Bam-Bou

Spectator, The, Jul 3, 1999 by Thomson, Alice

WHY write a restaurant review about a place where you've had a horrible time? What's the point? Who wants to read about dirty cutlery, overcooked scallops, or waiters who chew gum? It's too depressing and it's cruel on all those chefs who drip sweat into their creations every night. Anyway, you don't know how lucky you are; ten years ago you'd have been happy with a brown vindaloo.

These are all fair points. But what do you do if you go somewhere that is meant to be at the Sabatier edge of British cooking and are disappointed? You could write a oneliner saying `don't go', but that would be unfair on the restaurant and would only intrigue readers. Say nothing and you feel guilty that dozens of people might endure the same evening you have suffered, and they will have to pay 40 each for the experience. It might ruin a birthday, a wedding anniversary or a first date.

Bam-Bou is the restaurant I have in mind. I really wanted to like the place but everything seemed to conspire against it. The omens were good. Vietnamese food makes me think of hot nights in Paris, and I'm fond of Pasha, Bam-Bou's Moroccan twin, also run by Mogens Tholstrup. Mr Tholstrup may be a Danish blond walker for several It-girls, but apart from grinning manically for Hello! he also owns some of the most successful restaurants in the capital.

Having rung two weeks in advance to book my French-Vietnamese colonial experience, I was told that I could have a table only at 7 p.m. or 9 p.m. It sounded popular. When I arrived, someone had scrawled in large letters beside my name Pretty Frock. Climbing the rickety stairs, I found Petronella wearing a stunning pale pink chiffon dress, and her mother, Lady Wyatt, in a pair of skin-tight taffeta pedal- pushers.

This is where it all started to go wrong. Petronella, her mother and my husband Ed were waiting in a tiny ante-room. It was a stifling night but there wasn't even a fan. It was more like Rogue Trader than The Deer Hunter; I expected chains on the wall and Nick Leeson next door. `It's meant to be an opium den,' Ed explained. We were lucky to have five-feet of space to share -- every other room was crammed with sweaty people waiting to be fed. Lady Wyatt kept us going with reminiscences about her escapades at Bam-Bou's previous incarnation, the White Tower.

Eventually a warden, dressed in combat trousers, poked his head round the door and asked if we'd like a drink. A tray of tepid goodies was produced, so greasy we could have wrung them out and polished the wooden floor. 'I feel like those women prisoners-of-war in Tenko,' said Petronella. `There are not even napkins,' wailed Lady Wyatt, too polite to wipe her fingers on the silk cushions. She fled home where she knew she would find a clean towel.

Despite our pleas, we were told that our table would not be ready until after 10 p.m. Before the door slammed shut, I slipped out on the pretence of going to the lavatory. Bam-Bou is on four floors, packed with Mogens's memorabilia from his back-packing trip to Vietnam. Tasselled lanterns, red lacquered walls and laundry baskets all jostle for space with wannabe starlets.

At 10.15 p.m., nurturing the dregs of the one drink we'd been offered, we were allowed downstairs. The room was halfempty. `Water, wine,' we gasped. The water arrived at the same time that they turned the air-conditioning on; it felt as though they'd tipped ice over our now semi-clad bodies. A dozen pashminas suddenly materialised. Ed noticed his glass was smeared with lipstick; a huffy waitress eventually replaced it. At least the chopsticks looked new.

Shivering, we surveyed the menu: bamboo, sour green mango, mizuna, galangal sauce. We could forgive them anything; it sounded so enticing and we were starving. Petronella chose the soft-shell crab with pomelo, Ed asked for grilled shrimp on sugarcane, and I had the sesame prawns with mango salad. Each time a waiter wandered past, all conversation would stop while we prayed it would be for us. But we had to wait half an hour before our starters arrived, and when they did they tasted as though they'd spent all that time in the deep-fat frier. 'A soft-shell crab is meant to be soft,' said Petronella indignantly. I couldn't find my prawns inside their batter. Ed sucked stoically on his sugarcane. `At least it's food.'

The main courses took another 30 minutes. By 10.45 p.m. I was salivating at the thought of salmon with lime leaf and coconut curry sauce. I ate my fish so fast I couldn't tell you what it tasted of, but the sauce was an inedible, inexcusable, bland, beige mess. My sticky rice didn't materialise until the bill, and the wok-seared greens were cruelly coated in so much salt that they were untouchable.

Petronella sounded as though she'd fared better with her cashew and chicken stir-fry, but the nuts were indistinguishable from the chicken gristle. Having lived at home as a student, she'd never tasted pot noodles, but she made up for it that evening, forcing herself to slurp down a bowlful of stir-fried floury threads with bits of shiitake. We had one last chance with Ed's quail. `You're not sharing it,' said Ed when two crispy wings appeared. He took one bite and abandoned the rest to us. `It's like Kentucky fried chicken. I haven't got a clue whether this is a bird or a rodent.'