Openings, reviewsWhat’s on the menu? - A round-up of the latest restaurant reviews(07 February 2008 11:19)Bloomberg, 7 February The place looks great, and so do most of the staffers. Huge vases with jumbo flower displays dominate the marble bar, while the venue -- currently on two floors, including a basement lounge -- goes for a maximalist look. It's a bizarre mix of styles, including baroque, French chateau, 1970s and New York warehouse. The restaurant is in two parts, with a raised platform at the back of the ground floor and other tables circling the bar. My favorite spot is close to the door, which is perfect for people watching, with a parade of outfits worthy of London Fashion Week. Article continues below
Time Out, 6 February This might be the first restaurant from Gordon RamsayTM to be an underachiever. It’s not that Foxtrot Oscar is a bad restaurant – it’s an adequate neighbourhood place – it’s just that it’s so lacking in soul and the food is so unremarkable that you wonder why you didn’t stay home and cook instead. After a long refurb we now have an inoffensive little place, decorated like a Jurys Inn meeting room, turning out dull food much in the mould of the old Foxtrot Oscar. Evening Standard, 6 February Dehesa is a difficult name to get your head round. Even if you know that it refers to grazing land in Spain's Extremadura, where evergreen oaks and cork trees provide shade and food for Iberian pigs who rootle around ultimately to delectable effect - well, you know now - it makes it no easier to remember or convey to someone you are meeting. Perhaps it is of little consequence since at Dehesa no bookings are taken. This Spanish-Italian restaurant is a sibling of Salt Yard, in Goodge Street, which offers the same pairing of the two countries' wines, cured meats, cheeses and small dishes which tend to be more elaborate than the usual tapas. Metro, 6 February Last time I was here things were very different. For one, I could stay up all night till six in the morning and blearily find myself fancying a mammoth, meat-frenzy breakfast – hold the kidneys, extra haggis – in what was then a moody, verging on skanky, old boozer. The place smelled of blood, from the stained clothes of the traders from neighbouring Smithfield Market and the oozing black pudding on my plate. You jostled for a table with thick-necked, meaty City traders and night-shift doctors and nurses from nearby St Bart's.
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