Fine food amid the madness

The last few weeks have been a tad bonkers on the work front – hence the paucity of posts – but the cooking and eating have been maintained reasonably well, even if the time to write everything up has been lacking.

Here’s a sketched view of the eating-out side of things – the home nosh will (I hope!) follow in due course.

Last weekend, I was in Glasgow briefly for work, and on the Saturday, we had our traditional staff dinner – this year, at a restaurant called The Living Room.

For those who may recall the story of our meal this time last year, you’ll be reassured to read that this was much, much better.

Nice service and some very nice food.

I had a chicken liver parfait to start, with a redcurrant and port jelly. Now, it wasn’t so much a “jelly” as a sauce, and the parfait wasn’t really set quite enough, but it did taste good and the presentation was good too.

My main course smoked haddock, with a mustard mash, wilted spinach, a poached egg and hollandaise sauce. Very good; very nice.

And for dessert, a chocolate and salted caramel tart with a little vanilla ice cream. The tart wasn’t as I’d expected, but was light and very tasty.

Portion size was excellent – not ridiculously large – and there was a decent selection of wines that started at under £20. We had a La Croix Vermentino – a sauvignon blanc from the south of France. My colleagues, remembering last year’s debacle over the wine prices, made me select again – simply because I had initially stated that I wouldn’t.

The bottle was £16.75 – the second cheapest on the menu, which kept them all happy. It was light, fresh and had alcohol in it. Personally, I’d have selected something different – but I know where that got me last year!

The service was pleasant and helpful. My only real complain would be the noise. It’s busy to start with, so having an amplified live pianist-singer made it very difficult to converse, even though our party was in a sort of side room.

Glasgow ended chaotically, with my Sunday evening flight back to London cancelled due to fog at City Airport. I was then rescheduled for a Heathrow flight at around the same time. So no problem.

But what I didn’t know was that Heathrow was fogged in too. With my baggage already checked in, they couldn’t transfer me to a Stanstead flight.

When would we be likely to depart? Oh, about sixish. Oh, about eightish. Oh, about tennish.

At that stage, I walked out, went across the road, checked into a Holiday Inn and slept. The following morning, back in the airport itself before 7am, I discovered that one flight had already been cancelled for the same reason – but that they were ‘hopeful’ of things sorting themselves out sometime soon.

I rescued my bag, got a cab back into the city centre and caught a train with five minutes to spare, finally arriving back into London at almost 12.15pm. Knackered.

After just a short respite, it was off again on Thursday – this time, to Leeds for my niece’s graduation.

Staying at the same hotel as my parents, I had to show them the hotel’s menu that evening in order to convince them that it was limited and pricey, and my idea of a nearby restaurant I’d tried, earlier this year, was far better.

I got the three of us into Sous le Nez – and we made it in time to make use of the excellent value early evening menu – £24.95 per person for three courses, plus a half bottle of wine each.

Here, I enjoyed a nice chicken liver parfait – much more set than in Glasgow and, I think, the better for it, even if it didn’t have such a creative source/jelly.

It came with a muffin-like brioche and some piccalilli. Good stuff.

For a main, I opted for seared pigeon breast with mustard horseradish and parsley mash, chorizo and a thyme jus.

The bird was lovely – I did find the large disco of chorizo very tough and, to be honest, I don’t think it really added anything.

For dessert, I went simple, with a duo of sorbets – blackcurrant and lemon.

My parents enjoyed it too – in spite of their general aversion to all things French.

The following night, after an amazing day – and one that was emotionally exhausting, for various reasons – we went to Brasserie Blanc with my niece and her boyfriend, for a celebration dinner.

The restaurant was her choice. My mother, although utterly accepting that it was her granddaughter’s day and her choice, had been nervous.

Two weeks before, I’d sat down and read the entire menu to her over the phone, to reassure her that there would be plenty to choose from that they could eat: French food, in other words, is not just mussels and frogs’ legs and snails.

It’s interesting that, I realised, neither of them had a real clue about the massive influence of classic French cooking.

