My unease was heightened by my having lunched shortly before the awards ceremony at both Le Gavroche and Chez Nico to find out just what was being offered by these two top-ranked restaurants. The answer was quintessentially French cuisine in formal, impeccably presented establishments, with prix-fixe menus available at lunchtime at both. Le Gavroche occupies basement premises in Upper Brook Street. It is traditionally furnished and decorated, so as to appear very ancien regime today, but tables are spaced well apart, chairs are comfortable, and service, under the watchful, totally professional but benevolent eye of Silvano Giraldin, is a pleasure to receive. Cooking is now in the hands of young Michel Roux, the London-born son of Gavroche founder Albert Roux and the nephew of the other Michel Roux of the Waterside of Bray. Michel may be young, but he remains a classicist in inspiration and technique, and his 37 lunch menu, for three courses and coffee, including mineral water and half a bottle of a choice of house wines per head, offers both an object lesson in French grande bourgeoise cuisine and very reasonable value. I lunched at Le Gavroche with the slim, beautiful nutritional consultant Jane Clarke, whose recently published book Body Foods for Life is as clearly explained as it is attractively written and produced, and bears out Janes philosophy that healthy eating need not debar one from enjoying of food. She proved an enthusiastic and expert companion in the appreciation of Michel Rouxs cooking. After an interesting amuse-bouche of stuffed breast of chicken in a light curry sauce, Jane chose from the three starters an immaculate veloute of shellfish, with champagne in the veloute lifting the flavour of the fish most successfully. My starter was equally satisfying: a light rocket salad, dressed with a vinaigrette in which the truffle oil was not overassertive but simply a joy to taste, accompanying a deliciously crisp confit of belly of pork. With these we drank a half-bottle of excellent Alsatian Pinot Blanc de Blancs from Leon Beyer. Next Jane chose a shoulder of meltingly tender baby lamb, served with saffron and couscous which aroused her delight - `beautifully balanced was a phrase I heard among murmurs of enjoyment. My leg of hare `braised a lancienne was admirably prepared, richly flavoured, and accompanied by gorgeous pommes mousseline, but I did wonder whether it was slightly too heavy a dish for lunchtime. With these we took both the red wines offered at the kind suggestion of M. Giraldin, who wanted to demonstrate that his Bandol Mas de la Rouviere 95 yielded little to his Saint Emilion Chateau Vieux Sarpe 93. He was right. We finished with some excellent creme legere moka and delicious sorbets, then coffee with very good petits fours. It had been a most satisfying meal, not revolutionary or even especially inventive, but of a consistent quality that is what excellence is all about, and with no extras save the 1212 per cent service charge. Le Gavroches Carlton prize was well deserved, as was the comparatively full room.
And the clientele? Terrifyingly chic. Paul Smith-clad young men, Guccied young women, all of whom look 20-ish and as if theyve just stepped out of a promotional video for loft-living via Hulsta bedroom furniture. You know, if there is a scale of attractiveness that goes, say, from Coronation Streets Gail at one end through to Claudia Schiffer at the other, then this is the sort of place that instantly makes you feel very much stuck at the Gail end. And old. Very old. Which I am, I guess. Indeed, Ive even recently taken, with some enthusiasm, to wearing trousers with elasticised waists which, I know, means its only a short hobble to waterproof pull-on pants, if that. Indeed, when those clipboard Nazis barked at me, my very first thought was, I wish I was wearing waterproof pull-on pants. Still, getting old isnt all bad. As ascending and descending stairs is a tedious business that always gets me out of puff, Im already looking forward to my stairlift. However, this, of course, will ultimately depend on Dame Thora Hird ever allowing someone else to have a lookin. Im sure Dame Thora is a national treasure and all that but, blimey, once she gets wedged into something, she stays wedged. Come on, love - time for someone else to have a go. Fairs fair. Anyway, Hakkasan was opened a couple of years ago by the entrepreneur Alan Yau, the man behind the Wagamama empire. Well, Ill say one thing for it, its run with an iron-fisted efficiency that may or may not be admirable. Id booked for 7:30 p.m. and was called twice during the day - less, I think, to confirm my reservation, but more to inform me how long I might be admitted to this exclusive Temple of Cool. `Were just confirming your reservation from 7.30 p.m. until 9.30 p.m. We will need the table back at 9.30 p.m. So, being easily intimidated, I arrive at 7.30 p.m. on the dot. However, the two girlfriends Im due to meet are, it turns out, lazy and unpunctual old slappers, and 7.30 becomes 7.35 and then 7.40, by which time one of the furiously elegant, designer-clad women from the front desk locates me in the bar to ask where they might be. `Your table is ready, she stresses. `We need you at the table. I say, `Shove off, you old witch! Actually, I dont. Im so easily intimidated its pathetic. I say, `Im sorry. I say, `Ive no idea where they are. I do not add, `Maybe theyve been here before and have stopped off for night-vision spectacles and ear-plugs. I leave the bar and obediently wait at the table.
Rules, which was founded in 1798 and specialises in game, oysters, pies and puddings, is at the back of Covent Garden, and is rather wonderful inside, especially if you are fed up with the sparse, blond-wood decor of most restaurants these days. The gorgeous Edwardian dining-room is a fabulous jumble of periods, styles and fashions, with heavy burgundy furniture, antlers, bits of stuffed animals, and wall-to-wall paintings of horses and fox-hunts and ships and the British countryside and stuff. There is also this enormous, bizarre oil painting — actually, its more a mural — of Margaret Thatcher, with the Falklands behind her, dressed warrior-style and with the most scary, whopping thighs. I am seated beneath it. Given the choice, I dont think I would choose to dine under Margaret Thatchers thighs. Given the choice, I dont think there is anything I would choose to do under Margaret Thatchers thighs. In short, under Margaret Thatchers thighs is simply not a place I would ever choose to be. But here I am. (I later discover that the artist, John Springs, also did the picture of me at the top of this page. It does not include my thighs. Thats my head. ) Egon arrives. Egon first came to Britain from Budapest in the 1950s, when cooking here was done without any feeling or care, tinned fruit juice was deemed a reasonable starter, and he was once asked to share a spoon (tied on to a bit of string) when he ordered a cup of tea at the Victoria station buffet. He takes his place beneath Margarets thighs. Egon is small, old, dainty, tiny. I worry for him under those thighs. Those thighs could do him in like a nutcracker doing in a nut. Crr. . . rrrr. . . ack! Given the choice, its not how Id want to go. But he is used to fearsome women. In the 1960s he toured the country as part of a cookery panel with Fanny Cradock. He once introduced a kindly cricket commentator, that nights chair of the panel, to her. This is so-and-so, said Egon. Oh, fuck off, said Fanny. It was totally shocking. The word “fuck” was not used very much then. The commentator looked at Fanny, looked at me, then said, “Im going back.” I had to drive him to the station. Anyway, he does like the room. Its got a warm feeling, he says. He scans the menu. This is not so good. He does not like the sound of todays special: freshwater prawn and diver scallop curry. If you are keen to say your prawns are freshwater and your scallops are dived-for, he says, youre saying you are proud of your ingredients. But if you are proud of your ingredients — delicately flavoured shellfish, particularly — why would you want to kill the flavours off in a curry? I think they are only pretending to be proud. I am beginning to get a picture. To start, he orders the mushroom and chestnut soup (£6.95), so I do likewise.
restaurants for sale france
tags: Uncategorized author: comments: No Comments
O/238-1133, ext. 8643, or e-mail carrental@aft.org to receive your car rental coupons. Discount code numbers are listed on the AFT PLUS phone numbers page at the back of this booklet. 
