A fire. It closed. I was distraught. Many were distraught. When in the area, we made do with its sister restaurant, Ba Shan, which is right across the street and as pleasing a proposition as many. But I wanted Bar Shu back. Well, now I’ve got it. But not quite as I knew it.
Nobody likes change. And when it’s something well loved, any difference is like a body blow. If you don’t believe me, remember the hoo-haa when we all woke up one morning to find that Opal Fruits had become ‘Starburst’. People still talk about it – the collective therapy is taking years. Same wrapper, same sweets, same price. But we couldn’t forgive or forget the change of name.
Bar Shu: same décor, same menu (pretty much), same quality. So what’s my problem? It mainly stews down to windows and lights. I’m no teenage vampire obsessive, but the dark interior, where diners could sit cosily unobserved by either passing tourists or meeja people, was comforting. Now there are big windows to the outside world, where any Tom, Jose or Quentin can watch you eat. And upstairs, the brand spanking new big lights are more 24-hr caff than Chinese teahouse. And the portions are smaller – which is fair, but inevitably irksome. These are small things by any standard. But they still hurt.
We were seated upstairs, where tables were equally filled with young Asian people (wearing trilbies, oddly) and smart white 20-to-30-somethings. The service has always been unexceptional, but we seem to have got a bad night. Our female waitress was sweet, and was happy to recommend her favourite from the very impressive list of juice cocktails on offer. Her pick of lychee was good, but I stick by the watermelon. Long and fragrant, with tiny fruity bits, this treat was miraculously non-alcoholic.
The waiter was a bit of a stumbling block. We ordered two starters and two main courses between two people. He insisted we’d need more food, prompting us to go through our choices again with him – he’d written down the wrong thing, I think. It makes me anxious to think I have to supervise the staff. Then whipping our bowls away before we’d quite finished the appetisers was unnecessarily brisk.
Oh, enough of my bellyaching. The food is superb, and let’s face it, that’s what matters.
The menu is an exciting read, as the dishes retain the fanciful Chinese names (‘ants climbing a tree’, anyone?) and are listed with photographs of the end result. This may seem a little tacky, but it’s actually very useful. Our starters of three silken threads (green vegetable strings) and man and wife offal slices (pictured, left) were wonderful. This latter is my favourite dish in London, of which more on a later post I’m planning. The salad was refreshing and savoury, with that whole-mouth nutty taste of sesame oil.
Main courses were nearly as satisfactory. Both choices combined a savoury, toasty taste with the signature spiciness of Sichuan. The pock-marked old woman beancurd lay delicately in a sea of chilli sauce, the tofu a silky foil to the heat. The gung bao prawns were done with cashews rather than the commoner peanuts, which was overall very tasty - but the dish didn’t fully justify the £20 or so pricetag.We ended the meal, £40 down (inc service) but achingly full and very satisfied. Now I know people rave about the cheaper Sichuanese joints out there. But they’re not right next to the Curzon cinema, and they won’t serve offal exactly the way I like it. Notwithstanding a bit of change here and there, this is still one of the best joints in town.
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