They started with a celeriac and apple soup – and both raved. I’m afraid I cringed when they ordered rack of lamb – well done – but they enjoyed it and that’s really the only thing that matters.

I opted for confit chicken, haricot bean & prune terrine as a starter – a fascinating creation with remarkably light texture and an intriguing taste.

After that, a special of the day – pork leg confit, with a riff on mushy peas (crushed garden peas with rosemary) and they swapped the new potatoes for a carrot and swede mash for me.

Yes, I know it was all going a bit OTT on the confit front, but I decided I really was just too tempted. Very nice it was too: moist and tasty. The whole dish was delightfully colourful.

For dessert, I just about managed a leafed dark chocolate slice, which was really a slice of torte with three different textures to it: a dense sponge-like centre, with surprises of crispiness, and a ganache on top. Very good.

We had a bottle of rosé between us: the men finished with good whisky, my niece with a champagne cocktail, my mother with coffee and me with a glass of Muscat.

Another most enjoyable meal – and also very good value, and cheaper that the hotel.

Now, more travel awaits: on Tuesday, I head to Birmingham for one night for work. And then, on Thursday evening, it’s off to Paris for some Christmas shopping and, of course, some rather good food.

No bookie would give me odds on the meal on the Eurostar not being massively better than the filled ‘croissant’ that East Coast Mainline served on the way back from Leeds.

Two fine French meals and the trip ends with something inspipid and damp and cold and lacking in any of the buttery crispness and flakiness of the real thing – the real French thing.

Still, it’s probably good to be reminded of how poor food can be sometimes – just so you really do appreciate the good stuff.

Beside the seaside

Yorkshire. Day two. Or to be pedantic, day two and a half. And having breakfasted, we set off from the hotel with a firm plan of action.

This time, we boarded a train to York and beyond, skirting the North York Moors and finally pulling to a halt in Scarborough.

‘Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside …’

For all the sun – and it was a lovely day – there was a blustery wind coming off the North Sea. I had my leather jacket with me for the trip as a whole, but it was rolled in a bag for this trip. This was neither the time nor place to be swanning around in leather.

But a t-shirt with very short sleeves was taking things too far the other way and my arms were covered in goosebumps by the time we were halfway down the town’s main Clone Town shopping street.

An Edinburgh Wool Mill offered rapid relief in the form of a sea green sweatshirt – and then it was off again, cutting away from the crowds down a side street of far greater charm.

This brought us out near the top of the cliffs, near the Grand Hotel, with a funicular railway and the absolutely delightful Parlour Tearooms next door.

We took seats outside and ordered tea and cakes: in my case, a slab of tea loaf, moist with plump fruit and slicked with a generous portion of butter. Who says Yorkshire folk are stingy? We could gaze at the sea or over toward the remains of the vast castle that top the hill on the opposite side of the bay. Perfect.

The café itself harks back to years long gone, with a touch of humour in a painted window sign that proclaims “dogs and sprogs welcome”.

Wending down to the seafront, you hit a different world. All the gaudy sights and sounds of the seaside; amusement arcades, shops selling loads of kitsch (to which I am addicted) and, in Scarborough’s case, countless eateries offering fish and chips.

There was even a shop offering huge sticks of fudge – some with very peculiar flavourings. Not least amongst these was a Marmite fudge – and no, I didn't try some!

It’s rather tragic that, although Scarborough is still a working harbour, not one of those restaurants or cafes serves fish that has come inland there. There’s not enough stock in this part of the North Sea; the big catch for local fishermen is lobster, with something like 20,000 pots in the area.

Not that wandering around the small harbour itself wasn’t fascinating, particularly as it was a day when the camera barely shifted from around my neck, allowing me the chance, on one occasion, to rip off a shot of a gull as it flew out of a skip.

Looking inside after the bird had gone, there were masses of left-overs from fish that had rapidly been filleted. And the thought that struck home was the amount of waste – well, obviously not as far as the gull was concerned.

We ate at a café on the harbour itself. Run by a couple, we were warned that our lunch would take 10 minutes, as it would be cooked for us. That is absolutely fine by me.

