NOVIKOV
ASIAN & ITALIAN RESTAURANT
50A BERKELEY ST
LONDON
http://www.novikovrestaurant.co.uk/
Novikov is so huge you would think any one with normal eyesight couldn’t miss it. I missed it.
Just off Berkeley St it’s a block down from the Mayfair Hotel towards the Ritz Hotel and almost opposite Nobu in the area of Mayfair I call “Little Russia.” Except there is nothing ‘little’ about the huge amounts of money uber Russians have invested into business there and the eye watering bills I hear they rack up eating at Sexy Fish opposite.
Perhaps because the entrance looks a bit like an office block with an anonymous glass revolving door or because the word itself Novikov doesn’t really register in our minds as a restaurant as it doesn’t translate into anything; I researched it.
The revolving glass door were locked and it was dark inside but I saw the figure of an adult male with a long pony tail behind a huge bar so I waved and knocked with intent. He called over a sweet little girl who struggled with some keys and opened the door saying
“So sorry about that” and let me in.
“I’m here to see chef” I said peering past her into the cavernous darkened huge dinning rooms to left and right not mentioning which chef I should see.
“The Italian or the Asian chef?” she asked looking up at me with big brown eyes.
“The Asian? “
“He’s not in”
“Ok the Italian will do nicely” and she guided me right to an even larger area down a few generous pale beige marble steps to a grand restaurant under a bright skylight. It was all very glamorous, very European, a place to people watch or be seen in.
The website says “you cannot miss the great wood burning oven, the suede wall paneling, oak framed mirror’s etc. etc.” I missed the suede paneling but I did get ‘huge room, plenty of white table clothes and flowers, a handsome wine collection and plenty of waiters…. or was that ‘handsome waiters’ and ‘plenty of wine’ collection?
I get my messages mixed up when faced with such generous proportions and abundance.
The open kitchen was already busy with prep with a young Roman chef bashing some basil to death in a pestle & mortar to make a fresh pesto sauce.
“I’m from Napoli and I have been here for over a year,” he explained.
“Oh I love Capri, Positano, Sorrento and whole of the Amalfi coast what are you doing here?” It was a stupid question as he was in a kitchen ripping basil to shreds.
“Working. There is not much work over there nowadays and yes, I am so happy here” he explained in that charming relaxed way only Italians have in their DNA.
Everywhere I went was now full of young Italians under 35 years of age and I assumed it was the largest influx of Roman cousins on British shores in 2,000 years.
Italians had all descended on NYC after WW11 which gives Manhattan some of the best Italian food in the world, often leaving the Americans quite dissatisfied or disappointed when the dining in Italy itself.
The huge long open kitchen had enough room for 20 chefs but these guys all looked to young and too thin to be of importance so I went to seek out whom was in charge.
At last a round, curly haired, bright-eyed chef, cousin to the last Emperor Augustus, arrived who knew his gnocchi’s from his tortellinis.
“Ciao, come stai?” I tried to speak Italian but it didn’t really work but he didn’t care, and wasn’t going to give me lessons.
Out came all the truffles onto a large silver tray and we prodded, poked, squeezed and sniffed talked about Italy and Puglia where he was from.
“Oh I love Puglia!” My friend had a café on Old Quebec St with very sweet pastries from there 15 years ago when no one even knew they had an airport.
The sweets were over sweet so we never bought them; they were fattening and lay on her counter for weeks but the coffee was excellent.
We should have all gone down to Puglia as the property was cheap but the thought of dealing with an Italian realtor, a lawyer, local builders was too much to bare, especially as London prices were soaring so why invest in Italy?
This chef was built to survive marching with Roman legions all the way to England in 200 B. C. having a lean muscle to fat ratio, and a bright mind not fettered by the modern nanny state. It was refreshing to meet such old souls.
“Tell your Mum I will be over for the month of July with all my suit cases and will eat anything she prepares” I said affectionately touching his arm and smiling.
“Only July? You don’t prefer August?” He quipped back his eyes glistened imagining the screams from his family seeing a strange English woman, in a beaten straw hat, dragging baggage up a flight of cobbled village steps, like a 1950’s film.
“Ok, I will stay both months, I’m not so busy and I will tell her you sent me!”
I began to regret not having explored those villages in the 1980’s and 90’s before developers, migrants, the Euro and globalization had hit them.
Were we all that afraid of going off the tourist path? Was it before budget airlines?
Before package tour companies set up all-inclusive deals you were on your own in Europe so most of us never went further south than Capri and the Amalfi coast.
We parted affectionately and I noticed Italians had a lovely way of saying ‘arrivederci’ as I think they really expect to see you again one fine day, unlike us, who are satisfied with just the one fleeting moment.
The lunch service was about to begin but the time had flown between us and I knew he had given me his valuable time today.
As I left I looked back for the young man holding the large pestle and mortar grinding up the green grass fresh pesto but he had disappeared, along with the basil, leaving the scent behind.
“Doesn’t any one need me to taste anything in here…?? I mumbled to myself as I crossed the sun kissed cream beige marble and heading out towards noise and London traffic.
They probably felt the same way about my truffles…
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