Nessa, W1F 9UB, London: With a postcode like that, I wouldn’t be wrong to expect a bit more chutzpah
By Connie Say
I’ve sat here for 15 minutes, trying to think of the opening line to this piece. What can I say about Nessa that it is going to grip and enthral you, dear reader?
Sod all, I’m afraid. Sod. All. I possess such a deep, deep sense of indifference towards it – sort of like Muesli or the Kaiser Chiefs.
My evening at Nessa was a blemish on an otherwise wonderful Friday night. After margaritas at Bar Crispin with my Aussie friend Charlotte, I waltzed my way down to Nessa for a 6pm res with my Mother, Mary. I imagined Nessa to be a Soho-ian cathedral of crispy guanciale, handsome waiters, and fishbowl wine glasses with stems like stilts. However, when I do think of Nessa, I fall drowsy. It sedated me with its ordinaryness and waist-height aprons.
At the intersection of Warwick and Brewer Street, sage and duck-egg stripes licked the restaurant’s awning, however the interior felt generic. Tables were speckled across the floor, all washed with velvet blues and copper detailing; like if Côte and Émille-Jacques Rulhmann had a baby with all the charisma of a stick of celery.
Nessa is a modern British restaurant on the ground floor of the private Members House, 1 Warwick. Named after Bloomsbury Group’s Vanessa Bell, the restaurant “… invites you into a world where art, music, and mixology meet” [1]. It positions itself as a 21st century reimagining of the salons of, say, the Parisian 18th or London 20th century; places of art, Voltairianism, revolutionary discourse. Yet, all it really does is get a DJ in once a month to facilitate “real life conversations” at their “salons of the unruly” [2] events.
Pull the other one.
Once seated, both Mary and I had the ‘Boho Negroni’. Generally, they’re not to my taste, but the gin and vermouth cocktail had a balmy sweetness and was far from medicinal; it was delicious actually.
We ordered:
Starter : Soda Bread
For mains: Pea and Mint Ravioli. Celeriac Carbonara. In the middle: Broccoli. Fennel and Citrus Salad.
Our starter came. The bread was warm with enough spring to resist my grip, and it had a buttermilk tang that good soda bread should have. The butter was whipped, which I like. They were also incredibly efficient, so I endorse their Express service for an A-to-B pre-theatre dinner with no certain ceremony.
And yet, as for the mains: my ravioli was, Christ? Uninspiring? Strands of little gem were streaked across my plate as though they were lying in state. The pasta was well made – ravioli parcels were shaped like pleasingly plump stamps, as if they could post my plate First Class five times over. Yet, for half of the dish’s promised flavour profile, there was a distinct lack of mint. Pea and ___. Curious.
Mary’s celeriac pasta was delicious however. I expected Jamie Oliver, ‘f*cking lob it in a pan’, kraft-singles cheesiness: and yet, it had certain manners. The confit egg yolk gave it a slip, and the celeriac had a bite beyond that of courgetti-spaghetti – providing a chew to a carbonara format that otherwise (when done badly) could be drunk. Mine: eh. Mary’s: lovely.
The sides were an after thought. The broccoli was cooked four minutes short of service-ready, and it hosted a white gloop (mayonnaise?) that towered tall and swayed in the wind. It was so sweet; candy-like sweet, conjuring images of Thanksgiving yams with marshmallows – BLEGH! The salad was an aged tribute act of a salad. It was limp, and anemic, and we shall say no more on the matter.
Once we had put the world to rights over a carafe of Picpoul (they’ve a great wine list), we settled up and left, with a goldy-locks sense of middle-y inbetweens. Not too happening and not too worth it either. A bottom feeder in a six-story neo-baroque building in a bustling part of the city. Disappointing? Certainly.
The crux of Nessa’s issue is that it’s so indistinguishable. The best restaurants I know, generally, fall into one of the following categories:
- Speciality (e.g Crisp W6). It offers: Consistency.
- Old school offers: Moscot spectacles. Effortless charisma.
- New School offers: Men with dangly gold hoops (love). New flavour pairings.
And yet, Nessa is somewhere off the naffing page; it’s halfway to nowhere. So, instead of dinner at the ersatz that is N*ssa:
Try:
- The Hawthorn, W12 0NS
- St John, EC1M 4AY
- The Hero, W9 2JD
For established excellence
- TOWN, WC2B 5AB
- Kricket, W1D 7HJ
- Kudu, SE15 2EZ
For modern classics
If Nessa wants to be a place for marketeers to tip-tap away on their laptops with endless streams of lunchtime wine and croquettes, then go ahead. Drinks? I might go for drinks. The food? Skip. But if you are looking for a business shmooze spot, take nineteen plates of the soda bread and tuck yourself away in a corner somewhere.
For Two: £124
★★★☆☆
References:
[1]: Nessa Soho, [About Blurb], https://www.nessasoho.com/salon-of-the-unruly-at-nessa-soho/
[2]: Nessa Soho, [About Blurb], https://www.nessasoho.com/salon-of-the-unruly-at-nessa-soho/