And it was the best fish and chips I’ve had in many a year, since an afternoon a long time ago in Hull, although the cook explained that he gets his fish from the Faroe Islands – unfrozen. Wherever it came from, it tasted very good.

The batter was a dream: wafer thin and covered in a filigree of light crispiness that made me remember exactly why, as children, we rated scraps – the bits of batter left in the fryer, which could be bought by the bag for a penny – as such a treat.

The chips were not piled high, but they were hand cut and properly cooked. The mushy peas were fine and there were even slabs of bread on the side. Forget the slice of lemon that came with it – a modern affectation – all you needed was salt and perhaps the barest hint of malt vinegar on your chips.

It was a meal to relish.

Ambling further, I took the chance to photograph more gulls, who stayed put in their determination not to risk losing a spot near where a boat was expected to dock or where leftovers materialise from the sheds.

With time on our hands, we made a rapid decision to join a boat going for a trip out to sea, and found ourselves in the middle of another bit of history.

The Regal Lady was built in 1930 by Fellows & Company of Great Yarmouth for the Yarmouth & Gorleston Steamboat Company.

Originally called the Oulton Belle, she was a double-ended steamer that became one of the ‘Little Ships’ at the Dunkirk evacuation in 1940, before being requisitioned by the Navy until 1946.

In 1954, she was brought to Scarborough and given her current name.

We sat out at the front as the boat chugged gently past the little lighthouse before hitting the first real swell.

A few minutes later, fellow passengers had fled inside as waves splashed over the prow. “Shall we go in?” asked The Other Half. On the basis that my hands were by that time attached very tightly to the boat itself and my stomach was debating whether having eaten beforehand was a wise move, I had no inclination to risk shifting my body, and besides, as I told him, I’d wanted something that would blow the cobwebs away.

Eventually, with the cobwebs fully departed, I edged inside, managing to crash an elbow into the thick plastic window of one of the doors. Fortunately, nobody noticed the rather large cracks.

Inside was quite surreal, like stepping into a 1970s pub, with customers perched on small upholstered barrels and shipping maps turned into tables, listening to ’60s pop hits and supping pints.

There was something rather Alan Plater about it: indeed, it could almost have been straight out of his wonderful Beiderbecke series.

We didn’t imbibe. And my stomach coped. Which couldn’t be said for everyone. A man nearby had a face that was bleached of colour even before his wife attempted to put his coat around his shoulders comfortingly.

Then he stood, lurched forward a little, put his hand to his mouth and vomited all over the place.

This was not apparently an unusual situation. One of the crew pottered nonchalantly out with a bucket and mop. The wife took the same coat into the tiny toilet, and was still attempting to scrub it clean when we docked again.

We ambled some more, wending our way up the steep streets until we were back in Clone Town and near the station once again. And then it was back to Leeds aboard a ridiculously small Pennine Express train, with a couple of outbreaks of bad temper as people discovered that, for whatever reason, seat reservations had not been prepared in the carriages.

Things happen – technical problems, shortage of staff etc – but the company really should announce to passengers that there’s been a problem, thus helping to avoid fractious outbursts as people accuse others of sitting in ‘their’ seat.

Being near the sea can never be a bad thing for me. And the day had moments of utter bliss – not least that tea loaf, the fish and chips and the gulls, from their skirling cries to their reluctance to flee the moment I pointed the camera at them.

By the time we were back in Leeds, the only thing to consider was dinner – and for that, we headed to the nearby Brasserie Blanc.

Given a big lunch – every last crumb of which had been enjoyed – the general feeling was that this meal would involve no starter. But that was a flawed plan, since it ignored the many enticements of the menu.

In the end, I opted for an asparagus risotto (lovely textures and tastes, with the asparagus itself served in three different ways: as a sauce, stalks slivered into the risotto itself and a couple of spears topping the dish), followed by a second ‘starter’ – superb Cornish smoked mackerel with cucumber and horseradish: perfectly-sized portions just bursting with taste.

