marco
'At least the tables wore white and the pink rose on each was fresh'

Marco

Open Tue–Sat 6pm–10.30pm

The night after Chelsea’s own John Terry had saved England from disaster against Ukraine with a goal-line clearance, the lads were lining up for me. Not in person, you understand, but billboard poster-sized pics of Ashley Cole and JT himself, as I made my way from Fulham Broadway to the unlovely concrete square housing Marco’s. If you’re not a Chelsea supporter, my advice is to take a taxi.

Marco’s sits next to Frankie’s and though I have no idea who Frankie is, I do know that Marco is Marco Pierre White, once of Harvey’s fame, now pin-up boy for Knorr Stock Pots. Marco had joined forces for this venture with Chelsea’s oligarch, Roman Abramovich. I wondered why it hadn’t been called Marcovich’s or Abramarco’s. Much more snappy, surely.

‘Hmm, looks a bit dead round here’ Hot Date had just texted, and then as I approached, an even more soul-destroying text: ‘No rush, just to warn you… Jazz, rosé, cosy corner, banquette and six other people here. Sorry!’ She was right. To be sorry, that is. If the approach to Marco’s was desolate enough, my heart sank faster than a Swedish sunrise in winter as I entered to the deathless tones of Catch a Falling Star. Marco had all the ambiance of a morgue and the Ratpack muzak just piled on the misery.

The design brief was presumably to come up with something cool. Like thick, apparently spandex-coated pillars that were too thick for pole dancing. A bar with no-one sitting at it. Rock ‘n’ roll photos on dark walls.  If you’re thinking Hard Rock Café, the management would have given a limb or three for half those queues. In an attempt to create atmosphere, the lights were dimmed, but since it was still light outside, the desired romantic effect failed to materialise. At least the tables wore white and the pink rose on each was fresh.

The menu, a printed diner-style list, appears to share the same printer as Frankie’s next door, with a limited list of predictable-looking dishes. I had thought it best to play things safe but the menu left me no alternative. The starters looked the most appetizing of the sections with main courses consisting of fish, steak, roasts and grills. Everything shouted comfort food, but at least I wasn’t vegetarian. Hot Date, who was, settled for the two starters, one of which was obligingly bigged up into a main course for her.

My first course, a neatly laid out, wafer-thin sliced carpaccio of tuna, was delicately offset by flavours of ginger with the fragrance of coriander adding a summery dimension. It came across as both cool and savoury. The slimness of the slices made the texture bland – and safe. Hot Date’s beetroot with goat’s cheese and walnut was prettily presented and the effect wasn’t just cosmetic. The sweetness of the beetroot was offset by chunky little lumps of bitey goat’s cheese and a few crunchy walnut pieces topped with coriander.

The 10oz peppered rib-eye steak with two fried oysters winking at me disconcertingly appeared to have been hammered into submission by a meat tenderizer. It was rather flat for a rib-eye and the meat, while tender and juicy, seemed to have lost its firmness of texture – safe. I was a bit surprised at how thin it was, so thin in fact that it ended up more medium rare than rare, and the peppery coating was a little too hot for the accompanying Chianti. In its favour, it was tender and juicy and tasted of quality beef while the surf ‘n’ turf juxtaposition of strong oyster and rib-eye flavours worked just fine.

Hot Date’s artichoke barigoule consisted of tender hearts layered terrine-style, synchronised with onion and carrot swimming in a buttery sauce and the benefit of wine and citrus. The selection of English cheeses looked appetizing but neither of us was in the mood for cheese and since the puddings had a wintery feel to them, we chose the Eton Mess, knowing that light meringue and berries would be involved. It came in a tall glass, meringue, cream, ice cream and a few crushed raspberries that might have been better identifying themselves as the real thing.

The note-free wine list was on the peremptory side with a nod in the direction of the New World and some pricey classics, a 2001 Lafite at £1,600, a 2000 Giacomo Conterno Barolo at £890, in the unlikely event perhaps that one of the co-owner’s thirsty mates might happen to drop by. We settled for wines by the glass, a mood-setting Laurent Perrier to start with, then a Chianti for the man and a Chablis for the lady. Strangely, instead of being poured at the table, the glasses were brought to us with the wine inside. On my way home, I received a text from Hot Date: ‘Thanks for joining me somewhere so unglamorous and unbuzzy!’

Marco, Stamford Bridge, Fulham Road, London, SW6; www.marcorestaurant.org; 020 7915 2929

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