LE CAFE ANGLAIS
8 Porchester Gardens, W2; 020 7221 1415 Mon-Sun: lunch, noon-3.30pm; dinner, 6.30pm-11.00pm

No joke or comedian is ever as funny as organic, fair-trade, free-range humour from the wild. Stand-up comics are to laughter what lap-dancers are to sex. So, there’s this thing that keeps on making me laugh: a couple of weeks back, a man was in court for flashing. He’d stand in the window, naked and alert, for the benefit of the neighbours. They complained, the Bill nicked him: “Come quietly, sir.”

Up to there, it’s all a bit sad, until you hear his defence. It was Swiftian. You couldn’t make it up, but he did. He had his wife take photographs of his penis, explaining it was obviously too small and unfit for purpose. Well, we can only blissfully imagine the conversation he had with his barrister.

“Let me get this straight, Mr Ickle-Pickle (names changed to protect the knowing). Your defence, as I understand it, is that your member is too insignificant to be offensive. And, to prove it, you have had photographs taken of said member by your wife.”

“Quite so, by Mrs Ickle-Pickle.” “And you plan on showing these to the jury?” “That’s right.” “I’m bound to inform you that, in an extensive career of sexual misdemeanour and peccadillo, I have never been instructed to offer this particular line of defence, and it would be remiss of me not to point out that it’s highly risky. How can I put this? To convince the jury that you’re not an exhibitionist, you’re planning on showing them glossy 10in by 8in full-colour photos of you wearing glasses and, I suggest, an inappropriate grin, and nothing else? I would further suggest that this is akin to a man charged with GBH punching the stenographer in the face to prove he’s got a lousy left hook.”

“I see what you’re getting at. You think it would be better if I just showed them the real thing? Au naturel?”

“No, Mr Ickle-Pickle, that’s not what I’m saying.” “Would you like to see him?” “No, Mr Ickle.” “Go on, give me a professional opinion of that.” “Put it away!” “He’s not doing any harm. He’s not even angry.” “Mr Ickle-Pickle, don’t point that at me.” “Do you think the judge will like the trousers? It’s all Velcro, you know.” “Security! Security!”

They found him guilty, of course. You can’t help feeling it was a miscarriage, if not of justice, then of natural gaiety. The prosecution barrister instigated the memorable exchange: “Mr Ickle-Pickle, you claim this is your semi-erect penis?”; “No, that's fully erect.”

I expect, in exposing circles (a boggling thought), he must be something of a hero. Getting to flash an entire court, including the judge and jury, and not be charged with it is double top. He’s my nomination for sportsman of the year. And the Turner prize.

We used to have a flasher when I was in student digs. I shared with two girls, and Penny got sedately flashed every morning by an old gent who stood on the table in the bow window of his semi with a semi and a red velvet curtain wrapped round his head. It was an impressive and rather beautiful tableau: part Magritte, part Saga Lonely Hearts. One day, she came home and said he hadn’t been out that morning. He wasn’t there the next day, either, so she told the police. Sure enough, he’d fallen over and pulled something. She went to visit him in hospital. He apologised for the indecent shortness of the hospital gown, which we thought was funny. He never flashed again. I suppose the introduction took all the romance out of it – that and the French polish.

This is the time of year when we all have to think about flashers, the cold and the wet, the frost and the dark afternoons. Just as you leave something out for the tits, remember those who leave something out for you.

Whiteleys was a grand department store once, with floors populated by spooky dummies in drip-dry shirts and basements full of net curtains. Then it was radically rejuvenated into an uncannily faithful replica of the gorgeous city-centre redevelopment leisure complexes you can find in places as luscious as Rotherham, Swindon and even Ipswich. The sit-down eating options are chains of Mexicans, pizzas, chilli chicken and infantile syrup-flavoured milk froth.

But now Rowley Leigh has been induced to open his new restaurant, where he’ll actually be cooking, in this caravanserai of cheap and cheerful culture set on the great bazaar of Queensway, the heart of Levantine London. It’s fair to say that no new restaurant has opened on such a wave of professional goodwill and best wishes as Le Café Anglais. Leigh is one of the most popular and well-thought-of chefs. He’s also one of the few you’d actually want to eat with. His last restaurant, Kensington Place, was a benchmark in the renaissance of hospitable London.

It’s not difficult to see what induced him to Whiteleys. This is an impressive and stately space. There aren’t many west-central locations with this much room, and it even has its own entrance, so the Notting Hill customers don’t have to weave their way through the kids having telephone film sex. Inside, it’s classy and elegant, with a nod to deco and a wink to Albert Speer’s feminine side. To fit in with the decor, I took three Germans. The Blonde and I were early, so we got to fight over the menu in private. I would say Rowley is among the top 10 menu composers. A decade on, Kensington Place had one that remained fresh and dewily edible as the day it was plucked from the ether. The menu is a fantastically underrated art, particularly by chefs, most of whom don’t give a stuff what the customers want to eat.

This one has three short first acts, offering aperitifs, hors d’oeuvres and first courses. The distinction between the hors d’oeuvres and the first courses seems to be double the money. From the hors d’oeuvres, we tried a parmesan custard with toast, which I adored, though I understand it’s a sophisticated taste for people who have supped deep from the fleshy cup of pleasure. The more trepidatious might think it was like putting selected acne pus, matured in teenage disco sock, in your mouth. Pike boudin was interesting, but I would defy anybody to identify which element it originally called home. A fondue of salsify and white truffles promised to be a more eloquent mouthful than it actually managed, and beef consommé with oysters was a waste of oyster in dingy soup.

The main courses are half a dozen fish, seven roasts, of which four are game. It’s good to see so much wild food on the menu, and it had the Germans swaying back and forth, rhythmically slapping their thighs and making ack-ack noises at the ceiling. The German for brill, by the way, isn’t wunderbar, as I’ve always thought, but Glattbutt, a large tranche of which was well presented. My beef for two, however, was disappointing. No, it was very, very disappointing. A tough rib that was so short of taste and underhung, it could have been Simon Cowell’s.

Puddings, you feel, have never really been Leigh’s first love. I liked the queen of puddings, but I was alone. Everyone else pulled faces and said: “Yeuch, school.” Or: “Yeuch, Stalingrad.” For all the hope and the willing it happy-ever-after, Le Café Anglais is a room and a menu that make promises the kitchen isn’t keeping. Too much misses its own mark. The seasoning is all over the place. Some things are salted like peanuts, others are bland as baby food. There may be too much going on, too many dishes, too many customers. It’s all fixable, and I hope it will be. I shall be back. But the meal we had took too long to be served, albeit by charming and informed staff, and was just too expensive for the imprecise and clumsy cooking.

Rating

Five stars: Naked ambition; Four stars: Naked lunch; Three stars: Bare necessities; Two stars: Let it all hang out; One star: Overexposed

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