packs a punch of lemon, but the fried sage leaves accompanying it have been lying around in the kitchen. Batter turning soggy is one of my biggest culinary icks. I want it fresh out of the fryer and stinging my fingertips.
The mains are no better. The ribeye steaks are adequately cooked, yet our knives are blunt, leaving us sawing away like sixteenth century surgeons.
The chips and Béarnaise sauce are stone cold. Dipping a steaming chip into oozy Béarnaise should be one of life’s great pleasures. Next time I’ll bring my new portable air fryer.
Having been in the building for close to two hours, we skip puds and it’s time for the moment of truth. Would we face every discount diner’s worst nightmare?
The bill arrives, and surprise, surprise, it demands payment in full. A lump rises up my throat. It takes an age to catch our waiter's eye. I eventually fix him with a stare, put on my best smile, and utter the words: “I hate to be a cheapskate, but we booked on First Table...” It’s not his fault, the poor bloke. Our ‘hostess’ won’t have bothered to put a note on the computer system.
Discount applied, the damage comes to about £45 each. That’s acceptable. But if I’d parted with more than £50 for a middling steak with frigid sauce and chips, I’d have been spitting feathers. Flat Iron does a better job, and charges less than £20 for the privilege.
I’ve got nothing against Jamie Oliver. We both grew up above a pub - in my mind this makes us long lost brothers - and thought has clearly gone into his menu. The dishes spotlight seasonal British produce and read well; execution is the problem.
A quiet Sunday night should be an absolute breeze for any restaurant, let alone one with multi-millionaire backers in a prime central London location.
The only joy of the evening came from escaping without burning a hole in my wallet. My advice? Ditch the discounts, shun the celebrities, and give a local restaurateur your support. You’ll at least get a smile in return.