The aesthetic of The Broadwick, and its basement restaurant, Dear Jackie, has been described in many ways. The sumptuous new Soho hotel is “maximalist”, “camp”, “jazz age”, “louche”, “disco fabulous” and “English eccentric”. Each description is individually accurate. But what the commentators are missing is the single term that unifies these spirits: 1970s Bournemouth.

1970s Bournemouth is the aesthetic equivalent of the Vietnam war, in that it’s entirely incomprehensible if you weren’t there. Noel Hayden, the tech entrepreneur who has opened The Broadwick, was. He grew up in Bournemouth, as did I. Not hanging out on the beach among the “grockles”, you understand, but up in the clifftop hotels and restaurants where the more rakish achievers of postwar Britain held court. Where toilet rolls were decorously concealed under crinolined dolls and every sea-view suite had a minibar made of Formica and gold foil, glued together by aspiration. It was a place where watches were sometimes worn outside the cuff, Sobranie-cocktail fag-ends filled ashtrays and the smell of Elnett hairspray almost choked out the expensive perfume.

Yeah. Dear Jackie is like that. Hayden named it after his mum. I think I’d have loved Jackie.

The restaurant is in the basement, where you are led by women dressed in polka-dot playsuits into a room that wasn’t so much “designed” by creator of the moment, Martin Brudnizki, as painted entirely with glue and then hosed with gilt, mirrors, tchotchkes, wall-fabric and cut crystal, varnished with romance and spritzed in candlelight. I arrived first, and they put me in an enclosed nook, reeking of discretion, the glow of tea lights making the very best of the wreckage of my face beneath speakers humming softly of romance and erotic promise. It was, I think, the most romantic set-up I could have imagined, which would have been glorious were I not meeting my editor, a woman with whom my relationship will not be improved by soft lighting and the sounds of a French chanteuse apparently being slowly drowned in syrup.

It was a tough situation, but I think I handled it well. I instinctively swerved the 2010 Domaine Leflaive — Chevalier-Montrachet at £5,335, and the extensive list of champagnes, and ordered instead a brusque and highly professional sounding martini. My editor suggested, with suspicious alacrity, a starter of bagna cauda with seasonal crudités. Nothing telegraphs the absence of inappropriate intentions like a hot prophylactic gargle of raw garlic and anchovies. It was, however, delightful.

We were joined at the next table by a glamorous couple and their two young children. They must have been resident at the hotel because the kids were clad in matching pyjamas and slippers and carrying soft toys. I love kids in restaurants. If they’re polite and pleasant — which they usually are — they are a delight and an ornament to the room. I couldn’t help thinking, though, that whichever couple the staff imagined our table was aimed at might have had their style cramped.

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The menu by chef Harry Faddy is Italian-inspired, so it neatly sidesteps the dread hegemony of small plate/tapas presentation in favour of a classic antipasti, pasta, secondi structure with which one can play fast and loose. Sea-bass crudo with fennel and Navelina orange, of modest proportions, was elegantly composed and a pleasure to share.

I’ve admitted, openly, to being ever drawn to vitello tonnata and I’m glad I didn’t take this opportunity to branch out. The veal was roast, rather than poached, so crisp at the edges and genuinely rare at the centre — so much better than the regular “boiled ham” approach. It was shredded and tossed through the sauce, and a kind of buckshot of fried capers and shallot peppered the surface. I failed to share.

Although orecchiette puttanesca translates as “tiny ears in the style of a courtesan”, I felt on safe enough ground by this point to order it. It was as punchy as anyone could have wished, the pasta cooked on point and with a side of Castelfranco bitter lettuce, dressed smart-casual. It’s got to be coming out of a greenhouse by this time of the year, but I’m not going to complain. It’s grown-up salad and, on this occasion, exactly what I needed. The menu said it came with crema insalata, which, if my poor Italian is still sufficient, means “salad cream” and thus induces the deepest joy.

Monkfish have swum off our menus a bit since the glory days at the beginning of the century. Chefs and diners alike seem overwhelmed by a lump of fish the size and texture of a fiddler’s forearm, but here Faddy’s been clever with it. The fillet, which curls, when grilled, was coated on one side with nduja, giving it the appearance of a gigantic lobster tail. I’m not sure if it was some sort of visual pun, but it certainly overrode any notion that it’s tough or lacking in interesting flavours. A blanket of cime de rape had been spread beneath and the combination was more than happy.

I don’t think Hayden and I ever crossed paths in our uniquely raffish hometown, but I wish we had. I like his style and, in a strange way, through Dear Jackie, he’s made me prouder of where I come from.

My editor and I drank long into the night. I whinged about expenses, as is professionally required. We exchanged gossip too incendiary to write of, and, as we reeled into our respective nights, I considered it had been a fine evening, in a quirky and entertaining room, with gratifyingly excellent food. And, if you’re reading this, it looks like I kept my job.

Follow Tim @TimHayward and email him at [email protected]

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