A

huge holographic Buddha hovers, immobile,

before me. In the background, 90s mix tapes evoke
a misspent childhood. Oriental paraphernalia
conjures frivolous university adventures, and everything
is illuminated by acidic uorescence that summons Danny
Boyles rendering of Irvine Welshs book, Trainspotting.
Originally established in Paris, the brainchild
of Raymond and Tarja Visan at the end of the 90s
(when the pan-Asian restaurant-cum-club was a kerazy
concept), the Buddha Bar swiftly became a victim of its
own success with the likes of Hakkasan and Yauatcha
copying its model, and sometimes outdoing it.
An off-shoot of the bar was behatted by Waterloo
Bridge. But this Buddha-Bar has taken a clean slate, going
from the vale of commuters to the epicentre of foodie-cool,
acquiring a hyphen in its title somewhere along the way. Its a
tough patch, strong competition bedevils the SW1 spotlight.
The local area has been the graveyard of many a big and
trendy restaurant (the last being the Chicago Rib Shack).
At Buddha-Bar, the mezzanine underworld is
comprised of shady alcoves and private rooms. Low
ceilings and wall lighting mix the seedy Shanghai den with
Hong Kong penthouse effortlessly. Upstairs a high ceiling
and huge windows overlooking the street side give a more
capacious impression.
Talking of capacity, Ive plenty of it as I settle
down to a spicy mango maki, twinned with a chicken
salad. Sushi may no longer stand at the forefront of food
research and development but quantity has, in many
cases, treacherously stabbed quality in the jugular. Over-
sweetened, dry rice, mushy avocado and leathery marine-
life plagues even the pricier joints.
The maki served here is none of those things; my only
complaint is there is not enough of the lip-tinglingly piquant
sauce to dip the roly-polyed dead crustacean in. The chicken
salad, only ordered at the behest of our polite but persistent
waiter, is clearly the regulars
favourite for a reason. Its
got it all going on and it sits
in a sauce that plays a sweet,
bouncy riff out on an egg-
yolk bass line. The result is a
music your tongue wants to
marinate in.
Talking of marination,
the English beef llet has clearly been hanging around the
salubrious parts of the menu for a good while. I feel a bit
guilty for taking the pan-Asian cuisine into John Bull territory,
however, so I scoff most of my friends block of Chilean sea
bass with my chopsticks too, its wobbly esh slowly dissolves
beneath a saggy lagoon of sauce, like a droopy atlas.
A smorgasbord of desserts arrives in dainty portions.
The chocolate sesame tart stands knife and fork above the
rest, striking me as a Kit Kat-sized oriental take on our
tifn cake. The worst is probably a lime-green pandan
cake that has clearly never
gone to the gym, and could
blame nobody but itself for
its loose shape, congealed
texture and eggy breath.
Last but not least, Lucian
Serban, our waiter, is so good
he almost single-handedly
justies the bill. If others are
like him, I dont suppose service will have played a small part
in establishing Buddha-Bar as the best restaurant bar at
the London Club and Bar Awards this year.
145 Knightsbridge, SW1X 7PA, 020 3667 5222
(buddhabarlondon.com)
BE L GRAVI A RE S I DE NT S J OURNA L 019
Fat
Buddha
Henry Hopwood-Phillips discovers
why the eastern sage was so chubby
Low ceilings and wall lighting mix
the seedy Shanghai den with Hong
Kong penthouse effortlessly