Caia, London: ‘expensive, cool, wear-a-turtleneck sexy’

One of my favourite moves at restaurants is asking the waiter, “Is that a good order?” or, if I’m feeling particularly pesky, “Is that the best order you’ve had today?” They absolutely love it every time and no one has been annoyed at me, ever. I am convinced I’m an exceptional orderer – swerve the chicken; head towards the offal or anything with a name I have to discretely Google under the counter to learn what it means; always get a plate of pasta “for the table” – so very often they look at their little pad, do a “You know what? Yeah!” nod of respect, and get that order hustled right on over. (“Guys, is it OK if everything just comes out at once?”)

I like to imagine everyone in the kitchen stops for a moment when the ticket comes in, to gather around in awe. “Two orders of bread,” the pastry chef murmurs, “smart. Because he knows an order of bread is just two pieces of bread and he wants more bread than that.” The chef de cuisine is getting emotional: “I just love how many lamb chops he asked for. That’s so many lamb chops.” The saucier points with a single outstretched little finger. “Look at all those oysters. We’re in the presence of greatness.” When I leave they frame my bill and hang it up. At the start of every service they gaze at it and pray it happens again.

Anyway, not at Caia, where my every attempt to order was met with contempt, correction and, at one point, just the phrase, “Hmm… no.” To be clear: this is a compliment. My companion and I were giddy to nab a reservation at the chef’s counter on a fairly nondescript Wednesday, and we also pre-gamed the meal perfectly (two pints in 30 minutes flat, or, as I like to call it, “the double gunshot”), so were in a thrall to watching plate after plate come out as we sipped cold-as-space martinis and kept deciding and re-deciding our order based on what we saw. I was convinced the moment I sat down that I wanted the cacio y pepe (well… I did, and still do. It’s cheung fun cacio y pepe) cheung fun, but changed my mind as soon as I saw the octopus with burnt aubergine purée. I gasped when I read that the sweet potato agnolotti came with chicken-wing butter (Chicken! Wing! Butter!), but eventually conceded that the more sensible order, on balance, was the crudo. “Do we want the lamb cutlet or the fritto misto?” I asked over the pass, and was met with, simply: “Neither.” The red prawn risotto is the best thing on the menu, we were told. Order that. We ordered that. It was the best thing on the menu.

Chef’s counter privileges didn’t just extend to getting our order decided for us, it also got us a mis-fired plate of chips, which we devoured while waiting for our pork and prawn fried olives to cool down from “heart of the sun” molten to simply “the lava that killed everyone in Pompeii” hot. I always enjoy it when a restaurant that has an exceptionally curated Spotify playlist and moody corners and late-night vinyl DJs and fish shipped in from Japan this morning – ie, expensive, cool, wear-a-turtleneck sexy – also has enough wit to run a deep-fat fryer like Glenn Gould played the piano. Caia is possibly the best example of that in the city; as well as fried olives we had the potato pavé, which came out crackling into shards as if it was filo pastry, so salty-buttery-crisp it almost didn’t need the Exmoor caviar that came blobbed with sour cream on the side of it.

Two outstanding dishes next. That flew-in-today buttery hamachi was served with a grill-charred mandarin ponzu that was like a shot of pure Christmas Day to the dome, with a nostril-flaring mustard oil to give a more subtle version of wasabi heat: every bite of it a different, perfect, pure experience. The octopus finally came our way, smoked and subtly charred on the grill, the tomatoes ripe like good summer nectarines and tossed in wholegrain mustard so that – when you took every component part of the dish all together – it kind of tasted, insanely, like a very perfect hotdog. We also, obviously, finished with the frankly Flintstoneian Iberico ribs – can you find me six more perfect words than “24-hour, slow-cooked, house glaze”? – which came with a deep, fragrantly spiced molasses-y sauce and a scrunched handful of dehydrated potato puffs on top that make you want to put dehydrated potato puffs on top of everything going forward.

There’s a certain older-brother-cool macho swagger to this cooking: food that seems to say, Yeah, it’s good, isn’t it? with a detached shrug before smoking a cigarette out by the shed. The aforementioned best-thing-on-the-menu seafood risotto was a track-stopping example: the rice just taken to that point where it becomes post-structural, a deep parmesan funk throughout, a foamed crab bisque (that actually held its foaminess) on top and then, get this, chopped raw prawn sprinkled through at the last moment, just-cooking on the heat of the rest of the dish like sinking into a swamp.

I have two criticisms of my time at Caia. The ube tiramisu I was so excited to finish with didn’t set, so I had to watch from my vantage point on the counter as a whole tray of it went in the bin (I would have eaten you anyway, ube tiramisu slop! Please!); and I got too full to have the lamb chops, the cacio y pepe cheung fun, and the flatbread with taramasalata, so I’m just going to have to go back and get them. But I know the move, now: turtleneck, double gunshot, the most “Japanese jazz bar in the year 1983” aftershave I can muster, and beg them to tell me what to get instead of deciding anything myself. “Is that a good order?”, they will ask me, and I will say: yes.

Caia, 46 Golborne Road, London W10 5PR (020 3089 6600; caia.london). Snacks £6-£12, plates £18-£88, desserts £16, wine from £42 a bottle