William Sitwell reviews Pollini at Ladbroke Hall: ‘This horse needs the whip of guts to bring it glory’

Pollini occupies a vast chamber in Ladbroke Hall. It’s a fabulous building, opened in 1903 as the showroom for a car factory, Clément-Talbot, out the back. What times they were, an adventurous start to the 20th century with no whisper of the coming wars, when if you fancied putting up a car showroom, you commissioned a building in the style of the Parisian Beaux-Arts.

Back then it was in the countryside west of Notting Hill. Now it’s a patch of North Kensington where the wealth of local residents has ushered in a fancy Italian restaurant alongside a space for contemporary design, music and culture. As the only diners who were in for lunch, our chat bounced off the walls and vast ceiling, though I’m told the place now heaves towards the weekend.

First, there were lovely bites of mortadella on a crisp tapioca base with a shaving of truffle, and then crudo di ricciola. The latter was a generous plate of raw yellowtail tuna in a delightful dressing of the sweet juice of a cold-pressed tomato, with a hint of citrus from a dash of yuzu; a smooth and silky success.

We also ordered a dish of alici e burro, five of those horribly pricey but exquisite Cetara anchovies. They swirled on the tongue with a tickle then evaporated in a glorious, mystical cloud of salt and oil. But what followed didn’t quite deliver on the promise.

Chef Emanuele Pollini himself brought out our main courses, congratulating us on having ordered a pair of dishes that are favourites of his homeland, northern Italy’s Emilia-Romagna: duck tagliatelle for my dining companion Franc, and my own veal cutlet. This trick of flattering a customer’s menu choices always tickles me. Slick waiting staff like to pull it out of the bag as an easy line in sycophancy, and we mugs lap it up.

Yes, aren’t we the winners, chalking up another sweet victory. Wait until I get home and my five-year-old brandishes his merit badge from school. ‘Yeah, well,’ I can counter, ‘get a load of this: at lunch today, Franc went for the duck pasta and I had the veal.’ High fives all round.

Actually, my breaded veal cutlet was covered in a slobbering mess of cheese sauce and, as it was a big chop, that meant a vast trowel-load of the stuff, a veritable tip of the wheelbarrow. With the chop soft as young veal should be, it was fine food for the toothless. I could have sucked it up through a straw, except there was so much it would have taken me a month.

Franc’s tagliatelle was a decent plate but it lacked the dark depth that one dreams of when contemplating duck ragù. Seeking a foil to my mushy main, I failed to find crunch in a green salad – vibrant but all soft leaves.

As both Franc and I are chocolate lovers, we ordered the fondente al cioccolato and the dark-chocolate ice cream. And, I must tell you, while his ice cream was rich and fab, they cheated on that fondant. It came in a little ramekin-style pan with a handle.

That’s right, the outrage – they hadn’t turned it out. Sure, it was gooey and rich and delicious, and offset by pistachio ice cream, but that’s not the point – the technical challenge had been swerved. It’s like being in the trenches, sending your lads over the top and staying put for a cup of tea.

Pollini, then, offers a vast and classic menu to satisfy the purist Italophile (which we mortals brutalised by picking only three courses), but this horse needs the whip of texture and guts to really bring it glory.