Restaurants

By Martin Horsfield

Clapham Park Road's Smoke Rooms never quite achieved the clubby conviviality of its little brother in Tooting Bec. It's now swapped funky house for cocktail jazz, and cheeseburgers for Oxfordshire-reared produce, ditching its postmodern '70s look in favour of exposed bricks. Such unpretentiousness extends to the staff: when we asked about the wine, our waitress explained that she'd only tried those available by the glass. We were even given two to sample, a nice touch.

The short menu leans towards world comfort food. Garlic-butter shrimp bruschetta came on a hunk of bread that would be too tough for some, but you could canvas all of Umbria and not reach consensus on the right texture. Two sardines came with a slimy fennel, orange and roast pepper salsa which lacked the zest needed to enliven the blackened fish. Both dishes were served with a salad of mixed leaves with a basil-oil dressing, which reappeared with our 10oz charolais ribeye steak and chips. Caramelised on the outside, pink within, the meat was a delight, though such whopping chips will always provoke controversy. Our pork chop with apple sauce was more elegant, served on fine beans and a mound of pleasingly knobbly bubble and squeak, with four slices of seriously sagey black pudding: a real taste of England.

Seeing bread and butter pudding on the menu, we fantasised over something rough-hewn and peasanty but were disappointed by a clinically symmetrical effort that looked more like it had been fashioned from thin-sliced Mother's Pride. Chocolate torte was better, though both came with a scoop of bland ice cream, the dessert equivalent of that salad. Still, a few more theatrics in the kitchen and word should get around: getting smashed outside the Smoke Rooms is so over; get stuffed in The Grey Goose instead.

Time Out Issue 1940: October 24-30 2007