On that menu, aside from staggering prices (a £98 lasagne, lamb chops for £77, barely a bottle of wine under a ton), is New York-Italian food. Food cannot really be the point here, which is just as well. The famous spicy rigatoni vodka, was, you know, fine. Lots of pepper and chilli, but otherwise a tomato sauce I think I last had with spaghetti hoops. The scallops rosmarino, a dish exclusive to London, were burly little things, sweet under a strip of lardo. There was some very fine tuna with breadcrumbs the size of gravel. Potato Louie — a side at £15 — was a gorgeous mess of garlic and duck fat. But lobster ravioli was characterless, and the veal masala had such an absence of flavour I momentarily wondered if Covid was back doing the rounds. I suspected the artichoke hearts were sent out as a threat. Still. There was a tremendously good martini, and a perfect Grasshopper for pudding, made on the spot with fresh mint.
