Restaurant Reviews

The River Café, and what’s in its name.
Thames Wharf, Rainville Road, London, W6 9HA
( 0044 207 3864200)

By Lucy Hopkins

“You after The River Café mate?  Yeah, well, you gotta squeeze through those cars and go round the back”. 

Fabulous.  I was yet to reach my luncheon location and, already, my expectations had been eloquently placed under a microscope and deliciously destroyed by a nonchalant chef on his cigarette break.

When researching an article, preconceptions are the enemy, however this restaurant’s name inevitably precedes itself (one would hardly come across it by chance due to its residential, docklands location) and recently I had found myself hard-pushed to cover my ears at every mention of the place.

I could not help but notice the way that people pronounce “The River Café” in conversation, with the same forcibly familiar emphasis on “River” as if aiming to disguise the less impressive common noun of “Café”.  I proudly observed that the same technique is employed with “Café Rouge” and similarly with “The Houses of Parliament” (which are hardly houses).  We tend to revel in “personal irony”, assuming that part of the prestige of The River Café lies in its tongue-in-cheek, banal name, which, by default, shouts exclusivity and grandeur.  My mission was suddenly clear; to gage exactly how ironic the commonplace title is relation to the whole River Café experience.  This done, I could then determine exactly why concerned glances and surprised nose-shrivels are directed your way upon the slightest insinuation that you may not have heard of The River Café i.e. Culinery London Legend / Media Celebrity Extraordinaire of the Naked Chef / Nigella genre.

I entered this “café”.  Paper table-cloths? Check.  Stainless steel seats? Check.  Hussle and bussle? Check.  However, in this whitewashed, spot-lit warehouse, there is not a greasy spoon in sight, but forks elegantly poised in mid-air and chefs visibly busying themselves behind the long counter.  Upon my enclosure in a ladies’ cubicle, I was met by my reflection in sparkling blue Perspex from all sides and knew that this was indeed no café.  River?  Yes (the Thames sluggishly visible through the wall length window).  Café?  Spotless menus (which had been printed especially not only for the particular day upon which I was about to dine but also for the particular meal) screamed no. 

So what is the crux of the irony surrounding the “café”?  Easy.  The strategically balanced parade of pumpkins along the low outside wall should have given the answer away immediately.  The prestige rests on seasonal perfection.  I began to envisage the similarly simple décor had I visited three weeks earlier…  I am convinced that the pumpkins would have had conkers as their predecessors… Perhaps punnets brimming with blackberries…

My seven foot waiter, complete with biro behind the ear and a blue shirt reminiscent of my cubicle experience, acts instantaneously upon my appraisal of the olive oil, crouching to relay, with articulate pride, the six different olive groves The River Café have selected to contribute to their particular woody, peppery blend.

I must pause to explain that for a “pseudo-italiana”, the lunch that followed could have been served in any decent Florentine ristorante.  However, for the Englishman on the quest for an Italian immersion, this is ottimo.  I am no mathematician, but having subtracted the bill from the cost of a metaphorical plane ticket, taxi fare and accommodation in Italy, I believe there would be the odd euro to spare.  The coffee must have been of the “Illy” brand served in cafés on the palm-studded bay of Naples… but I must go back a little…

I giggle (not only due to the frothy pear aperitivo of the day which I would class as a fruity, fizzy cappuccino with quite a kick) at the back of the menu which boasts, beneath the wine list, the renowned River Café recipe books.  These are available at various prices (depending on whether or not they are signed) and it seemed to me as though they are obtainable by the glass or indeed by the bottle.  Signed by whom?  Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers, the Richard Bransons of the enterprise who launched the project some twenty years ago by cooking lunch for the architect husbands in the next-door warehouse.  It is a credit to the exclusivity of The River Café that it has not moved or become franchised; instead it has carefully expanded and flourished.  I wonder whether the architects still get their food…

The “bruschette” chapter of the Easy River Café cookbook sells this particular starter, and quite rightly so as the porcini mushrooms on mine (seasonal to an S) were an absolute highlight. Interestingly, there is little garnish and minimal decoration to be found in the entire restaurant (of no more than 30 tables so best to book a few days in advance) which indicated to me that the quality of the ingredients says would say it all and embellish single-handedly.  Any flowers or unnecessary rocket sprigs may have been though to detract from the delicate flavours.  However, as a dedicated follower of freshly cracked black pepper, I must admit my disappointment at the fact that my requested grinder failed to arrive and though my sea-food main course tasted freshly fishy, it craved more herbs and garlic (a subjective comment, but, nonetheless, a valid one as its price suggested perfection).  I am forced to conclude that the emphasis and reliance on “natural seasoning” is perhaps too sophisticated for the British palate – even the Italians enjoy their condiments.

It was a culinary episode that dramatically negated preconceptions.  The tempting alliteration of a “River Restaurant” has been resisted in the name of a quirky form of nonchalance.  Despite the indisputable satisfaction I gained from this café (and its notorious chocolate gateau which I decree should be eaten with noisette ice-cream), I confess that I gage the “nonchalance” as potentially arrogant, heightened by the fact that the staff reserve 2.30-3.00 for themselves to dine.  Is not pretentious to charge approximately £50 a head to eat in a noisy café?  They get away with it though; the screaming babies of the messing mothers’ lunch tables does camouflage pretentiousness.  When people cannot wholly “place” a place and categorise it neatly, they feel a sense of insecurity.  I remain on the insecure quest to pigeon-hole this establishment, but please do book a table and help me out.

£50

<<< Back to Restaurants