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We are told the cosmos is probably infinite and that therefore, statistically, there must be intelligent life somewhere else in the universe. So there may be sentient beings who haven’t heard about the opening of Mountain, Tomos Parry’s fervidly anticipated new restaurant. But it’s featured large in every metropolitan food lover’s diary for a while now and, when I finally leveraged a table, I wasn’t surprised to see claques of chefs and influencers. This Soho room is far more glitzy than his highly successful Brat in Shoreditch, with a bustling, club-like downstairs and a sort of dining amphitheatre on the ground floor, near perfectly designed for seeing and being seen.

The menu is cunningly wrought with a group of small dishes, what one might previously have known as snacks, that seamlessly elide into starter or tapas-sized plates. “For sharing,” it is explained. (Just a sidebar, but do we still need to be told that? It’s so standard now we’d all save time if we just explained when it was different. “First time at the restaurant? Let me explain. It’s a starter, main and dessert concept. Chef suggests one of each.”) There are more substantial dishes, including a couple of things my party was numerically inadequate to tackle. I regret that there weren’t enough of us for the “whole lobster caldereta (serves four or five) £120”. We’re coming back mob-handed for that one. All the solitary restaurant critics at once, through the window on ropes with flash-bangs and balaclavas.

While planning the operation, I fortified myself with the grilled peas, an addictive treatment of whole fresh peapods, done in the oven and dressed with something deliciously soyish. Like edamame beans in that you can eat the pod too, but more delicate and, though Pringles got there first, “once you pop, you can’t stop”. These formed a felicitous union with a second snackette of Pembrokeshire cockles, agonisingly fresh, steamed open in their own juices and dressed with just a little parsley. (Another sidebar: as a nation, we abused parsley for years, then shunned it. The only person who stayed true was Rick Stein, who kept the faith and continued to fearlessly strew it on everything. Now it’s a quirky rarity again, I think we should rename it St Rick’s Herb in his honour.) The cockle broth was infinitely more ethereal than the coarse juices of the common mussel, and the flesh of the little molluscs was just coaxed above raw. Quite shockingly good.

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The spider crab omelette was an intriguing little parable of modern restaurant cooking. I saw them going out to other tables, the unmistakable pregnant ovoid swell of a Japanese-style omelette, instantly recognisable to anyone with Instagram. Indeed, as it was set before each diner, there was a little piece of script about slashing it along the top so the omelette splits open and sumptuous, soft scrambled eggs gush photogenically across the plate. Interactive food absolutely flies on social media.

I ordered one. Who could not? The server didn’t do the deed herself, leaving knife and instruction and stepping smartly away. So she didn’t see my audacious incision. Nor indeed that the thing stubbornly failed to erupt in the prescribed manner. It just sat there, quivering. But here’s the rub. The whole damn thing was one of the best omelettes “mollet” I’ve ever experienced. It was deeply poetic. A hopeless failure as a money shot, a sublime success as an omelette. There’s a lesson in that.

There were some superb grilled red peppers with a technically perfect squid. It takes real chops to get tender little squid right over live flame, with the vital caramelisation on the outside and soft, almost jellylike tenderness within. Mountain nailed it. It also served two of the most significant langoustines of their generation. Once again, that unique “hot shell” flavour that only comes with flame cooking and an interior just the right side of sashimi.

Speaking of chops, Mountain’s lamb ones were quite something. They were grilled with the skill that, by now, I was growing to expect. But this wasn’t your regular tasteless lamb. This was some kind of spectacularly authentic, caringly reared meat and, as a result, extremely strong flavoured and rich. God knows I’m a sucker for assertive flavours, but this stuff had an intense, ultra-lambiness that pulled you up short, gasping at the intensity. It was a tour de force. One chop would have been sufficient to change your attitude to lamb for ever, two were a struggle, and there were five on the plate. Can a dish be too good for itself? Possibly. This should have been a single chop. It should have come on a golden plate, with a 20-minute preparatory briefing and a fauteuil for a little lie down afterwards.

I’m wearing one of those Zoe things at the moment — a wireless blood sugar monitor that promises personalised nutrition insights — and was planning to avoid carbs so it wouldn’t be cross with me. The waiter pitched the wood-fired rice, and I was initially resistant. But he persisted, and I was glad. It came in an iron pan, obviously cooked in stock, butter, wine and unicorn-fat, so the top crusted and browned. It was beyond good. The little plastic conscience jabbed into the back of my arm gave a despondent peep and emitted smoke.

There is something truly fascinating about the set-up at Mountain. The combination of a broad menu with something to fit every occasion, plus the clever design of the room makes this feel like a very modern, very British update on the classic large Parisian brasserie. I’m not sure if that was the intention, but that’s definitely what I’m taking away, and I like it mightily.

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

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