After four years, Jamie Oliver is back with a new restaurant – but can it right his wrongs?

I’m a firm believer in second chances. I’m even forgiving enough for third chances, but fourth? Jamie Oliver’s first new venture since the rather embarrassing collapse of his restaurant portfolio in 2019 is more of a 90 seconds to midnight kind of last chance. If he’d been a boyfriend, he’d be dumped and I’d still be in therapy.

After the domino-effect closure of Jamie’s Italians nationwide, the not-for-profit Cornwall restaurant and chef training school Fifteen, and the steakhouse and butchery Barbecoa, the Naked Chef has been noticeably absent from the restaurant scene. There’s been pop-ups and successful franchises abroad – and TV appearances and cookbooks, of course – but nothing in the UK.

You might have thought that after his restaurant group collapsed with more than £80m worth of debt, not to mention £2.2m owed in staff wages and a second-lowest hygiene rating at his butchery, that Oliver isn’t the man to approach to consult on opening a restaurant.

And yet, he remains a lovable household name, and deservedly so. His refreshing, down-to-earth bubbliness and approachable recipes are what made him famous. In an industry that has become homogenised by tweezing obscure and expensive ingredients onto small plates and calling it art, perhaps we need Oliver again now.

When he opened the first Jamie’s Italian in 2008, there were queues around the block. I recall several decent meals at the branch in my hometown Cambridge, a city afflicted with a case of the chains, though this one was decidedly better than the others. Anyone with sense might lay the blame for his short-lived ruin at the feet of Brexit and an overcrowded market in the face of waning interest in chain restaurants.

Clearly, it wasn’t enough to put Andrew Lloyd Webber off when he asked his good friend Oliver about a new eatery he was contemplating in the same building as his theatre on Catherine Street in Covent Garden. Initially just asked to consult, Oliver was eventually handed over the keys.

“Go easy on him,” a restaurateur I bump into before my booking tells me. It’s true, I’m a bit of a cynic when it comes to Oliver. I’m of the generation that hasn’t forgiven him for having Turkey Twizzlers banned from primary schools (they were the best part of my day, even if they were making us fat) and forcing me to become hyperaware of obesity when I was 12 or singeing into memory the image of him suffocating a tank of male chicks. I jest. He transformed the way we looked at food and as gruesome as it was, it had a lasting impact that we’d be fools to say we can’t still see today. Can he do it again?

To judge a book by its cover, Jamie Oliver Catherine St is an inviting restaurant. The green awnings and subtle orange branding are more indicative of a French bistro in Mayfair than a pre-theatre place in Covent Garden. A courtyard, dimly lit with high ceilings and ivy climbing the walls, a piano and casual seating, speaks of digestifs and canoodling to the twinkle of keys and fairy lights. Inside, art deco booths, low-hanging lights, a marble (and well-stocked) bar and photographs and paintings from Oliver’s favourite artists mark a significant departure from the flat-packed chain restaurants of his past.

So, too, does the menu, which is inspired by the food he grew up with at his parents’ pub The Cricketers. A baring of the Naked Chef, if you will. It reads as an album of self-nominated greatest hits, such as the Fifteen salad (burrata, coppa, clementine and winter leaves) and his take on the nemesis chocolate cake from River Cafe, where he was first discovered 26 years ago. If anything, it’s surprising not to see Turkey Twizzlers on the menu given how successful that campaign was.

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We come at showtime, a good window to observe how good a pre-theatre menu really is when the curtain’s up. It’s busy, but not full, with diners of all kinds, from couples young and old and families to girls’ nights out. Quite frankly, it’s buzzing.

Perhaps I spoke too soon. The only wine I’m prepared to drink on the list, a white burgundy for £55, is out. We’re down-sold to the 16 Stops chardonnay from Australia for £45, which is sort of the polar opposite of the creamy, appley, easy-drinking glass I wanted, but I’ll live. Maybe people here have taste. Maybe burgundy is basic these days.

We order and then we wait. Then we wait some more. In fact, we wait more than 40 minutes. Bread isn’t offered, though you can pay £5 for the pleasure. I can’t decide if this is transparency or a travesty. As I’m looking around the room contemplating whether two wait staff is enough for 130 covers, the food arrives and, well, I begin to worry. The marie rose in the seafood cocktail is lip-puckeringly acidic and the performative prawn on top is raw in the middle. I suppose I’m pleased this indicates they might not be reheating from frozen but surely 40 minutes is ample time to actually cook a single prawn. The herby, garlic mushrooms on a thick slab of toast, meanwhile, makes me wonder if they’ve stirred the pot properly. The flavour is there, in one corner but not in another.

These flavour faux pas make me anxious about my main course: Trevor’s chicken, named after Oliver’s dad and a hark back to their days in the pub. I thought the mustard and shallot cream might overpower the dish but, in fact, it strikes a delicate balance with the chicken (slow-grown from Sutton Hoo in Suffolk), poached, stuffed with wild mushrooms and wrapped in puff pastry. Then there’s the braised short rib, overly salty in a sticky, icky red wine sauce. The flavourless carrots and mushrooms on the side don’t do it any favours.

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Nor do the hash brown chips (a soft launch favourite) or the seasonal greens (which are so overdone it’s like chewing cud) we have to order on the side – because it’s that kind of place. I didn’t think deep-fried potato could have no discernible taste of potato. I’d use it as a mopping-up tool were there anything worth mopping up.

On puddings, I’m not an expert, nor a fan, though I imagine the nemesis cake, which welds the mouth shut with its gooeyness, will go down a treat (parents with hyper kids: approach with caution). Any hope of the St Clement’s tart, with orange and lemon curd and torched meringue, providing relief is skewered by a mouthful of too-tart cream.

Truthfully, I wanted him to excel, and I find myself sad that on this occasion, he didn’t. An off-night, perhaps. There’s nothing inherently wrong with Jamie. There aren’t unsavoury, brushed-under-the-rug rumours swirling about him like other chefs of his era, for example, nor is he unpleasant in person. This restaurant, with its primetime theatreland location and neat and nostalgic menu, should be a hit.

At £67 a head with a bottle of wine to share, under £50 without, it’s ticking the budget-friendly box in an otherwise expensive part of town frequented more by tourists looking for a cheap eat before an expensive show, than Londoners on the hunt for simple on a shoestring. But there’s nothing technically complicated about seafood cocktails or hash brown chips. It’s not small plates, it’s not fine dining. It’s chain restaurant fare masquerading as a star-studded return to the scene for a chef who has every right to be good. So why doesn’t it deliver?

I’m prepared to write off slow service and undercooked or overdone food as teething issues. An overestimation of how popular it was going to be, perhaps. They can get it right and I’m sure they will. After 37 years in kitchens, Oliver’s still finding his feet. Go easy on him. It’s Christmas, after all.

£67 a head for a starter, main, dessert and a bottle of wine to share

6 Catherine St, Covent Garden, London, WC2B 5JY | 020 3084 7565 | www.jamieolivercatherinest.com