The cash has most definitely been splashed at Moi, a vast new Japanese restaurant deep in the heart of Soho. There’s the artfully aged wood and finely textured concrete, the massive sculpture that writhes across the room like a sinuous wicker serpent, and a ‘baffled’ ceiling of huge expense, the first of its kind, they say, that transforms raucous chit-chat into soft-edged murmur. Everything here is muted, discreet and minimalist; at the back, an open kitchen, where silent chefs in spotless whites slice, dice and grill, while the air is fragrant with the scent of fat on glowing embers.
There’s music, from Fleetwood Mac to Led Zeppelin, the vinyl spinning on two record players that probably cost the same as a small family car. God only knows how they’ll ever make their money back (the place is barely half full on this particular Thursday lunch), but it’s certainly an exceptionally civilised place in which to sit.
‘Exquisitely cut and shimmeringly fresh’: Tom savours the sashimi
First up, sashimi: trout and o-toro, mackerel and bream, all exquisitely cut and shimmeringly fresh. And nigiri sushi: pearlescent scallop, sweet as a first kiss, and three different cuts of tuna. The rice is warm and subtly vinegared, each plump grain individually discernible on the tongue. There’s a purity to every bite, where an obsession with ingredients meets a mastery of technique. Up there with the very best in town, no doubt about that.
Sardine tempura is equally exalted, the light, burnished batter worn like a diaphanous silk slip. Blobs of umeboshi add sly sharpness, while a black mirin ponzu dipping sauce is both lavishly rich, and light as a sigh.
I like the beef tongue skewer, too, all tense chew and swaggering bovine heft. A chicken and blood sausage tsukune is less successful, the texture the wrong side of slimy, the taste a little strange and unhinged. Whole bream, in an umber, silkenly intense langoustine sauce, is a mighty beast, the skin seared black by the coals, the flesh virginally pure.
There’s real art at the grill here. But each dish is delivered to the table by head chef Nick Tannett, as softly spoken as he is charming, alongside an interminable spiel about the ingredients. Each dish seems to have about nine different elements, so any conversation is endlessly interrupted. It’s a bore. When the cooking’s this good, just bring us the bloody food.
About £80 per head. Moi, 84 Wardour Street, London W1; moirestaurant.com
