Isabel – Review

Located at the bottom of Mayfair’s Albermarle Street, the bijou dining space Isabel has recently appointed Catarina Almeida, formerly of Petersham Nurseries and Brown’s Hotel, as its Head Chef. We arrive for a 7.30 pm booking when light still shines outside, and only a couple of tables are occupied inside. A large bouquet of purple flowers welcomes us into the square fold, which shows off a pristine bar in its centre but is defined by a dramatic ruby palm tree panelled tapestry which wraps around all walls. The carpet proffers diagonal blue pinstripes and the ceiling is geometric in its preciseness but heady in its golden sphered celebration. Isabel treads a fine line between elegance and extravagance but ultimately indulges both for a cool but snazzily exuberant atmosphere.

The bar has the largest tequila collection in London, second only to Annabel’s, something which is reflected in the cocktail menu.  We eschew temptingly exotic offerings like Zen Martini, Yuki Blossom, Tangerine Tango and Violet Hill and opt for the eponymous Albermarle Negroni and the tongue-twisting Te-Kiliman-Jaro. The former’s negroni aspect is misleading since there’s no gin, Campari or vermouth but it’s equally pure in contents and consists of Bandida Cristal Mezcal, Italicus and Suze. An inedible skeleton green leaf decorates the inside of the glass for what is an edifying, slow, and smoky quaff. The Te-Kiliman-Jaro is presented in a tall black glass etched with its own tribal head-carving and is the night’s only offering, which falls into gimmickry. Densely packed with chipped ice, the mango cordial and tamarind syrup provide the Volcan reposado tequila with an over-riding sweetness while the dried mango slice and edible flowers serve as rogue appetisers.

Starters isn’t an easy call but we opt for two of the three Chef Specials. Late last year, I dined at Lillibet’s and was surprised to see a steak sandwich on the dessert menu. At Isabel, I’m equally surprised to see a Wagyu Toastie at the opposite end of the menu. Cut into quarters, the Akune Gold Wagyu is tightly wedged into toasted brioche slices for another geometrically precise presentation. The sweet, dry, crunchy bread contrasts the succulent, velvety umami wagyu for a textural and taste, double-winning whammy, the results of which are nothing short of mouth-watering. The Beef Tartare veers more towards the Portuguese than the traditional French version and on first glance, looks like it’s served on a soft taco. Pickled onions and caperberries mix with the silky beef whilst half the dish consists of crispy, millimetric fries. The beige paste under the tartare isn’t a soft taco, of course, but a bone marrow emulsion which has a rich foie gras texture and equally rich, meatier flavour.    

For mains, I stick with a Chef Special and opt for the Lobster Calamarata. The pasta is delicate but al dente, the bisque sauce mixed with butter, saffron and cream, the lobster meat plentiful and succulent. After half a mouthful, I decide I’d prefer not to talk in order to fully appreciate its excellence and as I come to its end, I’m a little sad. My friend opts for the Halibut which is served as a square chunk and is accompanied by braised fennel, strands of seaweed and mussels. The fish is meaty and succulent and confident enough in its own skin to make it the purest dish we’ve had so far. A shellfish broth, a clear, light consommé, is also served on the side but left to the diner’s discretion whether to consume or not. 

It’s night-time now and the restaurant is buzzing with a refined and dressed-up but far from ostentatious crowd. Ambience is glamorous, sure, but also natural and, paradoxically, low-key, more like an easy-going local restaurant than a preening, central London one. And there’s even a couple of children here as well which is a rare sighting in the West End. Lights have dimmed and at some point drapes are pulled over the windows for a hermetic, sealed-in feeling which works perfectly and provides for further, almost womb-like intimacy. Music has been a constant tribute to early eighties pop and synth with everything from Tears for Fears and David Bowie to Johnny Hates Jazz, Level 42 and Spandau Ballet. My friend (and I) grew up with this music and there’s more than once that I have to dissuade her from leaping up and dancing down the aisle. 

My Tres Leches cake is spongy and wholesome and comes with edible ribbons and caramelized white chocolate, all of which is sublime. My friend asks for a decaf Affogato, which comes in a glass and is another pure, no frills presentation. I combine dessert with an Espresso Martini and my friend with a Tokaji Aszú 6 Puttonyos, both of which are perfect ways to end this perfect meal. 

We thank Laurent, our waiter cum sommelier for the evening. He’s been attentive, friendly and knowledgeable, and as we’re talking, Fine Young Cannibals start singing the infectious ‘She Drives Me Crazy’. I tell Laurent how much we’ve enjoyed the evening but feel Isabel is missing a trick without a dance floor to its name. His face lights up but asks me not to move. He whisks off but returns seconds later with Isabel’s manager, who asks us to follow. She takes us downstairs where, lo and behold…Is a dance floor. Even smaller, more intimate, it’s probably a third of the size of upstairs and is actually closed now but will re-open in September. Bring on those Autumn nights and here’s hoping the music policy doesn’t change in the meantime.