What I like most about Martin Kuczmarski’s restaurants are that they are of a new Mayfair, one unbridled by sweaty old men who shop at Gant. Even if the sushi at Sexy Fish is better than you might expect, going isn’t “on trend”. Rather, everyone wants a table at Martino’s, The Dover, or at its little sister, Dover St Counter, a place that caused such a hullabaloo when it opened people lost all manner of themselves, as if pigeons flocking to a dropped croissant.
It’s rare that hype transcends, that anywhere is ever worth the fuss. To scoff means you haven’t found yourself sitting on the long, moodily lit bar watching chefs cook spaghetti all’assassina, a 1960s dish from Bari, deceptive in that it’s difficult to make properly. I’ve sometimes wondered why it’s never attracted much interest in London. You’ll see it everywhere now.
