Restaurant revolution

It's entirely appropriate that, if you wanted to mark Bastille Day, you should do so with a good dinner. Better yet, that you'd dine out.

Because the French Revolution that followed the storming of the Bastille led, in no small part, to the restaurant as we know it.

That might seem like a strange link to make, but it's surprisingly obvious. After the revolution had effectively closed down the aristocratic courts of France, a large number of cooks found themselves out of work.

Either they needed to develop new skills and then find new work – or they could find a new audience for the skills they already had, and had not simply in abundance but to a very high level too.

Opening eateries for a changing society was a route that many followed. And although the first restaurant – as we would think of it – had opened in pre-Revolutionary Paris in 1765, it was not until the Grande Taverne de Londres opened its doors in 1782 that what we recognise now was first really established.

The venture was an instant success for by Antoine Beauvilliers, a former cook at the court of Louis XVIII.

Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, the lawyer and politician who is remembered as an epicure and gastronome, described his restaurant as: “the first to combine the four essentials of an elegant room, smart waiters, a choice cellar, and superior cooking.”

And the general situation that also helped by the abolition of the guilds that had, until the late 18^th century, controlled not only who could be a cheesemaker, a baker or a butcher, but also how they did those jobs.

Fast forward a bit. In the last 40 years, French chefs been crucial in the improvement of the British food scene - the influence of the Roux brothers and Raymond Blanc in particular has been massive.

So we can make an argument for quite direct benefits from the French Revolution on this side of the Channel too.

Not that that was behind the decision to go to Bistrot Bruno Loubet on Friday evening for the first night of this year’s Bastille Day celebrations – or La Fête Nationale, as it is known formally (Le quatorze juillet, informally).

Last year, we were with my parents and niece for a special family celebration. This year, it was the chance to revel in the special menu all by ourselves.

Arriving early, we found that the area outside the restaurant had been transformed to include a place for playing boule, together a bar and a barbeque – and live accordion accompaniment.

Watching as people engaged in a boule competition, sipping a Parisian beer, it was a pleasant way to start the end of the week.

After sitting down and admiring our Opinel picnic knives (each diner received one), we ordered drinks: a Lillet with bitters and orange water for me.

Lillet is a form of vermouth - a blend of wines, liqueurs, fruits and herbs - and it comes from Bruno's home region of Bordeaux. It makes a really refreshing, zingy, grown-up drink.

There was, as always, bread that was so good that you feel as though you could dine on that alone.

But since one cannot live by bread alone, I started with an Aberdeen Angus steak tartare with summer truffles. The aroma from the truffles as it arrived was a big whack to the senses. The meat was lightly spiced, dark and rich but light at the same time.

It was served with a salad of (I think) something like American land cress, a perfectly boiled quali’s egg and plus a delectable crouton. And it was delicious.

For my second course, it was (as last year) the frogs' legs, with mousseline potato and a jus of parsley and garlic. That's creamed potato and a purée.

The legs had been lightly crumbed and delicately friend. It was utterly, utterly gorgeous.

People say that frogs' legs are like chicken. I understand what they mean - when tasting something new, you have to think of it terms of the familiar in order to classify and understand it for yourself - but I'd describe it more as a very slightly gamey chicken.

For my main, I went for the fish - remarkably it was the first time I've eaten fish at Bruno's.

Lovely stone bass, steamed to perfection, firm but moist and succulent, was served on a bed of 'summer cassoulet' - in other words, a medley of seasonal beans in a broth.

And for dessert, it was fresh strawberries with an apricot sorbet and a dash of champagne.

Since The Other Half was being a bit more meaty than me (qual and foie gras salad, followed by scallops and black pudding, then the lamb epigram – that’s a dish of three different cuts of the meat in question), we chose a rosé for our win.

It was a Caringole rosé from the Languedoc, Domaine la Croix Belle 2011 – apparently it should be consumed young. A blend of cinsault, syrah and Grenache, it was fruity and light and very nice indeed.

Bruno's never disappoints. And it dawned on me as we took our time, that part of the reason that it is just so good is that, while you're actually dining in one of the best restaurants in London, there is nothing whatsoever pretentious or intimidating about the atmosphere.

It feels local and relaxed; as though you've known it for years, and as though it's almost a secret that you share with just a few other people in the area.

Bruno and his team really have created the ambiance of a French bistrot in the heart of London - and that might well be a revolution in capital eating.

Just enough time to look back

It’s the time of the year when, according to tradition, a look back over the preceding 12 months is in order.

And who am I to buck such a trend?

Sometimes this is a general review, but it can be specific to a subject too.

So here – but in no particular order – are a few of my favourite food-based memories from the last 360-odd days.

Meal of the year

It has to be that charity dinner in the spring at The Zetter, with Raymond Blanc and Bruno Loubet cooking, for pretty much obvious reasons.

Memorable it most certainly was – perhaps particularly because we could spot, easily, who was behind which course. And because it was clear that Blanc had brought with him produce from his kitchens at Le Manoir – the baby vegetables that somehow managed to be jam-packed with flavour and the air-dried duck that he’d been demonstrating on the television only a week earlier.

Single course of the year

The marrowbone at 7e Vin in Paris. Utter fabulousness.

I called it food for the soul then – I’m sticking with that now. My first experience of marrowbone in Carcassonne in July was good: this managed to be even better.

Restaurant of the year

Bistrot Bruno Loubet. No longer a discovery for us, but now a firm favourite – consistently wonderful food.

But also a mention for Au Casot in Collioure – not least because it’s wonderful to eat such simple but fresh and first-rate seafood right next to a beach, overlooking such an incredible scene.

Restaurant discovery of the year

Three really.

