Review: Toto’s, London

Almost every day I give silent thanks for living in a city where, should I wish to, I could eat Thai congee for breakfast, Danish Stjerneskud for lunch, and Eritrean quluwa for dinner. But there’s one cuisine I never feel the urge to eat in a London restaurant, and that is Italian.

At one end of the scale are the likes of Angela Hartnett’s Murano and Locanda Locatelli, the dining-out equivalent of The Emperor’s New Clothes: to much fanfare, a £21 dish with a hat-sized brim and a cubby hole like a scooped-out coconut, fitted with four tortellini pricked with a couple of chive ends, arrives at the table. You “Mmm” loudly in the hope that no one else can hear the sound of your heart breaking, and slice the pasta into shards praying there are Super Noodles in the cupboard for later.

At the other end of the spectrum is Strada, where, to quote an Italian friend, you may as well sit at home and eat ravioli out of a tin. Anyone who genuinely knows good Italian food will simply pop into i Camisa & Son for some freshly made veal-stuffed ravioli, and save their money for when they want a French meal with a sauce made from 18 processes of foam served by an indignant waiter.

You “Mmm” loudly in the hope that no one else can hear the sound of your heart breaking, and slice the pasta into shards praying there are Super Noodles in the cupboard for later

So I wasn’t compelled by the idea of Toto’s, a new Italian restaurant in Knightsbridge. Following an extensive two-year refurbishment, the restaurant has now opened in Walton House, a ten-minute walk from Harrods. Or nine minutes’ walk and one of hobbling: noting the number of stilettoed feet around the room I imagined I wasn’t the only guest who’d tripped on the ill-judged cobbled stones that lead to the restaurant’s entrance.

Apart from having my notes cleared from the table by an over-zealous waiter, the evening began well with one of Toto’s signature cocktails, a mixture of cranberry and amaretto with a couple of sugared blackberries perched on top. From the bar we looked down on the main restaurant, split between a spacious, ground-floor area of black leather seats and circular tables covered in white linen, and a mezzanine already rammed with an Indian private party: blow-dried curls on one side of the table, indifferent husbands on the other.

Head chef Stefano Stecca, who worked at Zafferano alongside Giorgio Locatelli, runs the kitchen, with a focus on seasonal produce. At the time of reviewing there were ten antipasti – none of which was hot. As much as I’m sure a lot of love and effort goes into slicing, dicing and arranging, it just felt a little lazy. Come autumn and winter, perhaps the menu will adapt.

We began with a selection of salumi and pickled vegetables, with a cool, clean, beautiful, glossy and garlicky blancmangey dip the waiter likened to “fancy Philadelphia”. I’d expect two-year-old dried meat to induce nothing but a stomach upset, but the 24-month-old Parma ham lay in melting slivers that left a dark, sweet tang on the tongue.

Eight choices of pasta and three risotti more than made up for the cold starters. Seafood risotto was held together with a thick, creamy stock, and spiked with clams and mussels – the smoothest, firmest specimens, with not a green pube in sight. My companion J. ordered a lobster tagliolini with sweet chilli and cherry tomatoes, which proved, intriguingly, to taste more Thai than Italian. It looked like a tiny Rumpelstiltskin had spun it into gold and studded it with hefty chunks of sweet white meat – probably the best dish of the meal.

I opted for the calf’s liver in butter and sage, which was piglet-pink inside, and had the bouncy texture of crème caramel

For mains it made sense to go for something I don’t normally cook at home, so I opted for the calf’s liver in butter and sage, which was piglet-pink inside, and had the bouncy texture of crème caramel. Sweet and strong and a bit too rich, the liver was soon swapped for the remainder of J.’s meal. Quite simply, he didn’t like his veal ­– a sort of Desperate Dan-sized chop, browned beautifully, with little more than a few crisp sage potatoes for company. Not all that exciting. After much breathing in, stretching of stomach-holding-in tights and hurried necking of drinks to play catch-up with the wine pairings, we gave up on the mains. J. ordered the basil panna cotta, some form of cream that had been fried, clotted or whisked into a wonderful shape, and I went for the tiramisu. I didn’t need a pick-me-up so much as a lie-me-down, but it’s the one desert that hits every spot for me and god damn was this good: brick-sized, firm, the layer of sponge just that little bit more chilled than the mascarpone, and not too sweet.

But as much as Toto’s hits the mark on service, style and sexiness, even if I had my notes I don’t think the food would be any more memorable. I’d still rather load up on groceries and stuff my ravioli at home. C

 
Toto’s, Walton House, Lennox Garden Mews, Walton Street, London SW3
020-7589 2062; totosrestaurant.com