Dabbous is the place where stoned pixies would dine if they were into food. I have a fever and think of fairies and ghost trains to nowhere all day. But it is really Dabbous — Dabbous — that did this to me.
Dabbous is a girl with her skirts up at Oxford — she has a reputation. For being wonderful — foodie food for those who aren’t really foodies or won’t identify as such; eating there is like going to the opera, and finding people who can look you in the eye. The critics have all come, and fallen down wormholes made of their own superlatives. Now it is booked up until the apocalypse. The chef is Ollie Dabbous, 31, formerly of The Fat Duck and Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons.
It is in the grottiest bit of London, just off Tottenham Court Road, a road that seems to hate itself, and wants to go elsewhere. Restaurants battle with soft furnishing emporia and everywhere there’s dust. Dabbous itself is razed-ground chic, a collection of plain wood and dull metal; even the scaffolding outside might be part of the theme. ‘The ghetto,’ says A, grasping for context. He waves his arm. ‘That man,’ he points at a random male sucking an onion, ‘thinks he is from the Ghetto.’ ‘He works for M&C Saatchi,’ I say. ‘He lives in Earls Court.’ We are brought bread in paper bags; bread for the stomach, bag for the panic attack.
The front-of-house staff wear beards and sleek suits — they seethe with enthusiasm for Dabbous, and explain everything while splashing water into glasses. I haven’t met this kind of brand loyalty since the Steinbots of Padstow wouldn’t let me out. Out comes an enormously complex, though short, menu — starters at £7, main courses £14.
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