Entering the Peninsula Hotel in Hyde Park is one of London’s most psychedelically disorientating experiences.
After traipsing across one of the city’s smoggiest roundabouts, and scurrying through a dingy system of underpasses I pop out in a cavernous marble atrium in which a balcony-based jazz band perform 40-feet in the air, to a room full of disinterested millionaires muttering darkly about business.
‘The restaurant is that way,’ says a woman, taking pity on the wide-eyed incongruous man sadly wheeling about in the middle of the hall.
Har gao shrimp dumplings are gelatinous bombshells which detonate in your mouth with prawn-y power
Moments later I’m squinting (it’s dark) at a blue porcelain fireplace, sheets of undulating Guangdong silk and a ceiling-mounted celestial map. Welcome to Canton Blue. JG Ballard could never.
If you’re of the opinion that a £130 peking duck cannot be justified or encouraged, probably stop reading. Canton Blue is expensive. How expensive? It has lighting that can legally only be described as ‘sexy’, silver chopstick holders which look pricier than anything in my house and lush carpeting that clearly gets shampoo’d regularly with bespoke emollients. It’s an Orientalist fever dream, dreamed up by someone who owns more than one Italian sports car.
My guest, a less worldly individual than I, seemed blown away by it all. ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ I warned solemnly. ‘The food in these kinds of places can be extremely shit.’
Happy to say: I was wrong.
We call in a barrage of dimsum, all of which hit their mark. Charsui bao are presented in their buttery, baked variety. The har gao shrimp dumplings are gelatinous bombshells which detonate in your mouth with prawn-y power. Steamed crab and cuttlefish dumplings were beautifully textured. Each and every mouthful is meticulously built, the kind of ultra-aesthetic assemblage most people would associate with posh patisserie or 80s businessman sushi.
The hits kept coming. Roasted pork belly, arguably one of Cantonese cuisine’s most representative dishes, achieved the exact ratio of thickness, texture and crispiness. How you get pig skin to do that boggles the mind: a crystalline cuff of ruby-red crackling. We demolished a plate of crab claws, delivered in the Hong Kong ‘typhoon shelter’ style, deep fried and doused in crispy garlic, chilli and black bean paste. I genuinely didn’t know what to expect from wok-fried wagyu tenderloin. The Rolls Royce of meat chucked into the culinary equivalent of a Nascar derby? Seemed rash, but the results were stupendous. Boisterous Cantonese flavours, supercharged by elite beef. Only the gong bao chicken, lacking in dried chilli and peanuts, failed to elevate itself beyond the conventional.
London’s relationship with Cantonese cuisine is a long and beautiful thing. In recent years it's been eclipsed by the proliferation of restaurants from the rest of the mainland. This is good, as it's helped Londoners become familiar with food from Sichuan, Xinjiang, Hunan and beyond. However, being reunited with the flavours of Hong Kong and Guangdong was a Proustian rush on a plate. Canton Blue, with its dream-like decor and surreal roundabout existence, was a fittingly memorable rendez-vous.
The vibe Low lights, dark blue turbo opulence and big ticket prices.
The food Cantonese with bells on. A nice short menu, mind.
The drink Some lovely tea options, as well as cocktails and wine.
Time Out tip Dessert is excellent so don’t miss the mango pudding. There’s also a cheeky bar, Little Blue, for anyone looking to keep the night going.