L'Amphitryon in Collioure. Finally, a genuinely memorable ‘posh’ eatery in our favourite place.

The cod with aïoli (pictured left) was quite superb, while the cassis sorbet re-introduced me to blackcurrants – I could happily have eaten it by the bucket.

Never mind Ribena: this was something very grown up.

Then there was Two Fat Ladies at the Buttery in Glasgow, which came up a really excellent – and stunningly good value – Sunday lunch, and Michael Caines @Abode in Manchester, where I enjoyed an excellent tasting menu.

Best fast food of the year

Fish and chips, done properly, in dripping and with proper mushy peas, in a small cafe on the dock side at Scarborough. It took 10 minutes to cook from the start – so that's 'fast' in my book.

And it was gorgeous.

Book of the year (recipes)

This might be about to be Michel Roux’s Desserts, but otherwise, Raymond Blanc’s Kitchen Secrets.

Book of the year

Raymond Blanc’s A Taste of My Life, for the reasons explained here.

But special mentions also for Matthew Fort’s Eating Up Italy, Nigel Slater’s Toast and the very, very important Shopped: The shocking power of Britain’s supermarkets by Joanna Blythman, which also made me take stock and adjust my life.

Personal achievement of the year

Christmas Day – lunch and dinner, not least for the presentation, but also for managing to plan it effectively enough to stop it being a trial.

And realising that I can now cook a few dishes without constant recourse to a recipe. That felt like a sort of culinary coming of age.

Gadget of the year

The mandolin and the mincer attachment for my mixer are good, but it has to be my potato ricer, which is just fabulous because it makes really fabulous potato purée.

Investment of the year

After umming and erring about it for some time, I finally shelled out for some Le Creuset – and realised instantly why it was worth it.

And after mentioning it here, a number of readers told me that they wouldn’t be without it.

Quality pays off.

Ingredient discovery of the year

Lard. Simple as. After Oliver Thring’s article on the subject in the Guardian early this year, I started exploring the issue – not just of lard, but of natural fats.

And I started cooking with them too, with great results. Lard and dripping are cheaper than the over-promoted artificial, so-called ‘healthy’ fats too. Any connection, one wonders?

But honorable mentions also go to the Bath Soft Cheese Co for Bath Soft and Wyfe of Bath, plus pigeon breasts, which are an all-year pleasure, and frogs’ legs, which were a very pleasant surprise.

And I can't forget blackcurrants – but that was less a discovery and more a re-discovery, as mentioned above.

Favourite ingredient of the year

Rhubarb still rates highly. One of these days I'll manage to create something really special with it, but in the meantime, I edged closer with a number of experiments – some more successful than others – in the early part of the year

Non-eating culinary moment of the year

Meeting Raymond Blanc. Charming and passionate. I’m afraid I was close to being rendered speechless.

Not quite – but it was a close-run thing.

Food TV of the year

Masterchef: The Professionals and Service, both of which saw Michel Roux Jnr soaring in my estimation.

Thank goodness we’ve left the era of chefs having to be shouty bullies. He treated people with respect and understood the difference between objective and subjective criticism.

Both programmes were not just competitions, but were also about giving people real opportunities to develop. And his demonstrations of classic dishes on the former programme were just an education.

The former too was about real people with real talent and skill – something sadly lacking in so much so-called 'reality TV' these days.

But let’s not forget Kitchen Secrets with Raymond Blanc – educational and enormously entertaining.

Cultural surprise of the year

It came late in the year – Christmas Day – but the Disney/Pixar animated feature Ratatouille is a delight – and a big surprise, not least because it champions food as pleasure over food as fuel, and it also links memory and food.

And it’s funny and gloriously animated. The kitchen scenes are extraordinary, full stop. But the realisation of food in an animation is nothing short of astonishing.

I've been fond of animation since I was child – this brilliantly brought this together with food. A wonderful combination!

It a birthday, so it must be back to Bruno

With the combination of various work and family commitments in the last month or so, I seem to have done a lot of dining out in a whirl that's felt less like a jet-set lifestyle and more like a permanently jet-lagged one.

But when it came to my birthday, there was still only one thing I had in mind.

Our first experience of Bistrot Bruno Loubet was a year ago to the date – and we’d been back three times since, so it’s probably fair to say that it has become established as our favourite London eatery.

Although, to be rather more accurate, it's the first time in London that we've actually found a restaurant that we enjoyed enough to want to go back to, which is precisely why we've eaten out so little when at home previously.

And on Sunday, there we were again.

Contemplating an aperitif, we were sold on the idea of Bruno’s special seasonal infusion, involving Drambuie, gin and cranberry syrup, with subtle spicing.

Incredibly boozy to the nose, but surprisingly subtle to taste – and very refreshing, these were a very pleasant start to the meal.

For my starter, I opted for a ballotine of foie gras, with sour fig marmalade, a lemon glaze and green beans.

It was served not so much with toast, as with very briefly fried bread – which added a superb, light-as-a-feather texture to the dish.

The fig marmalade also provided an excellent foil for the sweetness of the foie gras, while the crunchy beans added another layer of texture.

All in all, very enjoyable indeed.

For my main course, I chose roast partridge – not least because I’ve never actually had a game bird cooked for me in a restaurant. And this is how it's done.

It had been jointed, and came with fresh choucroutte (sauerkraut), sautéed cauliflower and apple, and a cider roasting jus.

Any by gum, it was lovely. The meat was still just pink, but moist and really tasty, with a crispy skin that was also good enough to eat.

The turned, sautéed apple was delightful – as were the tiny pieces of cauliflower. And there was just a little of the choucroutte to add a further texture, while the jus was light but packed with flavour.

