MiMi Mei Fair, Mayfair: ‘all sizzle, no steak’ — restaurant review

MiMi Mei Fair is billed as “A Celebration of Chinese Culinary Arts”, but, I’ll be honest here, it feels less Chinese than Parisian. I mean that in the fondest possible way. I love Paris and I love restaurants there, but they display a kind of total irony bypass. We Brits have irony in the soul, our defining fault is that we can’t do anything without raising a sneery eyebrow. Parisians are least ironic about restaurants, which they take deeply seriously, even where the premise is absurd. As a consequence, they make brilliant, beautiful, insane restaurants in which no one cracks a smile except the smirking English in the corner.

MiMi Mei Fair has had so much work done on it, without even a passing whiff of irony, that it could be set into Paris like a jewel. It is a restaurant with a fictional narrative, consistently rehearsed from website to tableside, of the Georgian townhouse in Mayfair that is now “the private residence of Empress MiMi — keeper of the most revered Chinese culinary secrets”. The menu “reflects authentic and innovative Chinese dishes inspired by Empress MiMi’s travels across Hong Kong, Singapore and the provinces of mainland China”.

I’m led past the ground-floor dining room, a maze of throbbingly twee indiscretion booths somewhere between a pre-Bolshevik, first-class railway carriage and an infanta’s jewel box, then upstairs to a dining room that was either Cecil Beaton’s boudoir in 1935 or wanted to be. Nerd that I am, I caught myself running my fingers over the sumptuous moulding and, dear reader, I found no MDF. Gold leaf has its place in a restaurant. Likewise, carpet, wallpaper, cushions. All were of the highest quality and present in abundance . . . and then there was the food.

Crispy golden langoustine with Perigord truffle flaunts from the top of the menu, combining two ingredients it is almost impossible not to love. If the person who entombed the poor little crustacean in a lifejacket of deep-fried vermicelli loved it, they didn’t respect it very much at all. The star ingredients tasted of nothing and the fried crust predominated. It takes work to reduce top-level ingredients to the sort of canapé offered at an underfunded book launch — someone conscientiously made the effort.

“Xiao Long Jewels” were borne in ceremonially, in a casket. Chicken, crab, prawn, yam and pork soup dumplings in brightly dyed wrappers glistened like costly gems, though they were texturally more akin to Play-Doh. The flavourings were indistinguishable and the whole rigmarole of individual baskets, stuck paper underlays, spoons etc meant that, even with a wrapper the thickness of a decent Harris Tweed, they bled-out in three out of five cases.

Things were looking dire, but then the duck arrived, with its own chef. The glorious skin of the thighs was trimmed away, sliced and presented as a preliminary entertainment. It was, thank the Lord, excellent. I watched, enraptured, as the chef dissected out the front two-thirds of each breast, into regular tranches, each identically blessed with fat and crisp skin.

This is definitely not your average Chinese restaurant duck. It was rare at the centre, subtly spiced and served with handmade pancakes. While my attention was focused on the outstanding breast meat, the chef managed another pass at the carcass and served a plate of less prestigious cuts for the hungry, immoderate or greedy (I am, of course, all three).

This was the best Peking duck I’d ever consumed. Emboldened, I ordered the “Classic ‘Dong Po’ braised pork belly”, which was flavourless, accompanied by sesame mantou cigars, which were just heartbreakingly dull.

I honestly don’t know where to go with this one. Take the sumptuous duck out of the equation and MiMi Mei Fair is the worst case of “all sizzle, no steak” that I’ve encountered. One of the prettiest restaurants with some of the most flavourless food. A crushing defeat of deliciousness by image. I guess, for all the romance of the place, I might just have to console myself with a truly memorable duck.

Follow Tim on Twitter @TimHayward and email him at [email protected]

Follow @FTMag on Twitter to find out about our latest stories first