Marco's New York Italian

Ah, Marco Pierre White’s Italian - a name that evokes culinary expectation nestled within the bricks and mortar of a Mercure hotel you’d think might prove no alternant to his previous successes, yet promises were made in whispers from gifts past and present. As the warm safety of late afternoon sunlight spilled against charming yet worn leather banquettes, there's an opportunity for narrative transformation. Seated promptly amid a well-paced hush, one might expect to feel less at home than hoped; still, there lies within every seat, no matter how secondary, a tale in waiting. We upgraded to an entire bottle of prosecco, garnishing our modestly appointed voucher experience with festivities aplomb.

Despite a separate room laden with its own environment, attentions fell among attentive staff proudly navigating our seated space with professional finesse; smiles and service redeemed even the draftiest critiques previously scribbled upon this place’s torn notepad of time. A friendly nod (thank you, Pramodh) promised redemption of the set menu, which - nutritional promises aside - balanced flair and formality, angled intentions contrarily by offering tastes settling delightfully towards refined rather mundane. To conclude, refreshed and wreathed by laughter over steady flutes and a twinkle-eyed repast sprinkled with painted pastoral touches upon slo-shined slate, dare I say, while not entirely Michelin agreed, here, nourishment rises dependably from beneath these bells amid faint glowing redemption among chair tales storied. Reservation reconsidered, stakes gladly remain - receipts plentiful enough for return design. — Clarissa Cuisinier