Ibla also happens to be the name of the new restaurant that squats in the old premises of Villandry, the stylish and wonderful French delicatessen and eatery that has now moved on to grander things in Great Portland Street. Villandry's much loved dining room, which the expression shabby chic was probably coined for, has disappeared under a coat of striking gloss paint. The erstwhile deli at the front is now a piquant olive green showcase for a handful of very choice Italian products, including the present-perfect Fiat chocolates from Turin My lunch-date eddied into raptures over these She liked the walls too, as it happens. Having admired the olive sheen, we moved through to the dining room, now head to foot summer-pudding colour (the juice-sozzled bread exterior rather than the inky interior).
Polly liked this colour too, and so did I, I think, though I mourn Villandry's old peeling paint. I hadn't seen Polly for the best part of a decade, and over lunching- ladies' mineral waters, I discovered that she has metamorphosed into a contributing editor to Elle Decoration and general interior style sort of a person. I guess that if she likes the walls, then that must indicate some kind of seal of approval. On the food front, I had managed to get hold of the idea that Ibla was a Sicilian restaurant, which meant that the short lunch menu came as something of a disappointment. Hints of Italy here and there, but nothing to locate it firmly in any one country which is a shame, since both the owner (from Calabria), chef and the staff, at least those who served us, are all Italian. In fact, the menu might be that of any capable mid-Nineties bistro, with its carrots (sic) and tarragon soup, mimosa asparagus salad, confit of duck, and pineapple tatin.Being a stubborn sort, I plumped for the most Italian meal that could be mustered - marinated sardines, green beans and potato salad to begin with, followed by lasagne. Polly, who had come without pre-conceptions, began with salmon tartare, which she obviously enjoyed as it had all but disappeared by the time I'd sorted out the absence of sardines in my salad.
A very Italian muddle over terminology, as it turns out.I'd been expecting some sort of silvery sardine fillet, that had been marinating down in the larders in a bath of lemon and olive oil, or at least something along those lines Instead there were tinned anchovies. In Italy, they said firmly, we use salted sardines and anchovies interchangeably A pity, since the salad was all the duller for it. A fat strip or two of fresh sardine might have lifted it up a few notches from the mundanely competent.Things started looking up when my lasagne arrived Sheer, wicked, bliss. Three or four large squares of pasta, cooked perfectly al dente, tottered prettily one above the other, interspersed with little tiny morsels of fork-tender rabbit meat, all bathed in a sublimely rich velvety sauce, thickened with the melting taleggio cheese. My mouth waters as I remember it, and I'd return for that one plateful of heavenly comfort alone.Polly meanwhile, was working her way enthusiastically through an ivory- coloured chunk of roast haddock spiced up with a tomato sauce that sang of a marriage of puttanesca (whore's sauce, with olives) and pizzaiola (pizza-maker's, which contains capers). Its aim is to blow the elitist image of sailing and make the sport accessible to ordinary folk like you and me. It does this by accrediting sailing schools around the country, all of which offer both yachting and dinghy sailing course certificates on an ascending scale.For dinghies - offering real bend-back-over-the-water excitement in front of a good wind - the RYA has five certificates to coax you from nervous beginner to a skipper of racing ability.