We took a much-needed breather after that, before deciding on dessert.

Both of us selected a “bitter chocolate slice with coffee sabayon”, which actually turned out to be less of a “slice” and more of a sort of circle of dense mouse on a light base, topped with a dusting of cocoa powder and a tuile of (I think) praline, while the sabayon sat on the side.

Delicious – rich and gorgeous, with The Other Half raving about the sabayon. And after that, he finished with coffee, while I sipped an Amaretto.

Service was, as always, charming and attentive without ever being over-fussy or formal.

Quite simply, Bistrot Bruno Loubet never disappoints.

A family affair

Here is an honest admission. I don't get families. Now obviously I understand what a family is, in straightforward cultural terms. What I don't get is close families.

I have a colleague who is constantly in touch with her wider - and widening - family. I cannot imagine how irritated I'd be myself if either of my parents thought it was a good idea to pester me on a daily basis, involving themselves in huge amounts of the detail of my everyday life.

Ours was hardly the most dysfunctional family on planet Earth and certainly not the only one: as I told my father grimly a year or so ago, if it's good enough for the Windsors ...

But we have generally learned to rub along in a sort of way, avoiding too much friction by avoiding each other for much of the time.

A few weeks ago, my mother turned 80. Some time before, I'd promised to take her, and my father, for a really good meal to mark the occasion. I already had Bistrot Bruno Loubet in mind, and had done some research on cab fares to make sure that they would be able to get back to their home, near Croydon, in the easiest way possible.

And then as the actual birthday arrived, I felt snowed under and suggested we put it off until early autumn.

But something else cropped up. My niece has just become the first member of my immediate family to get a degree - in fine arts - and although she'd studied in Leeds, her degree show was being staged in trendy East London.

Both my parents and The Other Half and I had been invited to the private viewing on 14 July.

A number of things fell into place. I called Bistrot Bruno Loubet and was lucky enough to get us in - even though it was Bastille Day with a special menu, which point had piqued my own appetite, but with also presented a number of challenges in family terms.

It was all arranged quite late, so I didn't have much time to panic.

The panic started nagging on the morning itself, building to a crescendo by 5pm. Since we didn't have to be at the gallery until around 7pm, we attended a leaving do after work, with The Other Half telling me to calm down as I knocked back three glasses of white wine in rapid succession.

I'd been asking myself what on Earth I'd done - as I realised that I was taking this family with whom I find myself sketching out a sort of distant and oddly formal dance into something that I would view as very much my own world.

My mother, looking much smaller and more hollow than I'd noticed before (but then she was out of her normal context for me) had already nearly been embarrassing at the exhibition, noting in her best stage whisper, that she dislikes tattoos, as she pointed out a man with major arm work. Fortunately, he didn't hear, but I felt that familiar cringe factor.

I remember, years ago, having to stand at the end of a film for the national anthem, and wanting to hide as she cast scorn in the direction of the majority, who were leaving.

If respectability was an Olympic event, she'd have been a multiple gold medalist.

The exhibition was fascinating. It seemed appropriate that my niece's work was about memory; about the traces of ourselves that we leave where we have lived. I thought it fascinating - as was the work of many of her fellow graduates.

My father was fairly quiet as they wandered around the exhibition, looking at work that was both beyond their experience and beyond their comprehension. My mother, as my niece put it to me later, was "curious" and asked questions, even if none of the answers really made anything any clearer for her.

After a short break, we piled into a taxi and headed for Clerkenwell through heaving traffic.

The limited menu was, as I expected, a challenge. Each of the four courses had only three options. The first trio was moules marinière with a salt cod brandade, Aberdeen Angus steak tartare with summer truffles, and a salad of quail with foie gras ballotine.

It took an age to sort out what we were having - even what we were drinking. My parents don't drink red wine, so I selected a very nice Languedoc white, which remarkably did the five of us for the entire meal.

My father went with my suggestion of the quail, but my mother couldn't bring herself to contemplate foie gras, so she took a big leap into her personal unknown with the tartare.

My father had already managed to shock me by saying just how good the bread was.

I had the tartare too - and very pleasant it was. My mother 'wasn't sure', but ate a reasonable amount, and my niece happily finished what she couldn't.

There was a moment of Raymond Blanc horror, as both parents automatically picked up salt to shake over their food, before even tasting it, but I quashed a desire to squeal, and thanked whatever gods there are that we were far enough from the kitchen to avoid the embarrassment of having Bruno himself, who was busy there, spot such a culinary faux pas.

Then it was on to either roast scallops and black pudding, Hereford snails or sautéed frogs' legs.

Now, I had never had the chance to try the latter, so that was easy. My father joined The Other Half in considering the scallops to be an obvious choice. My niece elected to try the frogs' legs too. For my mother, despite not particularly liking black pudding, there was but one option.

The frogs' legs, served on a bed of "mousseline potato", with a divinely subtle jus of parsley and garlic, were excellent, and my niece felt the same.

My father enjoyed his scallops; my mother was less enthused.

Sat at the head of the table, trying the unusual role of hostess, I found myself becoming less nervous as time wore on, but not exactly at my most relaxed. This was the biggest family gathering in ... well, in a very long time. Was it going well?

The main course offered either steamed stone bass, lamb "epigram", and three birds in a bird.

Enquiry revealed that the "epigram" was a cheffy way of saying that it was dish involving three different ways of cooking three different cuts of lamb: a cutlet, a shank and some belly.

The birds in a bird were a quail within a poussin, within a grouse, within an organic chicken, roasted and then sliced.

The Other Half opted for the lamb, while the rest of us went for the seriously stuffed bird.

