‘The place feels nothing like the actual Scott’s’

LOCATION

4 Whittaker Avenue TW9 1EH scotts-richmond.com

STAR RATING

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LUNCH FOR TWO

£156.25 excluding drinks and service

THE MENU

Shellfish bisque

• Mixed sashimi

• Richmond plateau de fruits de mer

• Shrimp burger

• Dover sole

• Spinach

• Mashed potato

• Paris-brest

It’s panto season so I take Jo, who needs cheering up (oh no he doesn’t, oh yes does), to Richmond where, purportedly, there is a restaurant called Scott’s. Now, you and I know that Scott’s is an establishment in Mayfair on Mount Street, that centre-of-gravity thoroughfare in the world of affluence. Think doormen and white linen and oysters and caviar and Champagne. Into this glorious black hole of opulence are sucked people from the worlds of finance, business and celebrity to dine at the central oyster bar, or a favourite table, be it discreet or flamboyantly visible. It’s a regular haunt for the superrich, or a treat place for paupers like me. The last time I went I was taken by a former boss who had just hoisted me out of his building. It was a great lunch. We remain great friends.

Now there’s another Scott’s. It’s name is emblazoned on the door of a grand building by the river in Richmond. The man behind this sister restaurant has form. After he’d bought The Ivy in the West End, another celebrated, long-standing institution, Richard Caring started littering the streets with Ivys. One even opened in Dubai. I had lunch there. It was in a vast shopping mall but had all the design of the original – the stained glass windows, the wood panelling – so I sat in there, sheltering from the 40-degree heat outside, alone, teeth chattering from the air conditioning and eating a decent shepherd’s pie. It’s now closed, so it’s probably a nail bar, a VR gaming joint or a frozen yogurt shop.

Who knows what fate awaits Scott’s Richmond – doubtless eventually submerged under the Thames – but for now it is a place of flamingo-pink curtains and stools, of light-green banquettes and orange seats. Columns are decked in a way that tries to ape frosted, icy glass but end up looking like they’ve been wrapped in cling film. Upstairs there’s a more garish bar. The place feels nothing like the actual Scott’s but more a brand of Caring’s Berkeley Square nightclub Annabel’s, once a chic drawing room, now a vision of interior-design extravagance that’s all padded wallpaper and furnishings so soft you could fall into them from a great height and fear no injury.

The Richmond menu is, of course, very familiar: the oysters, caviar, shellfish, raw things, lobster, fish and grilled meats. We cast a fly across this gurgling pool of promise and netted a fine and rich bowl of shellfish bisque and then a dish of mixed sashimi which arrived looking like the headgear of a Byzantine potentate. A little bowl of chopped salmon sashimi with tomato was excellent, but in general the fish was over-chilled.

The best sashimi should nudge towards room temperature, but this is what happens when great chefs aren’t properly moderating their underlings at outposts of the mothership.

So similar errors of principle occurred with the Dover sole, off the bone, which was a little overcooked. Not an issue in our big, bad world, but a crime in these quarters. The shrimp burger was also too dry and plain. Invented by the great Mark Hix as a witty and rich aside at a posh gaff, by now the joke had lost its meaning.

But the platter of fruits de mer was impeccable (the cockles, so often chewy, were the softest I’ve tasted), the veg sides were perfect, as was a gorgeously extravagant Paris-brest for dessert: as confident, graceful and pleasing as the service.

Caring’s of Richmond it might be, but Scott’s it ain’t.

This is what happens when great chefs aren’t properly moderating their underlings at outposts of the mothership