There is something slightly ridiculous about a restaurant wanting Michelin gravitas and Jason Momoa glamour at the same time. One is looking for immaculate technique, consistency and a sauce reduced to within an inch of its life; the other is six foot whatever of Hollywood muscle and hair. Cylla wants both. It wants Grace Dent to tell us the cooking is serious so that the solo men in suits pay attention while also being delighted that Jason Momoa has been through the door. It is the restaurant equivalent of wearing a dinner jacket with a vest underneath.
And why not? Michelin may confer prestige, but Jason Momoa confers something rather more immediately useful: people. There is a limit to the number of diners who can be persuaded to care about a perfectly clarified consommé, but there are considerably more who would like to know where Aquaman had dinner. Serious enough to impress a critic, but not so serious that it doesn’t enjoy having a very large man from Game of Thrones in the room. Which is fine, I get it, but I do find it annoying when the bill comes with both a card of Grace Dents review (which is also on an A-board outside) and another offering ten percent off at Jason’s next gig. It’s naff. It’s tacky. Especially when it’s £28.50 for chicken gyros. The bill should be the bill. I shouldn’t be tempted to frame a review at home, or see a band that I don’t like.
So what is Cylla? Surprise Surprise I still have no idea. We turn up and get sat in a very cold booth in the alley between the bar and restaurant, asked to be moved, order three not very good cocktails, some wine, and find ourselves at the back of the restaurant on a lovely table in a very dimly lit restaurant. The breads are good, in particular the pita that have billow and exert thermal air when torn, and we like the tirokafteri that is elegant with a mellow heat and chunks of high quality feta within. The coveted aubergine is less interesting, whipped and then whipped some more, the flavour is deep and smokey but hardly complex. It demands more light and shade.
When it’s good it’s really quite enjoyable. The moussaka doesn’t need the dip on the side, because the moussaka is an excellent, very traditional take on the dish, brooding and comforting, as it should be. And I liked the kind of kofte taco, with the kebab on a little pita with salsa and yoghurt, even if the meat blend could have handled way more seasoning. The chicken gyros is a deconstructed, build-it-yourself affair with chicken that could be better quality for the pricepoint. It’s simple and quite well done. We finish with the beef fat potatoes, lauded and technical, made by making a rosti, chilling, cutting and frying to a golden mega chip. They are good but not great, a little greasy and tough work to finish.
The bill? No idea, Clare pays for us and we get cocktails down the road afterwards, but it is not cheap. I’m fine with a thirty quid main; it’s practically the norm now, but at that price it has to back it up. Cylla is good. Sometimes very good. It is also expensive and desperately keen to make sure you know that important people like it. Give me a great moussaka, the bread, a couple of the dips, a decent glass of wine and a bill that doesn’t arrive with a marketing strategy attached. I am remarkably easy to please.
7/10