This, being Bruno, was delightful, but very rich.

My mother had decided quite early that she wasn't going to be able to manage it all (the staff were fabulously un-snobby about finding a box to pack the leftovers in so that shed could take them home for the family dog) - as she absolutely had to leave room for dessert.

The choices were crêpes suzette with an orange and cardamom ice cream, cheeses or fresh strawberries, with apricot sorbet and a "dash of champagne".

The Other Half and my mother opted for the crêpes, while the rest of us went for the strawberries.

This took some time to arrive - a fact that my mother was quite open about observing. But when it arrived, we found out why it had taken time.

Her plate had had a birthday greeting beautifully piped in chocolate around the edge - and was then followed with the offer of a glass of champagne, which she readily accepted. It was the moment at which her face lit up.

The restaurant ordered a cab for my parents and my niece, who was going back with them. And as coffee was ordered, I quaffed a glass of fortified wine with a hint of walnut. Much needed.

It was a success. Well, in an our family sort of a way. It was also a very strange evening. A sense that the baton was passed some time ago.

My niece is far more grown up than ever I was at her age. I look at her with envy, regretting that I had not known or understood at that age what she does now.

I have been late in picking up that baton. And now it's as if I have finally picked it up, but only in tandem with my niece.

I watched and tried to play host for my mother in particular last week, and found it a very strange experience. And thinking of all the anti-sensual messages that she and my father conveyed to me over the years, my father's appreciation of the food in general and the bread in particular, coupled with her face when the crêpes arrived and she was offered an unexpected champagne, made for a very strange experience; a juxtaposition of 'what I say and what I do'.

It made me almost feel like Satan in disguise; as a temptress. It even brought to mind that wonderful film, Babette's Feast.

There is a sense of dread that I have had for some time now, since reading Camus's The Outsider, that when the inevitable happens, I will not be able to play the role that some will expect.

But last week at least, I could take real pleasure in seeing my mother come to life at the sight of the generosity and expertise of Bruno Loubet and his staff.

It felt, however fleetingly, that she had had a real insight into my own life and understood what she saw. And that made my own fretting before the event worth while.

Dinner with Raymond and Bruno

It had been the sort of day when the sun had gone AWOL, leaving us with greyness and the barely-interested efforts of the rain.

So what could possibly cheer me up on such a day?

Well, around two months ago, I picked up a tweet from Raymond Blanc that advertised a charity dinner that he and Bruno Loubet were going to give at Bistrot Bruno Loubet in late March for Hospitality Action, an ‘industry benevolent organisation’ that’s over 170 years old, and helps workers in the industry who are in need.

Giddy with delight at having such an opportunity, and so close to home, I snapped up tickets.

And then, as the day itself came closer, worked myself into an ever more nervous state: nervous that we’d find ourselves in an uncomfortable environment; nervous that I’d landed us in a situation where we’d be expected to fork out loads more cash; nervous that I’d manage to completely misunderstand the dress code (‘lounge suit’) and look utterly out of place, and nervous that it would be a let down in some way after all my own excitement.

None were to have any foundation in reality.

The evening started at the Zetter Townhouse – a 13-bedroom Georgian townhouse, with interiors by Russell Sage – which is a new addition to the Zetter Hotel, just across the cobbles of St John’s Square and the home of Bistrot Bruno Loubet.

The townhouse doesn’t open until April, but we were afforded a look inside for the champagne and canapés part of the evening.

The canapés were little warm Parmesan biscuits – soft, delightfully cheesy, with a pleasant greasiness but yet still beautifully crumbling – and twists of buttery, light puff pastry that held pieces of anchovy saltiness in their embrace.

Moving across to the restaurant, already starting to relax, we found ourselves seated at a table of eight. Three of us were women – all of whom had recently made their own duck confit! So it was clearly a serious foodie gathering and indeed, all very friendly.

After a couple of initial speeches to introduce the evening, including one by Blanc himself – as enthusiastic and passionate as ever, explaining that it is a very cruel, hard industry, and that more legislation is needed to protect those in it – we played a little game and did a little light fundraising.

All of which served to further ensure that nobody was doing airs and graces or feeling awkward. It was most certainly not that sort of affair.

But what of the food? After all, this was might have been charity, but it was also dinner!

To start, we had a spring vegetable salad with air-dried duck, Parmesan mousse and Banyuls jelly.

Oh my! The duck was stunning – and to think that it was exactly what Blanc had been demonstrating on TV just over a week earlier. I really have to work out how to hang a duck breast in the fridge to make this.

The baby vegetables were so small that I cannot imagine any shop selling them – which pretty much declares that they came from Blanc’s own organic garden at Le Manoir. Baby carrots, peas and broad beans were accompanied by asparagus that was as thin as a thick chive, but still packing wonderful taste.

The jelly added a different texture and a sharpness, while the tiny, piped blobs of Pamesan mousse brought a sweet softness to a dish of exquisite freshness.

Next up was a mackerel and prawn burger, with a piquillo ketchup, a potato ‘fish finger’ and cucumber salad – a really funny riff on fast food, and full of more tastes and textures.

The ‘burger’ was dense but full of delicate flavour. The ‘fish finger’ was smooth inside but with a wonderfully crisp casing, while the ketchup gave off the lovely flavours of roasted peppers – and reality to the word ‘piquant’.

The little salad – itself a play on the garnish you get in a fast food joint – was thinly sliced red onion with ribbons of lightly cured cucumber and dill. And it too was a delight.

I just about had a view of the kitchen. The culinary gods were joking and chatting, and it was with great pleasure that I saw Blanc pick up a ladle occasionally and taste something – he really does do what he tells everyone else to do in A Taste of My Life.

