When I say that Ravinder Bhogal’s new restaurant is immensely girly, I’m not being reductive, honest. It’s so pretty, from its peach-blush exterior with wicker chairs and colourful cushions that look as if they were donated by a particularly stylish auntie; the place is a charmer. Jikoni’s website says they “celebrate the legacy of the many maternal figures who shared their kitchen”, so we get a cockle-warming place to sink into and dream, perhaps, of soft, embracing, motherly bosoms scented with cinnamon and vanilla.
Bhogal herself is far from matronly. In her open kitchen, she’s as chic and beautiful as her surroundings. A TV regular, appearing with everyone from our own Jay Rayner to Big Sweary Gordon, her book, Cook In Boots, featured headings such as Fork Me, Spoon Me: The Food Of Love And Rude Food. Post a number of “residencies” in the likes of Hix and Trishna (which is right next door; I’m not sure whether this is chumminess or chutzpah), Jikoni is her first restaurant. Pot plants and mismatched lampshades made from jewel-coloured saris and handmade Indian tablecloths notwithstanding, the girliest element is the food, which is light years from the usual Brit curry machismo. It’s not pretending to be traditional or authentic; it is, apparently, “inspired by our rich heritage, our travels and by London”, which explains outbreaks of Ovaltine and shepherd’s pie.
You can’t escape the cuteness: tiny little prawn puffs are like an elf’s Cornish pasty, the light-squidgy pastry flecked with cumin seeds and stuffed with the merest suggestion of prawn; a dinky collection of scotch eggs are like a savoury version of cupcakes, bijoux little quails’ jobs perched on decorative flourishes – prawn toast scotch egg (shades of meaty prawn cracker) with banana ketchup (like salty, liquidised maltloaf) and pickled cucumber; a pumpkin version given a Middle Eastern spin with tahini, a scattering of dukkah and curls of pickled chilli; and (our favourite) slow-cooked, rich, ripe pork thick with mustard seed and topped with sticky batons of carrot and a slick of sweet-sharp tamarind. All are expertly fried, the teensy yolks perfectly, oozingly mollet (not an easy feat with eggs this size).
There are lots of little dishes, and we get through most of them without denting the desire to keep on eating. Rounds of sweetcorn, just-charred into smokiness, come with “Kenyan peanut sauce” (a stiffer satay) and topped with flounces of coriander. Street-food favourite bhel is an explosion of sev, puffed rice, tamarind, rubies of pomegranate, mango, chickpeas and God knows what else: it’s a riot of flavour and texture. Cauliflower “popcorn”, a cross between tempura and Chinese salt’n’pepper, is dusted with the thinnest chilli and translucent fried curry leaves, and entirely addictive.
It’s hard to resist a main course called “spiced scrag end pie”, which turns out to be a hectically sloppy mess in a decorative chafing dish, featuring potato lurid with cream and butter, and scrag end (an unsung cut from the animal’s neck, perfect for low, slow cooking) packed with ginger, cinnamon, chilli and cumin. This shepherd’s pie on steroids I’d quite happily inhale through a tube. Not sloppy enough? Here’s a Sloppy Joe brioche bun rammed full of minced Herdwick mutton keema that leaches spiced fat through its bready base, the richness jolted by pickled red onion (like Mexican cebollas curtidas) and a side of padrón peppers fried in crisp, wispy batter. This is one for burger heads looking for a harder hit. More sophisticated is lobster tail khichdee (sic: the ancestor of kedgeree) with “moilee broth”, a Keralan number humming with mustard seed, turmeric and coconut, with more coconut in the dhosa-style chutney on top, little dark lentils and flawless rice. The idea of ruffian lentils with prissy lobster is an odd one, but it comes off beautifully.
“We hope you find the food soothing and nourishing,” croons the website, and if I have a criticism, it’s that “soothing”: many plates rather disappear from consciousness as soon as they’ve disappeared down necks. Although they bristle with fresh spices, it’s as though they’ve been de-fanged. There’s a dreamy, creaminess to much of it, a little too much sweetness. (“Caramel chips”: how can you not order this? Alas, it’s a bit too much of a literal description and, chip fiend though I am, I pick at a couple before thinking, nuh-huh.) But do I like Jikoni? Oh yes, my pretty pretty: come to mamma.
• Jikoni, 19-21 Blandford Street, London W1, 020-7034 1988. Open all week, noon-3pm (not Sun), 5.30-11pm. About £30-35 a head plus drinks and service.
Food 7/10
Atmosphere 9/10
Value for money 7/10
