Launceston Place

www.launcestonplace-restaurant.co.uk

1a Launceston Place, Kensington, London W8 5RL

+44 (0) 20 7937 6912

Closest Tube: Gloucester Road, High Street Kensington

Sunday 17 March, 12 noon

Verdict: Neutral

Launceston Place is, well, on Launceston Place, set in a quiet residential street in the heart of Kensington. An area full of diverse people, beautiful houses and proximate to some of London’s nicest wide open green spaces, it is not however a locality known for its eateries.

D&D, the company that owns this suburban restaurant is the parent to many successful children across this city, as well as Paris, New York and Tokyo. I’ve frequented some of their other London establishments which set a pretty high bar. Each of their restaurants has its own unique selling point, from high quality French dining set to a planetary theme at ‘Orrery’ in chic Marylebone, to authentic Italian at ‘Sartoria’ located on Saville Row in the heart of the British tailoring district.

We reach our destination after navigating down pleasant tree-lined streets and walking past the sweeping curved frontage of the restaurant, feeling hopeful that our Michelin starred Sunday brunch experience will easily be as good here as any meal we have had at a sibling restaurant. 

We are ushered to a table, bathed celestially in light, in front of a large picture window. The surroundings are luxurious in their simplicity. We promptly order a chardonnay from the small selection of wine by the glass and begin to survey the set menu. The Sunday lunch deal is three courses for 25 pounds.

Bite-sized pastries filled with pungent smelling cheese arrive, along with an amuse bouche of cauliflower mousse with pureed lentil to stimulate our taste buds. We chat and sample, both happy with the nibbles on offer. Our plates are then cleared and switched out simultaneously for our starters and I start to worry that the leisurely lunch we had envisaged will be anything but.

Our winter veggie salads are divine. Beetroot, broccoli, onion, carrot and cauliflower cooked to perfection. Not crunchy enough to be raw but warmed through to retain the vitamins, minerals and flavours, complimented with honey mustard and a tasty unidentified creamy sauce. Delicious, and nutritious.

An all too brief pause before my portobello mushroom main is in front of me. The fungi comes with parmesan bon bons and sherry vinegar but these two comrades are outwitted by their nemesis, sweetcorn puree. The maize is all I can taste. I push the parts to the far corners of my plate after a few mouthfuls, like an anorexic, artfully positioning the food to make it look like I have eaten more than I actually have. Thankfully my body mass wouldn’t lead anyone to think I was suffering from this sad affliction.

My friend is battling through her Sole. I reach over for a forkful. It is soaked with citrus and the fishy smell that hits your nostrils before the texture hits your tongue makes me think that ordering fish on a Sunday will always be problematic in a land-locked city. Freshness is questionable given the likelihood of a delivery that day.

I excuse myself to visit the facilities, which are subterranean and subzero (temperature-wise). I’m starting to feel niggles of annoyance building, which are amplified when I make my way back to the table to discover my dessert waiting for me. Sure, my napkin has been folded and placed neatly to one side, where it had been earlier disregarded on my chair. But I’m expecting the service levels to be akin to the threat of terrorism, ever-present but not always visible. It was clear I would be back in a matter of minutes, not hours. I had gone to the bathroom not the hairdressers. I would have thought they’d hold off for long enough to let me return to my seat, settle, before bringing the sweets.

Thankfully my chocolate mousse goes some way to assuage the hurt. It is whipped brilliantly and served with caramel-crusted banana and sorbet. My pal’s treat is baked vanilla yoghurt with rhubarb from Yorkshire. Those northern folk have been forcing this hardy plant since the 1800s. Scrapped plates evidence our enjoyment of our ultimate course. 

On balance, the lunch was good, but I chalked up enough black marks from the experience to reduce the score to middling or average. My lunch companion assures me that previous visits to this venue surpassed expectations and affirmed that Chef Tim Allen deserves his Michelin star. 

Sadly, as a long-time listener, first-time caller to Launceston Place I’m left with the distinct impression that this is a neighbourhood restaurant trying hard to match up to the other more successful D&D offspring. Or perhaps, as can happen to the best of us, they were just having a bad day.