Ben W.
Yelp
Listen, I'm not so sure authenticity is something to hang your hat on if you're channeling a French Bistro.
Having trecked to deepest SW France every month for the past few years to visit mum I've seen the state of French rural cooking and it's not bon.
So I was hoping a less intrepid short trek down the Shepherd's Bush Rd might yield something with a little more je ne sais quoi.
The restaurant itself is most inviting. Obligatory 20's ad posters adorn the walls. Wooden tables with cloths, all that jazz. And I want the mustard tiles that adorn the loo. All very lived in and homely. And welcoming too. Our waitress bought the specials board with her and gave it some Anthea Redfern, our choices made all the harder for her doing so.
Is there a man who doesn't tip up at a French bistro, scour the menu, deliberate, pontificate, cogitate and then order the steak and chips? If there is I'll show you someone going through transition. It's just what men do. And so did I. The steak on offer was onglet. Only the French can make a cheap choice sound exotic. Note. It's not cheap. £30. The missus went for a chicken and tarragon pie which sounded more French than that but basically it described a chicken and tarragon pie. We ordered a starter to share, anchoiade tartinette. Gentlemen's Relish on toast, not the strictest of Google Translates but serves my purpose here.
What came looked a little uninspiring. I know bistro is homely and simple but this slice of toast with a mercifully thin spread of the salty stuff and topped with walnut and boiled egg needed a bit of sprucing up somehow. The plate looked bare but we both agreed any joy here was actually in the eating which frankly is the most important thing. We quaffed without quibble and enjoyed what we ate. Punchy, interestingly textured, it got the taste buds going for the mains.
The steak was good. Quickly fried with lots of seasoning. Simple stuff for this simple man, The chips were excellent. Thin, brittle and immersed in good hot fat for a suitable period of time. I'm a lover of the big fat English chip but when a French fry is done this well it makes me wonder if Brexit may have been a mistake.
The chicken and tarragon pie was a mess. This is the provincial French fare I remember so, um, fondly from my trips to see mum. Her eventual demise had one welcome upside inasmuch as I never have to face another boil in the bag confit duck horror show as long as I live. It really is a poor show food-wise out there right now unless you live in a city and even then it's slim pickings. This dish didn't disappoint in terms of authenticity. Leather-like pastry eventually giving way to dry chicken mush inside. There was a small jug of Dubbin for the purpose of lubrication but it only added to the sense that this dish had been lying around for some time before a quick tap tap ping. The mash potato accompaniment was even worse. Where they were trying to replicate the Robuchon butter heaven, sans butter,, what was delivered looked and felt like glue paste. Luckily it didn't taste of that, it tasted of nothing at all. And it had a skin on it. Something you had to break through to get to the warm bit. A complete disaster. I grabbed my pomme frites seven at a time as jealous eyes wandered towards the basket. That the same root vegetable could render two such contrasting end results seems almost impossible but there you go. I wondered why this cute little place couldn't just boil the potato, mash it, add a little milk, butter and salt, possibly some parsley and be happy with the result. It's hard to beat. Their efforts to do something more complex left us with wallpaper paste. Aside leather shoe with dry chicken mush. And gloop. The French beans looked sad. Well wouldn't you?
A wonderfully authentic experience in some ways. A disappointingly authentic experience in others. Say Lavvy.
