Ambassadors Clubhouse, London W1: ‘A restaurant that wants to lead you astray’ – restaurant review

Ambassadors Clubhouse is now open, with its knowingly ostentatious title, lavishly anti-minimalist decor and swanky, off-Regent Street location – if you ever wept at the door of Momo in the 1990s after being told your name’s not down, you’re not coming in, but Kate and Naomi are, now is your chance. Ambassadors Clubhouse is the newest Indian venture from JKS, the people behind Gymkhana and many more: BiBi, Trishna and Brigadiers, among many others. It’s no exaggeration to say that London would have a very different dining landscape without siblings Jyotin, Karam and Sunaina Sethi, so if anyone can make a go of the former Momo site, with its capacious dining room, outdoor terrace, private dining rooms and underground nightclub, it is JKS.
This is a site that demands full commitment to making each nook and cranny matter, otherwise, it is essentially a dark, creaky rabbit warren. Luckily, the Sethis’ grandfather actually was an Indian ambassador, stationed across the world, but with a summer party mansion in Dalhousie, formerly part of the historic Punjab, by which this paean to grandness, cocktails and snacking is inspired. This is a restaurant that seemingly wants to lead you astray, with three types of margaritas, one of which you can buy by the 1½-litre bottle for £200. There are shots with names like “Bad Chaat” and “Old Monk Café XO”; a “Patiala Peg” is served tableside with ceremony, along with an accompanying legend about the Maharaja Sir Bhupinder Singh who invented it.
Moving away from booze, this is a menu that aims to serve authentic food from undivided Punjab – both India and Pakistan – without Anglifying, Frenchifying or anything else-ifying it. Expect heat, traditional names and matka sauces in darker hues – forget inoffensive, mild, indistinguishable “curries” with sauces in vivid shades. There are matka and karahi – dishes cooked in earthen clay pots and steel woks – featuring rabbit, guinea fowl and lobster. We ate a very good guinea fowl changezi, apparently named after Emperor Genghis Khan; heaven knows how Genghis had any impetus to unite the Mongol tribes after eating this delicious but roaring amount of ghee, cream, green chilli and kasoori methi. Thankfully, my only post-lunch plans were to kick off my shoes and snooze, especially after we polished off the changezi with a large, flaky ajwaini (carom seed) naan.
For me, the real fun of this menu, however, was in the opening papads, chaats and “bitings” sections, which feature nine small snacky plates of joy to pick at, scoop through and share. There’s a basket of mutton keema naan with a dipping bowl of rich, bone marrow masala, and an ornate beetroot raj kachori chaat that is a glorious bomb of creamy beetroot, sweet tamarind chutney, black salt, chilli powder and papdi. We ate indoors in the main room, although on this lunchtime in late summer, the outdoor terrace was doing a roaring trade (they have thoughtfully installed screens and greenery to give a sense of privacy and security).
The service is dedicated: the staff seem to know the menu and the story behind each dish, as well as being keen to have you back for the DJs, butler-service private rooms and elegant, late-night festivities downstairs, from which this reporter made her excuses and left. Ambassadors Clubhouse is many things: handy, ostensibly fancy but still semi-affordable, open late and easier to get into than Gymkhana, which reportedly has a waiting list of about 1,000 every evening. Go for the cocktails and goat kebab buns with mini fried quail’s eggs, then submit to the rich, Ranjit Shahi prawn curry with a side of surprisingly spicy shakarhand saag (sweet potato and spinach).
The prices for some dishes may make you gasp, but the portion sizes are healthy and you are in central London – somebody needs to pay for the fancy hand soaps and artwork in the pretty gothic toilets. I tried to refuse dessert because I had been incapacitated by the BBQ butter chicken chops (and surprised that chickens have chops), but the staff would hear none of it. “Not even a small kesari kulfi falooda?!” This sounded suspiciously like a delicious Punjabi slant on a knickerbocker glory. “OK, if not that, how about just the jalebi [swirls of fried gram flour and sugar syrup] with the merest lashing of dhai rabri [a slant on lassi]?”
“No, thank you.”
“OK, the mango angoori rasmalai with mango mousse? It’s very refreshing.” Reader, this was a bowl of sweet, plump milky mango dumplings crowned with God-tier whipped mango cream. My disco-dancing days might be over, but after two hours at Ambassadors Clubhouse, my step aerobics days still beckon.