Barbecoa

Barbecoa had the location, at least. Views of St Paul’s and a penthouse setting promised the kind of meat feast that could make the journey worthwhile, although finding the entrance through the adjoining butcher shop produced a brief “wow, real men” moment before the directions became confusing again. Once inside, the welcome was exceptionally friendly — by the time everyone had said hello, there were almost no hellos left to give — and the interior looked cool and stylish. The small bar was more claustrophobic, but it had one memorable novelty: the Pickle-Rack O’Ribs cocktail, a Bloody Mary with a moonshine shot and a rib. Beers with bourbon were a better, simpler success.

The penthouse promise became less convincing at the table. The chairs were comfortable and the views were excellent, but an angular, oddly cheap-feeling table made the setting feel less considered than it should. The Devil’s Cornbread was calorific and great, while the crab hush puppies were excellent. A 38oz rib-eye for two, sirloin and Mexican chicken gave the table plenty to work through. Lamb rump, however, was half inedible fat and very average; Mit’s chicken was tasty, but the general consensus was that the meal had let everyone down despite the address.

There were bright spots. The location remained beautiful, and the Snickersphere dessert was gorgeous, a polished finish after a patchy savoury showing. But a steakhouse at this level needs more than a famous view and a good table of friends. At 35, Barbecoa is a restaurant where the setting does much of the persuasion, while the kitchen does not always follow through. The evening left a clear lesson behind: it is not all about location, location, location.