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New Moon is nothing if not an international advertisement for the hungry virtues of virginity and young people can’t get enough of it
The Twilight Saga: New Moon
Theatre
A smart, prickly and rewarding view of sexual and emotional confusion
Cock
Restaurants
Kitchen W8 is a bargain for this area, if such sophistication is what you crave
Kitchen W8
Too long and drawn out but very entertaining with excellent special effects
This is a peculiar play and does not work for me. Some of it is very funny but there are real flaws
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London,
Critic rating
Reader rating
Description: Famed Notting Hill institution Beach Blanket Babylon heads east with this sister venue set within an imposing warehouse in trendy Shoreditch. Comprising four floors and a roof garden, this chic dining space includes a cosmopolitan ground-floor restaurant with exposed brickwork, bold artwork and open theatre kitchens, plus a basement cocktail lounge with a sweeping marble bar, a contemporary art gallery and an outdoor cinema. The globe-trotting menu features an array of brasserie classics.
Phone: +44 2077493540
Website: http://www.beachblanket.co.uk
Open: Monday - Tuesday 17.00 - 22.30 Wednesday - Sunday 12.00 - 22.30
Dress code: None
Payment options: All major cards accepted
Deceptive good looks: The cuisine offered at the Shoreditch branch of Beach Blanket Babylon fails to match the fabulously decadent interior
It says on the menu that it is French Onion Soup with Welsh Rarebit Croutons. I don't think so. It looks like nothing I've ever encountered, a bowlful of gloopy beigeness that seems to move at the touch of a spoon with some kind of blubbery inner life. The croutons are damp, bendy cheese on toast. The soup's taste is beyond extraordinary. It's like someone has puréed a bunch of Krispy Kreme doughnuts with the boiled onion scrapings off a Wimpy burger. I promise you, I am not exaggerating for effect.
Normally I can eat almost anything, but this offering, courtesy of the new Shoreditch outpost of Beach Blanket Babylon, defeats me. I venture another sip but it's just as repellent; I give up. Our handsome, saturnine and generally unfriendly waiter seems to suffer a moment's interior dialogue before capitulating to professionalism. Did I not like it? No s***, Sherlock.
He returns from the kitchen to tell me that: 'Chef says it's supposed to taste like that.' Three cheers for that old canard, a personal favourite along with 'that's the way we do it here' and 'has madam ever eaten [insert name of rubbish dish] before?'
I ask him, as a small favour, to go find the pot and have a soupçon for himself. I'm not angling for a fight or a refund, just some solidarity. He comes back, shaking his head in wonder, as gobsmacked as I am. 'I'm not supposed to do this,' he whispers, offering me a compensatory cocktail from the bar which I foolishly accept. It's every bit as vile as the soup, tasting as though it's been spiked with American Cream Soda. In a straight-up vodkatini?
I can't say that the rest of the food is every bit as bad because that would be quite an achievement. A burger with foie gras isn't deadly, but there is no evidence of the promised luxury liver. Perhaps it's there, but the overcooked meat isn't allowing it a look-in. Chips are decent enough.
Otherwise, it's all pretty duff: the poor vegetarian has to make do with a few chunks of vegetable including what looks like straight-from-the-packet carrot batons and some soggy Brussels in a vaguely cheesy - and, yes, sweet - sauce with dod of pastry lobbed on top. The dressing on a salad tastes like cheap scent. What is it with the vanilla obsession? Especially in a joint that goes all out to look as decadent as it possibly can?
Sure, it looks good: dark, gilded and suggestively glittery, populated by staff who look like resting models. Which, given their dubious skills, is probably about right. Downstairs is a club and drinking den. Coming soon are a private members' lounge and roof terrace adorned with palm trees and fountains where open-air films will be shown.
Even I make the mistake of thinking it all sounds rather fabulous until I remember that these new facilities are just going to offer even more opportunities to be sidelined and badly served.
Think I'm being unreasonable? Not really; I've a history of dashed expectations with Beach Blanket Babylon. Many years ago, when I first landed in London, I thought the original Notting Hill branch (named after a famously camp San Franciscan musical revue) was quite simply the most glamorous place I'd ever seen: the open fire contained in the gaping, sculpted stone mouth; the dinky little wrought iron chairs with jewel-coloured velvet cushions; the throng of impossibly gorgeous people.
But even then I wasn't daft enough to think the food in the atmospheric, dungeon-meets-Gaudí restaurant was any good - nor the 'we're doing you a favour' service.
Doesn't stop it being permanently mobbed to this day. With this long-awaited sibling, nothing has changed; I guess it's a case of: why bother tinkering with a winning formula?
Tonight, we're in a booth that gives a perfect view of the infinitely more ravishing, sybaritic and original LoungeLover - what with this, neighbouring Les Trois Garçons and Shoreditch House, this corner of the East End is turning into a Butlins for the artistically jaded and reality disenfranchised. At least those others have a degree of substance; Beach Blanket Babylon Shoreditch simply comes across as a playground for the deep of pocket and shallow of heart.
A meal for two with wine, water and service costs about £110. 19-23 Bethnal Green Road E1. Tel: 020 7749 3540. Tube: Liverpool Street
Details are correct at the time of publication - please check with venue before booking.