The burger was followed by tournedos of rabbit, with braised celery, puréed pumpkin, a deep, dark jus and lovage pesto – so many hallmarks of Loubet’s cooking.

The rabbit, which was a tight, deep circle of flesh, wrapped in bacon and with a little rabbit liver inside (see the description here of his hare royale), was stunning. The first taste made your eyes flutter closed automatically in deep pleasure and awe.

And the pesto was a wonderful shot across the sweetness of the dish; a contrast that added so much to it.

It was more Blanc for dessert, with a white chocolate mousse, as light as air, on a base of dark chocolate and all encased in a wafer thin dome of marbled dark and white chocolate, with shortbread nougatine and orange vincotto.

A dish of real beauty, amazing skill and fabulous tastes and textures.

Stuffed alomist to immobility, I managed to eat just one of the petit fours that came at the end – a single macaron – of a meal that I can barely do justice to in words.

And there was no skimping on the wine either.

One of the things that fascinates me about Blanc is his ability to combine different textures and tastes and even temperatures. So shortly after having read his own thoughts on all this, and while Kitchen Secrets is still playing on BBC2, to be able to actually experience these things was an awesome learning experience – and a quite dazzling culinary one.

It might all look wonderful – it does – but this is not simply looks for the sake of looks. The food tastes sublime. There are so many contrasts, yet every dish comes together beautifully as a balanced whole.

After, I spoke to one of the organisers and asked if it was possible to meet the man himself and get him to autograph A Taste of My Life, which was in my bag.

Unfortunately, he’d had to go – it’s a fair way back to Oxfordshire. But she offered to take the book and get him to sign it, before sending it back to me: it was a delightfully kind offer that I have taken up.

I did, however, manage to speak to Bruno Loubet – the evidence is at the top of this post, as The Other Half joined me for a pic (and no comments about our size, please!).

He’s utterly charming, gracious and down to Earth. Indeed, when the friends who had initially recommended the restaurant were themselves back there a couple of weeks ago, they were astonished – and charmed – to see him washing up in the kitchen.

All in all, a fabulous night. And it raised over £17,000 for a most worthwhile cause. Thank you to everyone for making it such a wonderful experience, from the Zetter's owners, to the staff (who as always, provided lovely service), to Hospitality Action's team and, of course to the wonderful chefs and their team in the kitchen.

A day with the folks

It was a funny old day yesterday. When my pre-Christmas cold gifted me a hacking cough, it was decided that the usual pre-festive trip to my parents would have to be delayed.

Not only did it seem crass to risk giving them the same cold, but the weather made the prospect of sitting on a frozen platform, waiting for a delayed train and constantly coughing, all the more possible.

So, after a busy start to the year, I finally made it to deepest, darkest Surrey yesterday morning – albeit after complications of a transport variety.

My parents had booked for lunch at a local restaurant: it saves my mother spending hours in the kitchen and gave us all time to sit together.

The restaurant, which they’ve been to a number of times and which they’ve taken me to once before, is El Nido in Wallington.

A family-run affair, this brasserie-style eatery may be Spanish-influenced, but much of the menu – even with Spanish names – is classic French.

I started with the country paté and toast: nice, thin toast, while the paté was pleasingly robust, with a nice hit of brandy in one bite.

Then it was on to the sole meunière (see what I mean about the French dishes? My father was having duck with orange and my mother had selected chicken with tarragon).

It was nicely cooked, albeit not the most special piece of fish I’ve had, but I didn’t really feel like one of the big meaty dishes on offer. The tiny potatoes, carrots, courgette and mange tout were all cooked very nicely too.

To finish, I selected a piece of lemon meringue pie – something I haven’t tasted in years, and which was tangy and rich and light all at once.

It’s an odd restaurant, though. There are hints of Spanish cuisine on the menu – paprika, a little chorizo etc – but it seems to me to be Spanish Very Lite (combined with French Pretty Lite Too) for people who haven’t really eaten Spanish food – or French food, for that matter. Which would certainly describe my parents. There is, then something peculiarly suburban about the culinary experience.

It’s essentially simple cooking, done decently. The service was excellent – the staff we met were delightful.
But what was most surprising was the cost: it’s barely any cheaper than Bistrot Bruno Loubet – a quid or two for most main courses, for instance, although some were considerably more expensive.

Given its setting and (presumably) the intended clientele, it does what it says on the tin and does it very nicely. But it really did make me realise, yet again, what stunning value Monsieur Loubet offers. And indeed, the ‘con’ of the price of food in this country, with the concomitant belief that really, really good food requires a second mortgage.

I don't want to slag off this place in any way – not because of the food, but because the service in particular was genuinely charming. And because local areas really need places like this.

But the prices were – to me at least – really quite surprising.

However, the foodiness of the day was really quite novel: food now offers a safe conversation ground for my mother and I (she seems to have set aside her “we eat to live, not live to eat” mantra), but my father has, more than once, described me as “obsessed” with food.

It’s an indicator of how lowly he sees food: he would never dream of saying anything similar if we’d spent an entire day discussing football or politics, but then again, food is not something that he is personally interested greatly in.

But he refrained from any such comments and I even got him talking a little about his own childhood in a Cornish village. I knew his parents had had their own chickens, but I didn’t know that they bred rabbits.

My paternal grandfather had made his son a little trolley so that he could take the rabbits to the market. It sounds a thriving little business – particularly during the war. But there were six rabbits, he added, who were never eaten but were “pets”.

We exchanged presents later: my mother had overcome her own feeling that it sounded a “bit peculiar” to get me Nigel Slater’s Toast, while she’d also spotted Green and Black’s Chocolate Recipes: From the cacao pod to muffins, mousses and moles, which she thought might be of interest. She was right.