And to finish, a dish of rhubarb and custard, topped with smashed cinder toffee – a delicacy that I’d forgotten about until we’d spotted some in York and then bought two bags in Scarborough in a fit of delighted nostalgia.

There’s a recipe in the Yorkshire Relish book I’d found in York that involves cinder toffee – indeed, it even gives instructions for how to make it.

Regional food is a thing to cherish.

The experience that got right on me Bristol Cities

Sunday afternoon, traveling through a very English landscape between Bristol and Bath: rowing eights on the river as the train speeds past; golden, brown and tawny trees on the rolling hills behind, the skies dark and brooding.

It was, frankly, something of a relief to be leaving Bristol – or rather, it was a relief to be going home. Conferences and hotel living never really give you the opportunity to relax completely.

But at least I have one excellent food memory. And one that was – well, less than excellent.

To recap a little: the last time I was in Bristol for work was in January 2009. On that occasion, our staff dinner was at Piccolino, the Bristol outlet of a chain that has 22 restaurants from London to Liverpool. As I explained a few days ago, it was a bit of a disaster: kitchen staff seemed to have gone missing and we waited over two hours for our food.

I don’t mind waiting for food – indeed, I’d be suspicious if my order landed within seconds on my making it. But two hours was stretching things a tad.

This time around, the person who was booking our staff meal hadn’t been with us on that occasion and didn’t know the story, so had booked Piccolino. As I also mentioned previously, we’d been asked to order in advance.

Early on Saturday afternoon, our organiser had received an email explaining that one of our number had ordered the roast red and yellow pepper soup. Hey, that was me. But unfortunately, they’d apparently not had a delivery and couldn’t do the soup.

Which begs the question: had not had a delivery of what, precisely? Peppers? You do know, don’t you, Piccolino, that you’re actually situated in a shopping centre, with plenty of places in very close proximity that will sell peppers? Surely it couldn’t have been a delivery of the soup itself?

In the event, they were offering an alternative of mushroom and tarragon soup – fortunately, the necessary ingredients had been found loitering in the kitchen looking shifty and with no alternative future plans. So, rather than struggle to get hold of the full menu and make an alternative choice, I opted for that.

Fast forward a few hours. Around half of us arrived early. Our reservation was for 7.45pm: we got there around 7.20pm, but some colleagues were still working. The manageress announced that the starters were going to be put on the table at 7.30pm, regardless of whether we were all there.

Great. So if none of us had arrived until just before the time that we’d actually booked, you’d have had the waiting staff plonking our food down at an empty table, yes?

Hardly an auspicious start.

The two blokes present quickly ordered beers, while the two women other than myself debated about ordering wine and chickened out of it. I got hold of a wine list. The top of the wines on the white list was just under £18. Fairly close, as memory serves, was a Chardonnay. I asked whether it was un-oaked. The manageress didn’t know but offered me a taste. “Thank you,” I said. She went away, only to return a few minutes later with the news that there was none left – but asked if I wanted a dry wine?

I looked back at the list, spotted an Italian Riesling, asked the only other person present at that juncture who wanted white wine whether they would be okay with that, and ordered it.

Now, this is my faux pas and I hold my hands up: I didn’t clock the price. Perhaps more to the point, I didn’t even really think to clock it. Later, everyone who wanted white wine thought it very good, but when the bill arrived, it turned out to have been £32 a bottle.

Gasps all around and feelings of guilt on part that lasted until the following morning (despite being assured that everyone was on expenses so there really shouldn’t be an issue for anyone).

Actually, one colleague made a point: that you just don’t expect a bottle of wine in such a place to cost that much. And last night, I looked back at the Brasserie Blanc wine list and saw again that the majority of the wines were well under £30 – indeed, closer to the £20 mark.

But we’ll return to this later.

My soup arrived: with a thin skin on it. How long had that been waiting to be served early to someone whose reservation wasn’t until 15 minutes later? It was on the salty side too, which also suggests a wait.

When the almost-empty bowl was removed, I realised that one of my forks was dirty. Okay, it was replaced easily, but things were beginning to add up. To invoke Lady Bracknell: one cock-up is unfortunate; two is carelessness.

