Six Portland Road W11

It’s rare that I go into a restaurant and feel young. To be frank, it’s rare that I do anything these days and feel young, so it is with great pleasure that I report that there is a new restaurant in the ‘hood where those of a certain age and attitude will feel extremely at home.

The ‘hood in question is Notting Hill, but that bit just off the middle part of Holland Park Avenue, a little off the beaten track. There is an old shop sign for James Bricknell above the door, confusing me momentarily. Both lawyer and historian by training I am keen to find out whether this is just some cod signage of the sort I generally find unattractive or the real deal. I come across an entry in The London Gazette, giving notice that the partnership of James Uncles and James Bricknell (Decorators) of 6/8 Portland Road had been dissolved and all debts due and owing to the late firm would be paid by Mr Bricknell alone. That was his second dissolved partnership.

I’m not sure what Mr Bricknell, Decorator, would have made of 6 Portland Road, the restaurant, but if he had a penchant for decent French country cooking, I expect that he’d be very happy.

A simple white space, small tables, wooden chairs, long room and a kitchen at the back, this is classic neighborhood bistro territory. The chap behind the venture came from the Terroirs group and the chef worked at the lovely Green Man and French Horn of blessed memory. That alone is enough to stir me into action and I have been twice, in the same week.

I ask what is in the bowl. “Cervelle de canut” says the very French waiter. I worry about brains. I haven’t eaten them since a friend ordered them without consultation,  at Gymkhana, to be sprinkled over a curry, as an extra. I ate them but I’ve been quietly anxious about it ever since. The waiter notices my face and laughs. It’s fromage frais, he says, with shallots, vinegar, chopped chives and olive oil. I hoover it up on the salty toasts served alongside it. Once I have used all of them up, which is almost instantaneously, I move to the very good, very crusty French baguette of which we have two servings. Obviously. Although it may sound like it, I am not alone, but C is not quite as enamoured of the silk worker’s brains (for that is what Cervelle de Canut translates to) so I have free rein.

Particularly good were the Mussels Mouclade, fat pinky-orange mussels in a curried stock. Think moules mariniere goes east. Creamy rich stock, with a taste of old fashioned curry powder, this demanded more bread and I didn’t refuse. I can’t imagine why I haven’t had this dish anywhere else. And don’t think that there is anything wrong with curry powder, it is the authentic ingredient for this neglected dish and elevates it form the everyday to the status of I-must-try-that-at-home.

A dish of mackerel, chill garlic and fennel seeds could possibly have had a little more of the advertised chili and the plate was all a little dark, what with the charred mackerel skin, the new potatoes with the skin on and the dark spinach. What it lacked in colour it had in taste; the mackerel moist and rich, the potatoes cooked to the point of almost-chewy and the spinach grassily pungent. C’s steak looked the business to me but he pronounced it average, a little too much gristle. I think it may have been the anchovy butter topping that put him off his stride.

Not only that but he said that he found the menu a little limited, especially the starters and ended up with a plate of (very creditable) charcuterie as none of the cooked dishes took his fussy fancy. I give his view as I like to be fair in all things but as in so many other areas I disagree. French cooking, limited choice, not middle of the road. So much to be applauded in a restaurant which has the balls to set up in the very heartland of ageing left-of-centre upper middle class professionals and give them an uncompromising French regional menu rather than the safe bistro classics they might be expecting. So what if there are things you don’t like, when there is so much that is good?

A second visit brings an exquisite Catalan fish stew, with aïoli on the side. More of those fat mussels and this time with some prawns, cockles  and a firm white fish which may have been halibut. Saffron, parsley, tomatoes, wine, all boiled down to a rich, deep, rust-coloured stock, salty, dense with a hint of chilli. I adored this. Meanwhile, C was eating a rather soupy Risotto primavera which did not elicit sounds of joy. Good flavour (I tasted) and in words I can’t believe are coming out of me, a little heavy on the butter  and, yes,  too much liquid.

A good lemon polenta cake with vanilla mascarpone gave the requisite sugar hit with a single mouthful; a granular lemon drizzle, elevated to elegance by the cream.

Judgement: A neighbourhood restaurant for a neighbourhood which is already rather privileged, this is a restaurant which would sit very nicely in Fitzrovia or Chelsea. The lack of local competition for the grey brigade means that this is already mobbed by the late middle-aged and I see no reason to think that will cease any time soon.