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For chef Eran Tibi, the food’s the thing — but it deserves better than this Tel Aviv-inspired party restaurant

I was tipped off about Kapara by a chef mate. It’s one of a clutch of restaurants that have opened in London recently that focus on food and drink, yes, but also aspire to generate a “party” vibe. It’s similar to the idea behind places like the Big Mamma group’s Gloria trattoria and Circolo Popolare — big, glitzy places with loud music and everybody frantically Instagramming each other — although here the influence is Israeli rather than Italian. I find the whole thing exhausting. My mate, though, was insistent. Chef Eran Tibi is worth the effort.

James Court, off Manette Street, sounds deeply Old Soho but actually turns out to be inserted under the back of a vast new development near Tottenham Court Road. The restaurant is a big place, two floors plus a large covered terrace. It looks exciting but I worry. What if I don’t party like they do in Tel Aviv? Maybe I shouldn’t be trying to do so at lunchtime and by myself.

My heart plummeted on opening the hot pink menu to discover a section entitled Foreplay. Oh, sweet Jesus. A comedy menu. I might, in other circumstances, have been in the market for a snack of taleggio, smoked bell pepper, harissa, jalapeño, honey and lime — but not when it’s pitched as “cheesy balls”. Ditto the “salty nuts”.

“Prawn baklava” had less irritating nomenclature. Three prawns of impressive size. They were whole, but the shell between the top and tip of the tail had been removed and replaced with a deep-fried woolly sweater of shredded kadaifi pastry. They had a quality that a Chinese friend has just taught me a new word for — song (爽), meaning crispness to the bite, like a fresh apple or grape. English is inadequate where texture matters. There were new flavours too. “Sticky bitters” sounds like an Eastbourne nightclub in 1985, but tastes sensational. Like chilli jam, but with as much sourness as heat. There’s a layer of it, worn under the prawn’s pastry sweater like a Liberty bodice. Then there’s a sour cream mayo for dipping that’s been sprinkled with nori seaweed and rose petals. This is the key thing to realise about chef Tibi. He’s extraordinarily creative, apparently fearless and possibly unhinged.

I’ve never encountered “naughty” gazoz before. The menu says it’s a homemade old-school Israeli soda, which I can get behind. I just can’t see quite what’s so naughty about it. It’s a sparkling infusion of blackberry and lavender. Adult, sophisticated and smelling only a bit like my nan. There’s nothing naughty about my nan.

I ordered the “aubergine heart” because the menu description didn’t make any sly references to the widely recognised phallic emoji. It would have been an easy shot, but Tibi’s shown restraint and, actually, it’s a much quieter display of skill. It’s the fat end of the aubergine, peeled along one side and cooked gently so the flesh is moist but not caramelised or discoloured, and the skin is silken and easily digestible. A topping of pine-nut jam, tahini and clementine marmalade sounds fairly out there but actually turns out to be a balanced foil. Just enough sweetness to be interesting, just enough crunch to enliven, just enough citrus to cut.

“Squid and black” contains no entendres, single or double. Baby squid cones, cut even smaller and deep fried in a spiced batter, are the support mechanism for a sparkling fresh salad of chervil, grapes and pickled chillies. To be honest, the squid was disappointing, cut so small that the batter predominated. Next to it, for dipping, was a coiled pile of black garlic aioli, oily and, now I think of it, oddly reminiscent of the poo emoji. Please tell me this wasn’t another playground joke.

Finally, a plate of “crispy crunchy bums”. Sorry, I’m just reporting here. It’s not even a sly pun or cunning reference. It’s chicken, and they don’t have buttocks. They have cloacas. And anyway, these were thighs. Gorgeous, paprika-marinated, plump and greasy chicken thighs, deep-fried and served with orange harissa kimchi and wild-garlic mayo. They were outstanding, moreish and addictive. Crispy and crunchy, just not bums.

The food at Kapara shows flashes of inspired brilliance. Tibi’s cooking is joyful, imaginative, novel and delicious. That kind of talent should be treasured because it doesn’t come often. The awkwardness of the serving regime, though — a sort of irregular scattergun delivery — meant all that skill was without any cohering structure. So, what are actually pyrotechnically delightful small courses can be diminished to bar snacks. Add to this a slight over-reliance on the deep fryer and a skew towards sweetness and it amounts to distraction.

Perhaps the most awkward part of the experience was that, for the hour and a half I ate, I was the only customer. The staff were amazing, and with no other punters to distract them, looked after me with my favourite kind of informal professionalism. But it’s a glamorously provisioned space, designed to be heaving with beautiful young people, mingling, dancing to Tibi’s brilliantly curated playlists (available to download), nibbling on his crazy creative dishes, sharing with abandon, getting naughty on his gazozes and probably even laughing attractively at the laboured bottom gags. That’s the full “Tel Aviv Fantasy” — as signalled in giant neon lettering under the chef’s name in the front window.

Tibi is an exceptional maverick creative but Kapara seems more inspired by the fever dreams of backers. When I am king I’m going to have him dragged out of the place by his hair and set up in a proper restaurant. The same food, but with the menu written by a grown-up.