Man Behind The Curtain

Descending into Micheal O'Hare's flagship 'Man Behind The Curtain', I suddenly found myself in the base of a Bond villain. Albeit, a Bond villain who puts surfboards on the wall. Patrick Swayze in Point Break, perhaps? The dining room is austere, but expensive-looking. A monochrome colour scheme, with marbled tables and shag throws slung on chairs - an off-piste pastiche. There are no windows in this subterranean lair. Instead, banks of mirrors line the walls. This reflection can by quite jarring, like when you catch sight of yourself on a Zoom call. Do people really want to watch themselves eat?

O’Hare continues the contrived aesthetic in the attire of the waiters. While the men are dressed appropriately, in white shirts and black trousers, the women are relegated to work in short skirts and thigh high socks. This is bizarre and uncomfortable. A misguided foray into the rebellious is, in fact, misogynistic and dated. Maybe he took the Bond theme too literally?

Before we were taken to our table, we were held in the reception area for pre-dinner drinks. Worth noting here that there were no soft options available (not even water until we were sat at our table). One of our party asked for a beer - they only offer Micheal O’Hare's signature brew. At £26 for a bottle, it’s ludicrously expensive, but the waiter assured us (with resolute smugness) that this has been commissioned to compliment the dishes we were about to taste. The beer was truly terrible. Sour, almost into the realms of being completely undrinkable. My father in-law, a veteran of the drinks industry, remarked “is it meant to taste this way?''... unfortunately, as we were subsequently corrected, yes it was.

Seated at our table, I studied the 'Permanent Collection' menu. O'Hare's cuisine reads as a love letter to Japanese influences and we had also opted for the accompanying wine flight. Wonderful. My enthusiasm quickly waned, however, with the arrival of the introductory 'glass' of Krug Grand Cuvée. Barely a thimble, the miserliness of which would sadly continue throughout the evening. The flight was not generous.

Thankfully, we were soon presented with plates of O'Hare's hero ingredient; tuna. These came in various guises; otoro handroll with wagyu fat and toast gravy, tuna 'nigiri' (made from a comté croquette instead of sushi rice), and the star of the show, a tartare with scrambled egg and a fresh, spicy watermelon sriracha. As expected, the signature brew added precisely nothing to any of these dishes, its astringency actually working against the nuanced tuna flavours. The Krug, by comparison, provided a balanced acidity which made the comté croquette sing.

The following courses were very impressive, with 'Aged Beef' a real mastery in tartare. The aging of the beef was similar in profile to roasted nuts, rather than the blue cheese nod which can occur when beef is ultra aged. The warm dripping bolstered the beef flavour, creating a creamy, velvet mouthfeel. The olive added punchy salinity, boosting the overall seasoning. A very enjoyable plate of food.

The 'Dali to Delhi' was visually powerful and tasted just as good. A singular prawn balanced atop the receiver of a prop rotary phone, inspired by Salvador Dali's 1938 'Lobster Telephone'. It had the exceptional sweetness that red prawns are prized for and the juicy head provided the strong flavour of bisque which, combined with the tikka spice, had rich depth and warmth.

The latter of the savoury courses consisted of 'goth food'; jet black plates of indistinguishable fare. While I commend the ability to unify the food by dyeing in this way, for me it undoubtably detracted from the overall flavour. 'Emancipation' was a play on fish and chips - the cured cod was lovely but was overwhelmed by an eye-watering vinegar powder. Now, I'm a lover of fish and vinegar but this simply wasn't balanced.

The 'Black Caesar' suffered a similar fate. Cracking through an ebony shell to reveal a vivid and golden runny yolk looked impressive, but it never managed to temper the strength of anchovy, which was the dominant flavour. There was apparently Iberico pork lurking in the black shadows of this plate, but that was lost again to the menacing salty anchovy.

The pre-dessert was delicious, a small tiramisu cupcake complete with edible casing. We nicknamed this course 'redemption'. After all the gimmicky nonsense, these were classic flavours executed playfully. However, this pudding enlightenment was short-lived as we were then presented with a toy surfboard topped with round O'Hare-branded pucks. They had named this course 'Sex Wax'. We called it 'Damnation'. It was an unholy marriage of dove soap and pineapple lip balm. It was awful, like biting into a candle. And as the wine flight had continued in meagre servings, there was not a stingy drop left to console ourselves with.

The Man Behind The Curtain was certainly an experience - but not one that I'd recommend to others. Post-lockdown, the need for restaurants to return to profitability has never been more apparent. Sadly, O'Hare's accountant mercilessly squeezing every penny from his clientele leaves us feeling cheated. Of the 13 dishes we were served, 7 were good-to-excellent. The other 6 were exceptionally poor. The more favourable dishes are those which juxtapose the monochrome colour palette and pile some much-needed joy onto the plate.

There's only so many times you can be impressed by 'nouvelle noir'. Combined with a mean wine flight that would barely cover 3 dishes, you can see why we felt suitably short-changed. Turns out The Man Behind the Curtain is more of an Emperor with no clothes.