Vatavaran, a posh new Himalayan-inspired joint in Knightsbridge, is much more than just a premium restaurant celebrating the Indian subcontinent. No, it’s “a journey of the senses”, over tandoori duck seekh kebab, sea bass pollichathu and a few fancy cocktails, to help you transcend your earthly confines. This is “more than just a meal; it’s an ascent to new experiences”, proclaims the website.
Being a huge fan of restaurant hyperbole, I love it when dinner promises to change me metaphysically. The website goes on to refer to Vatavaran’s owners, chef Rohit Ghai and Abhishake Sangwan, as “visionary”, and in doing so strays perilously close to David Icke territory. Elsewhere on the site, Himalayan analogies are stretched like climbing ropes off the side of Nanda Devi: the show kitchen private dining room, we are told, is “a dynamic, participatory journey through the flavours of the mountains”, but I’d rather not – PDRs are the last refuge of the scoundrel, after all.
Vatavaran is on multiple levels in a gargantuan, higgledy-piggledy former cocktail bar on Beauchamp Place; one server informed me randomly as I entered that “the loos are in the basement”, clearly preempting my later lostness. A great deal has been spent on abstract art and fancy wallpaper to make the place look pretty, though if this clonking behemoth of real estate were in Huddersfield rather than Knightsbridge, it would make a pretty good Wetherspoons. The menu, meanwhile, may claim to cover the Indian subcontinent, but the likes of beetroot chops and kidney bean kebabs seem far more modern and experimental than wildly authentic.
The main dining room was a bit chilly, and our table for two was blasted further by an aircon vent that helpfully rearranged my fringe while I ate a stale trio of poppadoms with pleasant mango and tamarind chutneys; a whole £7 was added to our bill for that particular treat. At first, we were the only guests, but our server was flummoxed even by that. What puzzled me more, however, was the large, apparently out-of-operation cocktail bar through which all our food emerged. Was there a dumb waiter behind it, delivering plates up from the bowels of the building? At any rate, there was no smell of cooking at all, so for all I knew they were maybe ordering things in on Deliveroo.
Two plates appeared over on the bar: first, that kidney-bean kebab, which turned out to be minced, unseasoned beans shaped into a patty, fried and garnished with cremated lotus root. It was grimly edible, but only if you were very hungry. Then a bowl of peculiar indori poha chaat in which wet, structureless dumplings were hidden in a tamarind sauce. Not offensive, but also not all that nice, either.
Another small plate arrived, dal bati, a mixed lentil dal with hard bread balls. Bati should err on the chewy, but these were largely inedible and the haphazardly seasoned dal felt as if it had recently been reheated. Was there even a chef in the building? Granted, the earlier overcooked lotus root did suggest that someone, somewhere, had access to a fryer. I wrapped my scarf up tight and gestured amiably at the servers, pointing them to the air-conditioning unit that was still piping cold air at my neck. They looked at me blankly, without being quite able to crack my code.
Two prettily presented non-alcoholic cocktails appeared with a flourish, so they clearly had a bartender in the house – a tej with Tajín, passionfruit and grapefruit, and a delicate tulsi made with cucumber, lemongrass, basil and apple. If only such artistry had extended to anything in the dining room. By this point in our meal, the place had started to fill with what seemed to be rich tourists pointed here by posh local hotels. “Save yourselves!” I stopped myself from shouting. “Run!”
Fancy-pants places such as this make me rather irate, because they exist largely only in the meetings before their opening dates. “Behold, our extremely lofty cookery. Customers will be jolly happy to have us.” But by the time our mains arrived, I had lost all impetus for eating. A £24 tandoori lamb chop with black cumin was spongey, overcooked and suspiciously un-tandoored: there was no discernible charcoal smell, nor that unmistakable scent of sizzling lamb fat. Butter chicken, by contrast, was a safer option, and a welcome one, because it had a pleasing and vibrant sunset-coloured sauce finished with fenugreek. The accompanying roti, on the other hand, were stale and unlovable.
I pondered a lot about Vatavaran in the days after our visit. Was there anything else I should have ordered? Fish cooked on a rotisserie (or so the menu said), or the lobster moilee? Then again, if even your dal is uninspiring, there’s no way I’m chancing you making a decent coconut-cream sauce to go with lobster. TLDR: Vatavaran may be a Himalayan dining experience, but I’d rather be rescued from the Mera Peak with missing toes than eat there again.
Vatavaran 14-15 Beauchamp Place, London SW3, 020-4618 3971. Open Tues-Sun, 1-10.15pm. From about £60 a head for three courses à la carte; five-course tasting menu £70 (vegetarian) or £75 (signature); set lunch two courses for £25, three for £30, all plus drinks and service
The next episode of Grace’s Comfort Eating podcast is out on Tuesday 18 February – listen to it here