My main course – skewers of large prawns, scallops and salmon – was okay, but far from exceptional. Although it’s probably fair to say that it suffered by comparison with a dish of skewered seafood in Port Vendres in September.

But setting aside that the seafood itself couldn’t hope to be as fresh, little effort was made with presentation: it was just three wooden skewers and a lemon quarter that was reluctant to squirt forth any juice.

My side of broccoli and chili was acceptable – but they could take lessons in cooking vegetables from Brasserie Blanc: al dente does not mean almost raw.

One colleague had ordered the lamp steak. What arrived was lamb shank, which she apparently doesn’t like. More to the point, it was not what she’d ordered. The manageress explained that the menus were seasonal and that the seasonal menu had changed.

So what? You didn’t know, when you insisted we order in advance and sent us a link to a menu, that you were changing it by the time we visited?

Eventually, after some debate, they took it away and brought a pasta dish instead.

Still, while she waited, there were lots of bowls of chips that kept arriving at the table. And spinach.

I had caramel ice cream for dessert. Nothing to write home about.

And then the bill arrived. A very large bill.

It was fairly instantly assumed that the size of the aforementioned bill was down to my wine selection.

The following morning, a colleague who had been present told me that there had been some grumbling from two other women, and that she had pointed out that it was “collective responsibility”. That we’d all drunk the wine and enjoyed it. And then she had enquired how many bottles we’d been billed for. They hauled the bill out. Three.

A moment later, she pointed out that this didn’t add up – that that was not all that had made the bill so large.

So they checked it again, item by item. We’d paid for several portions of side dishes that nobody had ordered (more bowls of chips, for instance) and the colleague who had ordered lamb steak had been charged for the lamb shank and the pasta.

And with a service charge on top, we were also paying a further percentage on what we hadn’t ordered.

One of the staff checked when the restaurant opened and went back in the late morning to confront the manageress.

On the wine front, she argued that I’d seen the menu (true) and was therefore responsible. Now as you’ll have gathered, I’ve held my hands up to this one.

But it was apparently also pointed out to her that she could perhaps have indicated to me the price difference between what I’d originally enquired about and what I’d then opted for when my original choice was not available. And that it was very gloomy (there’s a reason that there are no photos with this article). She gave us £10 back on each of the bottles of Riesling though.

But there’s a lesson here – check wine prices properly, even when you simply don’t expect prices in such an establishment to be over a certain amount.

We also received further monies back – but stressed that the young man who had been our waiter (it was apparently his first day – and he hadn’t taken our orders anyway) was very good and no fault attached to him. She asked if that meant that we didn’t want to challenge the service charge, to which she was informed that we were certainly not paying a service charge on things we hadn’t ordered.

I suspect much of the success of our colleague in getting a refund wasn’t so much that the restaurant knew that we were right, but that such places are not used to anyone complaining and want to get the problem sorted out as soon as possible.

In general, the English don’t complain. And let’s face it, the morning after dining in a large group, when the booze was flowing freely, how many people would really go through their bill and have a clear enough memory of what they ate to challenge it – let alone the inclination to do so? But then again, because we’d pre-ordered and there were email records of that, we could prove it.

So there’s a lesson there too.

But what really finished off the experience came 24 hours later, back at home and browsing the old interwebby. I looked up the corporate website for the entire chain.

Now, you may recall my comments yesterday about the ‘mission statement’ at Brasserie Blanc.

Here are some extracts from the Piccolino mission statement:

“Welcome to Piccolino: a selection of vibrant Italian neighbourhood restaurants offering chic yet informal dining. Inspired by the traditional charm and contemporary buzz of classic brasseries, Piccolino brings a true taste of Italy to its customers.”

“Inspired by”? I’ve visited a couple of Italian brasseries. In Italy. And on the basis of Piccolino Bristol, I fail to see any connection whatsoever. Super, but unpretentious food in unpretentious surroundings – that was my experience of brasserie eating in Italy. Not in Piccolino, Cabot Circus, Bristol.

