Sessions Arts Club, EC1R

Sessions Arts Club first came to my attention whilst scrolling through Instagram some months ago and since then I had noticed it frequently poll in various “Where to Eat in London” lists. All the usual suspects raved about it, and it seemed like my sort of place – a particularly shiny jewel in the crown of Clerkenwell – a restaurant scene that has fast become synonymous with paired back, hyper-seasonal, delicious food. The artsyness of the place intrigued me, the menu read like a dream. A friend visiting from Scotland was all the excuse I needed to trek to East London, stomach and camera phone yearning for the “expertly” cooked meal that so many reviewers had promised.

I cannot fault the space – perhaps the reason many decide to dine here – this is a gorgeous, gorgeous restaurant. The attention to detail, interior design in sympathy with the building, deliberately crumbling facades paired with sturdy wooden chairs and plush green banquettes under white tablecloths. There’s even a little terrace upstairs where the windows are perfectly positioned to cast the most flattering light possible on your infuriatingly average meal.

Alas, dear reader I was disappointed. The confit potato was so steeped in oil I’ve no doubt you could power your car with it – maddening once you realise you can get a far superior specimen at Quality Chop House just a 5 minute walk down the road. In this case, the slices of potato had split from each other in the deep fryer, allowing a lot of oil in. We ate half (between two) and abandoned the rest. A plate no amount of edible flowers, artfully arranged pot plants, or “vibes” could salvage.

The brown shrimp croquette was however a delight – like a little shrimpy Kiev – technically perfect and spilling out herby butter and shrimp when split. I wish I had ordered 3, or even 6 of these with a glass of wine, but instead I persisted with the menu. Although small, the cocktails were also delicious and reasonably priced. The panisse with cods roe was tasty, although the portion size had shrunk significantly from the photos I’d previously seen, and the presentation different from photos I’d seen a week before and a week later. Further digging shows a lot of inconsistency in the look and ratios of the ingredients on any given plate. My hunch is that there are multiple chefs in the kitchen and the quality, speed and presentation of your meal may be entirely down to who happens to be in the kitchen on any given day.

It’s a rule universally acknowledged that if you arrive late you must arrive looking absolutely fabulous. Much to my dismay, the hake arrived late (very late) and in a pool – an Olympic swimming pool – of lukewarm butter sauce the texture of school dinner custard. I plucked the hake and potato from the center (well cooked, well seasoned, forgettable) and decided to leave the majority of the sauce which is at worst an unappetising eyesore and at best entirely unnecessary. The menu also mentioned “chilli” which translated to three miniscule flecks of chilli that completely disappeared on the palate. My nostrils flared at the arrogance of putting this thing on a white tablecloth. It’s worth mentioning some mix up with our order (a waiter arrived during our wait to ask if we were “expecting more food” – to which we replied yes, we ordered the hake) meant the fish arrived so late my dining companion had to settle her bill leave before it arrived, declaring the whole meal “nonsense”. I continued the lunch solo.

When meals go in this direction I usually don’t trust the restaurant with dessert, or instead pick something very simple. I opted for the “melon and lemon” which I confess I did not ask to be explained to me. Needless to say if I knew this dessert was quite literally a slice of frozen melon with about a tablespoon of lemon sorbet presented like something at a 4 year old birthday party, I would have politely declined. I was perplexed by the absurdity of this preparation: in order to freeze the lemon sorbet into the melon the melon itself must be frozen, and therefore served to you rock hard. By the time you have defrosted the melon, the sorbet would of course have turned to liquid: the concept simply doesn’t work. There’s a line used by almost every restaurant about doing the ingredients “justice”. Well in this case I found the idea of serving a beautiful, sweet melon ripe and in season, frozen solid to be a miscarriage of justice so heinous I vowed to write this review to seek justice for that poor, sad, melon, who deserved a better ending (perhaps sliced and served alongside a plate of jamon…) but instead was confined to life in a freezer for no good reason.

Even paying the bill prolonged the ordeal. After what felt like a long while trying to get someone’s attention, I eventually ended up having to walk through the restaurant in order to find someone to take my money. I left, in a huff, and walked straight to Quality Chop House where I soothed my agony by buying various condiments, sausages, and their fresh rice pudding with rhubarb and ginger jam, which I ate as soon as I got home – though it was little consolation.

Bad days in the kitchen happen, but I take my food too seriously to give second chances to restaurants like this. Aesthetics should compliment the food – not urgently try to distract you from it. These restaurants were supposed to be an antidote to the pomp and ceremony of the Michelin Guide – all smoke, mirrors, and corruption. However I found this restaurant to be of a similar ilk – the big name bloggers, Time Out lists (etc etc) had convinced me this would be a Rochelle Canteen, Portland, St John level restaurant but in reality, if these plates were served in a less gorgeous room, they would be quite unremarkable. Sadly, the restaurant equivalent of an impossibly good looking person with an abysmally low IQ. This was not the experience I hoped for, and not one I would recommend.

Sabrina Goodlife.