There was further rail disruption on the return journey – but not too much. Before that, I’d done a piece of DIY for my mother – she’d been waiting for me to visit to do that: it’s been that way for well over two decades.

Not only can I increasingly handle a pan with some skill; in our family, I’ve always been the only one who really knew what to do with a screwdriver as well.

A second helping at Bistrot Bruno Loubet

There is always a risk that, when you return to a restaurant within a short time of first experiencing it, that return can lack quite the edge of excitement of the first visit.

Just to start with, there isn't the same surprise element.

So it was with trepidation – albeit a miniscule amount – that I had booked for Bistrot Bruno Loubet for yesterday evening, for The Other Half's birthday.

Since we were both at work and since the staff bar isn't open on a Monday, I'd opted for 6.30pm. Not too long to twiddle the thumbs before dining; not straight after walking out of the office either.

We were, unsurprisingly, the first through the door for evening service. But the bar and the cocktail menu provided ample pleasures before we sat down to eat.

A charming barman made me a French 75 (which, he explained, is named after a WWI French cannon) and is made of Tanqueray gin, lemon and sugar, and Champagne. He added a maraschino cherry – they're back in fashion, apparently. Very nice it was too; very refreshing.

There are other Champagne cocktails named after French cannons of the same era – one replaces the gin with brandy, the other with vodka.

The Other Half had a 22nd July, which was made up of Four Roses Single Barrel bourbon, Kings ginger, Evan Williams
honey and pressed apple juice. Served short over cubes, it was garnished with a fan of green-skinned apple.

And so it was to dinner.

This time, I started with the guinea fowl boudin blanc on cassoulet beans. A light-as-a-feather, mousse-like confection, cooked until its casing was just caramelised. Sweet and luxurious – as were the beans. But everything was lightened by the tomato that was cooked with the beans, which added freshness, and the parsley, which gave it a bitter layer. Wonderful.

My main was from the dishes of the day – how tempting was the veal liver? – and was fillet of stone bass, served with new potatoes and a hint of lime. Charred on the skin side, this was a big hit of meaty fish – given a real zing by the lime.

For dessert, I opted for the rhubarb, orange and vanilla Clerkenwell mess. Never mind being a "mess" – what a surprise! The perfectly cooked and sweetened rhubarb was delightful – but the punchline was discovering that the orange was the tart flavour instead. That put such a delighted smile on my face: what a twist!

The Other Half opted for mauricette snails and meatballs, with mushrooms: the snails were tiny (as were the meatballs) and were served already out of the shells. It was the first time he'd ever eaten snails and apparently enjoyed them.

That, he followed with the beef daube bourguignon and mashed potato, and single scoops of chocolate ice cream and pear sorbet to finish.

Around half way through our meal, colleagues walked through on the way to a birthday reservation themselves. Since it was essentially on the basis of my ravings, I felt a twinge of nerves.

But an email this morning eased these: they had a wonderful time too.

And as before, the service was excellent. Friendly and warm, but without ever making you feel that someone was hovering behind you or rushing you.

Not one iota of disappointment, then.

Now when's the next birthday?

Onto a winner

Right. So here we are, properly back in the merry old land of Hackney and with a day to myself – so just what foodiness can be managed?

Broadway Market beckoned: I miss shopping there when I'm away for a weekend (well, unless I'm food shopping in France, of course), but I had the germs of a few ideas swimming around in my head and, even without taxing the culinary imagination at all, we needed fodder for this evening.

I'd got hold of some rhubarb yesterday and was wondering whether to try some mackerel with it – a nice combination. But I had other ideas too, largely influenced by the presence in the fridge of a large piece of black pudding.

Once in the fish shop, I faced choices. After mulling, I got half a dozen scallops and a mackerel, which I had filleted.

Back at home, I discovered that I'd missed a delivery. I wasn't expecting anything, so this was a bit of a mystery. Next door had taken the parcel in, so I popped around and collected it. It was a large, heavy rectangular box, covered in grey plastic. The mystery deepened.

Snipping the plastic open revealed a bright orange box – containing a Le Creuset roasting dish and rack. Memory surged back – this was the result of a prize draw that I come across on a bag of potatoes from Waitrose last year. I'd entered my contact details and a number that came on the bag, and submitted it. As simple as that. Since entries were not limited, I'd done it twice more when I'd had more bags of potatoes with the same promotion attached.

I am incredibly chuffed. A first-class bit of kitchen kit for free – and a thing of beauty too.

Although I'd forgotten about them since, the entries had been made with a reasonable confidence. Many years ago – well, 1988, to be precise – my parents and I had stopped off at a motorway service station for a break during a journey. The cafe was promoting a 'Best of British' prize draw – a draw that was taking place all around the country.

Since there was no limit on how many cards you could fill in, I did six and my mother did three. My father scoffed, said it was a waste of time and refused to play along.

Nicely and proportionately, my mother's three entries bagged her a set of Kenwood kitchen implements. My six produced a top-notch CD player and a canteen of cutlery. My father's zero entries produced, needless to say, nothing.

It was pretty clear that, unless we had been staggeringly lucky, few people had entered – presumably entertaining the same thoughts as my father.

Many people, buying those Waitrose potatoes, won't even have noticed the promotion. Others will, and will have thought it a waste of time. Others will have forgotten to do anything about it. And so forth.

So the moral of the story is never think it's a waste of time to enter free prize draws.

And now I have to think what to roast in it first.

But back to today.

For lunch, I grilled the mackerel fillets and served them with some borlotti beans, sliced courgette and red chili that I'd cooked in a little oil. Really easy and really tasty – and very healthy.

