William Sitwell reviews Dakota Grill, Leeds: ‘Rogan Jnr is cooking steak – and doing it rather well’

What to do when bitten by the food bug and your father is a celebrated chef? Indeed, a holder of multiple Michelin stars and the boss of an empire that encompasses fine-dining establishments in the Lake District, a clutch of restaurants, a farm, a shop, rooms, an outpost in London and more further afield in Hong Kong.

And when that man, Simon Rogan, is a driven, wildly creative and tough taskmaster, is it really wise to follow in his footsteps? His son Craig first imagined a career as a professional footballer (just like his father had) then fixed his mind to be a carpenter. But a summer earning cash as a pot washer, then a stint as a waiter in one of his father’s restaurants, and he got that bug more ferocious than Covid. Now, like so many others, he has restaurateuritis.

He seeks the buzz, he has the tattoos, he’s grown the beard. But, with the good sense that doesn’t always come with the afflicted, he is not creating 16-course tasting menus, making custards from seaweed or scenting spherified balls of curd with the essence of smoked pike perch. No, he’s cooking steak.

And he’s doing it rather well in Leeds. Dakota Grill is part of a hotel of the same name, without the grill bit, and with a separate entrance on Greek Street, past the hotel bar and downstairs to the basement. Dakota is a modest chain of contemporary hotels whose central Leeds operation occupies a building now slightly less ugly than its former incarnation as a stacker car park.

The restaurant interior is red brick walls with modern art and mirrors and the lights turned down low; the latter being a canny feature of northern restaurateurs who have been forcing a trend of dark dining on guests for some time now so they can get used to the ensuing energy crisis.

The restaurant is divided into two parts. The front part has a bar and other tables – empty on my visit – and I sat in a busier section behind a screen. Bizarrely – and somewhat angst-inducingly – they only play music in the front bit. So you get too much of other people’s chatter while there’s a sense that the party is by the bar, which is in fact desolate.

I calmed myself with a gentle French viognier, mightily pleased that when you order a large measure they bring it in a carafe, so you can appreciate the scent of a modest pouring in a large glass, avoiding that vulgar trait of over-filling.

I chose crab dumplings from a menu of crowd-pleasing starters (ceviche, pork belly, burrata…), many dishes promising subtle flourishes of lime or ’nduja. The dumplings were beautifully made with just enough bite, the crab sweet but balanced with a tart citrus dressing.

The starter had been preceded by a little sourdough loaf with an accompanying pot of tomato dip. The idea was generous on paper but it felt and tasted like a cold bowl of Heinz soup.

It was one of just two frowning moments, the second being the overcooked broccoli in a garish yellow sauce that came with my steak; like a priest whose self-regarding, happy-clappy cassock grates with a suitably sonorous Norman church.

For the rib-eye, the fries, the carafe of Italian primitivo, the dark chocolate mousse and the charming, calming service were exemplary. Dining solo, comforted by those carafes, I was like Trump receiving a guard of honour; thumbs up to those ship-shape pros. A couple of small slaps round the chops, but the lad Craig has made a fine debut.

Read last week's column: William Sitwell reviews Toklas, London: ‘A menu of grace, poise and breathtaking flavour’