Noble Rot Mayfair

According to its owners, the focus of the third Noble Rot is ‘indulgence’. For anyone who has experienced the food and wine at either of the existing two restaurants, this may raise the question: how does that make it any different from the others?

A look at the current menus at the Rots in Bloomsbury and Soho and it’s no easier to answer; the dishes on offer don't scream ‘thrift’ or ‘denial’ as themes. The new restaurant is in Mayfair, has a few more high-end bottles on the wine list and a starter that features caviar – as justification, maybe that’ll have to do.

The narratives around each restaurant are conceived by Dan Keeling and Mark Andrew MW. They opened the original Bloomsbury chapter in 2015 and won Best Wine List at the National Restaurant Awards within a year. Noble Rot has quickly established itself as restaurant royalty in London, with a reputation based on extensive, diverse wine lists, refined ‘Franglais’ (their word, not mine) bistro food and a style that feels more ‘polished boho’ (my phrase, not theirs) than formal fine dining.

History indicates that much-loved single restaurants becoming multi-branch empires is a cause for concern. There is a tendency for the original character to become diluted; the quality of the cooking clings on perilously to consistency or not at all; the service loses its spark. Recognising that professional cooking and service require talented, skilled people is to admit that businesses may struggle to find new staff members as good as those they started with. Most of us will have our own tale of woe about a favourite restaurant that expanded and rapidly became unfavourited.

This phenomenon meant there was mild trepidation on the trip to Trebeck Street for Noble Rot III. The restaurant was originally a pub called The Running Horse that dates to at least the mid-19th century and there are various tales of conflict with the police in the 1930s as it became an important venue to the gay community. Keeling and Andrew like Noble Rot to seem louche, so the history of the building and the area's role in red-light-related activities are emphasised to ensure nobody gets ‘the wrong idea’ about them opening in London’s plutocrat playground. Regardless of the PR, it’s a wonderful building with a snug little reception area where you can have a drink, and dingy, creaky, uneven sets of wooden stairs between its three floors.

The best table in the restaurant is a round one in front of a sash window on the first floor. Pure good fortune saw us seated at it on the first of two visits, a linen curtain fluttering in the breeze at our backs while we sat facing into the room. You plonk yourself down at this table and order a glass of Riesling and the wine arrives and you look around the room and then at each other and make lots of satisfied sighing noises that say ‘good grief this is pleasant’. The feelings of trepidation recede accordingly.

It would be easy to overlook mushroom fritters in the half dozen snacks available but to do so would be a source of shame and regret. Once again, it's a resolute commitment to the croquette and its fried cousins that ensures the best of the menu reaches the table. Gossamer-thin batter that’s light and golden has its place but the rich, gnarled mahogany variety that encases the oyster mushrooms served here is unrivalled. The mushrooms come with a dip of yoghurt and wild garlic oil garnished with overlooked herb, chive; gouging a trough through it with a mushroom trowel is one of life’s new pleasures.

A second common phenomenon that can afflict restaurants is that they perform exceptionally in their first few weeks, when the team knows the critics lurk, and then everyone gradually begins to laurel-rest. On my first visit, the starter of warm smoked eel featured a cassette-sized wedge of fish on its pillow of soft potato. The lake of beurre blanc surrounding this island, in which aforementioned caviar bobs (Avruga caviar from herring, not the naughty expensive kind from sturgeon), was the perfect consistency and acidity. The dish is labelled by Noble Rot's own website as a 'future classic' and despite this, I still managed to both order and fall deeply in love with it. Six weeks later, when I inevitably asked for it again, the piece of eel had shrunk noticeably; the sauce had moments too long on the stove so it was slightly over-reduced, the texture of silk replaced with one beginning to whisper of clag. It was still great but not quite as special.

It's a similar story with mains of lamb. Visit one includes a magical dish that's defined by its vibrancy and lightness. Instead of a rich, heavy, stock-based sauce, borlotti beans swim in a translucent broth splashed with olive oil; there is the mild tang of curd; slices of beautifully cooked lamb; the delicate bitterness of artichoke, the sweetness of cherry tomato and the lift of herbs and edible flowers. This is a lamb dish that, for once, feels like summer not cosiness. Considered and unusual plates of food are always the most exciting and rewarding to eat - this was one of them. On the second visit, the heartbreaking absence of the big showstopping roast duck for two from the menu means I order lamb again. It remains a pleasure but the concept on this occasion feels less inventive and the dish has considerably fewer of the small details that made the lamb of my first meal such a delight.

Much as with the fritters only more so, it would be sorrowful foolishness to bypass the dessert of duck egg tart. Served with poached rhubarb and crème fraîche, it may prove, in the fullness of life, to be an unsurpassable pudding. The custard innards are a magical consistency; the brown mottled top and crisp base carry a hint of caramelisation; there is a flavour-enhancing sprinkle of sea salt. It's the best, that's it.

More luxury nitpicking is incited on visit two, when, deliberately or not, the tart seems to have undergone austerity measures. Changing the ratio of filling to everything else subtly alters the experience and not for the better, in this case. Should differing levels of custard merely be treated as a heartening sign that a human is responsible for production? Is the discrepancy sufficient or legitimate grounds for official complaint? Are there bigger issues of global concern? The answers are: possibly, no and yes, respectively. But if a reader is to come away from this page knowing anything, it is this profound notion: the depth of a tart matters.

The wine list here is, of course, huge and brimming with excellence. The list is loaded on to iPads that are presented to diners and the PDF is so long that reaching the bottom of it begins to feel like a hungover scroll session on Instagram. As you'd expect, the friendly staff know enough to offer guidance and the emphasis is on quality rather than sheer expense, so choices below £50 a bottle exist. For those with the deepest pockets, a chalkboard lists one-off rarities available by the glass at some eye-watering prices.

López de Heredia is a producer universally admired for its Rioja Tondonia but it's the producer's Bosconia, a bigger and plusher Rioja, that makes me happiest. The 2011 vintage is available by the glass for £13 and is particularly good with the lamb. Granit 60, a Cornas from Domaine Vincent Paris, was a reminder of how sophisticated and elegant French wine can be. It's made from old-vine Syrah in the Rhone and tastes of black fruit and liquorice, with an acidity and silky texture that gives it a 'cool' streak in the gob. It costs £45ish to buy online, so paying £80 for it in a Mayfair restaurant feels like good value. Clos Lapeyre's Jurançon from the other wing of France is a lovely escort for custard tarts. The wine offering is superb, of that there is no doubt.

On this evidence, any fear that Noble Rot might be spreading itself too thin is, thankfully, misplaced. The food and wine at the Mayfair outpost are consistently excellent and the restaurant boasts the warm, convivial atmosphere people seem to be craving after the pandemic. An evening here constitutes a relaxing retreat. If you're doing Noble Rot correctly, you can expect to pay £150 per person, which makes gripes about edible flowers and tart metrics just about permissible. Obviously, these are minor details that may, in fact, have been coincidences; I intend to return many more times to check. Ultimately, that's the most important measure of a restaurant.