Tonight was hardly much more complex. I cooked and mashed some potatoes in late afternoon, adding butter and cream before letting it cool. Thinly sliced savoy cabbage was cooked briefly too, then drained and mixed into the potato. Here's the basis of that classic Irish dish, colcannon.

All you need to do after that is finely chop some onion or shallot and cook gently in butter (or lard or even goose fat), before adding the potato and cabbage, mixing it all together to warming thoroughly. Easy.

Then take some slices of black pudding and warm through. Sear the scallops for around two minutes a side maximum

There was a little pot of French onion confit that's been waiting to be opened for some months. It was the perfect accompaniment. And I went a bit posy and garnished with redcurrants because I'd spotted them at a local Turkish grocer – and because The Other Half likes them.

For dessert, it was a case of the Sarah Raven rhubarb syllabub again, although with slight tweaks: the rhubarb mix was infused with ginger instead of star anise and cardamom, while the sugar and cream were whisked up with a tiny tot of whisky.

That was it. Really not difficult.

It's funny to think what I now find as 'easy' on the food front. Certainly, what I've done today doesn't require any great skills. The recipe I took a cue from for the black pudding and scallops was a Waitrose one – and suggested using pre-made colcannon for the dish. So, a 450g packet of pre-made colcannon, costing £1.99.

Now the ingredients don't include anything that shouldn't be there – potato (67%), savoy cabbage (21%), onion, unsalted butter, white pepper – but it's hardly a rocket science dish to make and, when you do, it costs less. 225g would be a small portion. My version wasn't huge, but it was bigger – it included cream and it was still cheaper. The big con again, I'm afraid.

Elsewhere on the food front, I finally got around to calling the lady at Piccolino for a chat. She was actually off work, so will call me back on Monday when she has my comments in front of her. Wow. They're taking this seriously.

And then it was a case of organising a restaurant for Monday evening for The Other Half's birthday. In a display of no originality whatsoever, I've booked Bistrot Bruno Loubet again. There's a danger of going back to somewhere really quickly after you've been massively impressed – but somehow I just cannot see that happening in this instance.

So in other words, it was a bit of a win, win day on the old food front.

Food and sex *

One thing I didn’t mention in yesterday’s blog about Christmas foodie telly was the link between sex and food.

The same interview with Nigel Slater that I mentioned yesterday also has the cook and writer declaring that: “People who are good cooks are often good in bed.”

Now, it’s not for me to boast, but he may be onto something. But I wouldn’t think it’s a question of how good a cook you are, but rather of how much you enjoy food.

When I’ve written, occasionally, about having a ‘food orgasm’ (and here’s an example) over something or other that I’ve eaten, I’m not trying to be pointlessly smutty (not that there’s anything wrong with a bit of smut, you understand).

But there are times when it’s difficult to know how else to indicate the stunning impact of something on your tastebuds. And not just on your tastebuds, but on every realm of your being – spiritual as well as physical.

Those sardines will stay with me for a long time – they already have – as will a number of meals I ate in Barcelona four and five years ago and can still remember in great detail.

And there was definitely a moment like this at Bistrot Bruno Loubet last month, when I had my first taste of the hare royale.

So it’s not about how fancy the food is. Or rather, fanciness is not a measure of how good food is and what you’re response will be.

I remember sitting outside Le Bosquet, a very nice bistro in Paris, enjoying a meal of foie gras on toast, followed by sea bass stuffed with thyme and crème brûlee to finish.

At the table next to me sat a young woman who had just arrived from the States. She’d been met by a New Zealander, who was looking after her for an evening as a favour for a friend.

While he ate three courses, she picked at a bowl of salad leaves and, when it came time to ask for the bill, the bowl was still half full (or half empty, depending on your point of view).

Now it takes all kinds etc, but if you took someone out for a meal, would you think that the relationship with food that was suggested by her behaviour was indicative of a sensual person?

So yes, I think Mr Slater is on the right lines.

And perhaps therein lies the key as to why some people expend so much energy worrying about others enjoying food ‘too much’?

HL Mencken, who came up with quite a few good quotes in his time, described puritanism as: “The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy” and immorality as: “The morality of those who are having a better time.”

I’ve heard the former used to describe the core philosophy of the Daily Mail. This is the same publication that famously carries in its pages a toxic combination of faddy diets and pictures of female celebrities where they point out the cellulite etc.

Pleasure is not conducive to the Mail’s agenda – guilt and insecurity are what matters.

Not that the Mail maintains such attitudes in splendid isolation. There’s a Puritanism, one way or another, in pretty much all the news media in this country.

Some years ago, there was a short-lived TV magazine programme for people in the media. In one edition, a senior journalist with Le Monde was being interviewed about the late François Mitterrand and his extra-marital affairs.

He explained that, in France, having affairs was considered simply a part of life – the questions that were being asked were about whether the former president had funded his mistresses from public money.

And he went on to note that the French thought that Britain was like a teenager that had only just discovered sex.

Thinking about newspaper coverage of sexual affairs in the UK – and not just that in the tabloids – you can see what he meant. And this is also a country with a very mixed relationship with food.

Going back to Mitterrand, he also enjoyed his food. Knowing that he was close to death, he invited close friends for a last meal at which he ate two ortolan – a tiny songbird that is consumed whole, having been drowned in Armagnac and which, because it's an endangered species, is illegal to eat.

I don't know whether I could eat one – not because of sentiment: I eat plenty of other birds – but as much as anything because I don't like the idea of crunching the bones.

But traditionally, it is also eaten with a napkin over the head. That is said to intensify the aroma and taste, but it is also described as a way of hiding the sight from God.

It was the last thing Mitterrand ate. Refusing food thereafter, some days later, he died.

There is something that I admire in that; in the control, in the appreciation of food, in the understanding of pleasure.

Pleasure is liberation. And controlling pleasure – whether it’s what we eat or who and how we shag – is power.

It was the first day back at work today after the Christmas break.

Over the last 12 months, I've occasionally baked cakes and made chocolates to take into the office. This is enormously popular, for some reason or other.

Today, one of the first things that a particular colleague asked me was how the baking was going. A little while later, she sneaked over to my desk with a little plastic tub.

In it, she'd put a few little pastries that her mother had made for the festivities. She'd carried them back from the Continent as a special gift for me; a way of thanking me for the chocolates and cakes; of returning the gift.

There was something so deliciously nefarious, so delightfully conspiratorial and so completely flirtatious about the exchange around this that, even if these morsels of sweetness had not been tasty and light and quite perfect, I would have been walking around with a grin on my face for the rest of the day.

Pleasure. The French understand and embrace it. One is left to wonder just why we seem so very scared of it.



* How many hits will this headline gain?

A dream of a dining experience

In a review in the Observer earlier this year, Jay Rayner said of Bistrot Bruno Loubet: “It’s what restaurants are meant to be like.”

It had been recommended to me, not by food critics, but by friends who had been there, not long after it opened last spring. ‘Not cheap’, they said, but excellent food and service.

I made a note and then forgot about it. But about a month ago, I was contemplating the question of what to do on my birthday and, within a day or so, a piece in the Independent revealed that Raymond Blanc rated the place rather highly too.

For some time, I’ve been wanting to go to a chef-led restaurant in the UK – but it had dawned that, if you’re really interested in a chef’s food, then there’s not actually a lot of point going to, say, one of Gordon Ramsey’s restaurants, as the chances are that Gordon won’t be there, let alone actually cooking.

So Bistrot Bruno Loubet filled ticked the box perfectly. I booked.

A little research followed. Apparently Monsieur Loubet was a star of London’s gastronomic scene some years ago, having won a Michelin star when very young. But then he upped sticks and headed for Australia.

I had not heard of him – but this means little, since I was barely an infant in terms of culinary pleasure when he tired of the Metropolis and took off Down Under. But what was clear was that his return was a cause for celebration – as Giles Coren, ever the master of understatement, put it in the Times, it “is the most exciting comeback since Jesus appeared on the road to Emmaus just hours after the Crucifixion and said, 'It ain’t over till it’s over'.”

It had a lot to live up to.

We arrived in good time and were given a choice of tables – picking a larger one, we found ourselves sitting right next to the kitchen, which is open to the dining area. And yes, that was the man himself at the helm.

First impressions: it’s informal; quite full but not cramped, with touches of rustic wood furniture that help drag it back from feelings of sterile modern glossiness. An awkward space has been designed really well, avoiding any sense of regimentation. The light is good and the background music is just enough to take the edge off the quietness. The staff are young, relaxed, helpful and friendly. You could quite easily begin to feel that you were in Paris rather than London.

So to the food. It’s a short menu – always a good sign – and after spending some minutes hovering over the idea of trying to balance my choices by choosing a lighter starter if I was going to have a meaty main, I gave into the meatiness of the menu and my own inclinations on the night.

So to start, I had a pig’s brawn and leek terrine, with celeriac remoulade. And jolly good it was too. A delightful terrine: flaky, naturally sweet and soothingly tasty, with a lovely aspic.

And the remoulade, with grain mustard in the dressing, gave a wonderfully sharp quality to the dish. I once tried to make a celeriac remoulade, but failed rather dismally. It doesn't help when you have nothing against which to measure a dish that you're trying to make for the first time. Now I have more than an idea.

The research had revealed Loubet’s signature dishes – The Other Half had enjoyed a mousse-like white grouse boudin with cassoulet-style beans for his starter – and I opted for one of these in the hare royale, which came with a macaroni and spinach gratin.

An extraordinary dish: a disc of meat – including a piece of liver – on a bed of puréed pumpkin and dried orange, surrounded by a dark, dark sauce (another recurring Loubet theme) and topped with a slice of roast hare and (I think) some marrow.

Unbelievable. The meat simply flaked away and just melted in the mouth. The sauce, which looked as though it might have been overwhelming, was superb. The first mouthful produced one of those moments when your eyes close as the taste hits your senses.

At this stage, The Other Half was busy revising his view of the duck confit from: “This is one of the best duck confits I’ve had” to “this is the best duck confit I’ve had”.

In between concentrating on the food, I kept trying to surreptitiously glance at the kitchen, where the culinary star was looking as cool as a cucumber as tables filled up. There was no shouting, beyond the occasional "service!" as he alerted the busy staff to the readiness of another dish.

Feeling pretty much stuffed by the end of the hare, I considered a simple dessert of just sorbet and ice cream. But then again, this was my birthday and, if you can't go the whole hog on your birthday, then when can you?

Following the judicious application of such logic, I opted for the chocolate marquise, with caramel and salted butter ice cream and a ‘biscuit’ curl that was as thin as paper. You probably don’t need much of an attempt at description to realise that this was pretty darned stunning.

Everything was washed down with a demi of Vignes de l’Église 2009 from the Languedoc: light and fruity, not long, but a very pleasing wine.

And my pleasure was complete, in a girlie star-struck sort of way, when Bruno Loubet himself bade me “au revoir” as we left.

We decided to perambulate for a few minutes – in reality, it was more of a stuffed waddling – but that was one stunning meal and, on the basis of London restaurant prices, it was very good value too. And yes – it's very much what you dream restaurants will be.