But wait, it gets better.

“Piccolino restaurants bring the rustic charm of Italy to the cityscapes and suburban environments of the UK.”

“Rustic”? Are you serious? “Rustic”?

Okay, I’m not going to comment on the group’s other restaurants because I haven’t visited any of them, but Bristol is like an ’80s cocktail bar. Glass and chrome and leather is not, by the greatest stretch of the imagination possible, “rustic”.

And neither is very ‘subdued’ lighting and pumping rock music that makes it difficult to have a conversation with the person next to you – let alone anyone two seats away. Perhaps they distract from the food? And the bill?

But hold on a minute – you’ve already claimed that Piccolino restaurants are “chic”, and now they’re “rustic” too? Hey everybody, Piccolino has invented rustic chic – drat: wasn’t that Marie Antoinette?

This is like a written version of verbal diarrhoea.

“There is no such thing as ordinary Italian fare at Piccolino …”

Well on that score, you’re right. Unfortunately.

“Our restaurants bring only the finest quality seasonal ingredients to the high street …”

Out of interest, just when did asparagus become a “seasonal” ingredient in the UK in November? And the pdf menu that is available online for the chain is still (as of 22 November) showing asparagus in two courses. The file name clarifies that it’s a menu from September 2010, several months after the end of the asparagus season. I have downloaded a copy as a souvenir.

“ … with everything freshly prepared and made on the premises by our chefs.”

Could you really not send someone out to buy some peppers? You know – there’s even a Sainsbury’s Local around the corner that probably sells those bags with a red, yellow and green pepper in? And come to that, where are they grown in this country in November?

My mind drifts back to Brasserie Blanc. Word got around that I had been. Several people asked me about it, expecting that it would have been hugely expensive. After all, a French celebrity chef has his French name attached to it, so you must need a bank loan to dine there.

My meal at Piccolino, even after our refund, cost more than my meal at Brasserie Blanc. And there is not even any comparison when it comes to the standard of the food.

The soup currently listed on the Piccolino “party menu” is £5. The same as that heavenly smoked haddock risotto. Which is expensive?

My main course at Piccolino cost £16.95. At Brasserie Blanc, it was £15.50.

At Brasserie Blanc, it was £5.50 for four scoops of ice cream and sorbet, with biscuits etc. At Piccolino, it was £5.25 for two scoops of caramel ice cream in a sundae glass. With a sprig of mint.

Yet Piccolino is the sort of restaurant that people assume is affordable, as opposed to what they imagine is posher and unaffordable. And yet they apparently accept (because it’s been open at least two years and always seems busy) inferior food and chaotic (at best) service.

As I said recently, there’s a con afoot. Either that, or the British really care less about good food than about dining in glitzy settings with loud music that stop them being able to hold a coherent and pleasant conversation.

I’ll say one thing: if I get sent to Bristol again for work, I’m putting a claiming notice down that we absolutely do not go near Piccolino again. It's going to take a while to get rid of the sour aftertaste.

Food to relax with and relish

Mission statements and restaurants are a curious mix: in the case of Brasserie Blanc in Bristol, it makes clear that the establishment isn’t setting out to serve haute cuisine, but ordinary food to be enjoyed with family or friends; that its philosophy is that of a brasserie.

Unpretentious it may be, but the food is still far from ‘ordinary’ – but then, that may say more about the food that we’re used to than the proprietor’s idea of ‘ordinary’.

To start with, the building itself is really rather special – not least as it stands in the middle of a rather bland and modern, up-market shopping square (which even has the obligatory seasonal ice-rink outside at present).

Originally an 18th century Quaker meeting house, and later the home of a registery office, it’s been very sensitively converted. Given a choice, I decided to sit upstairs. At a table that perfectly fitted the gap between a pew and the back of the front one (now replaced with a walkway), it offered a lovely view, right down and into the kitchen.

The vast wine rack could almost have been an old church organ (I realise that the Quakers don’t use music as part of their worship, but bear with me: it reminded me of many of the non-conformist chapels I’ve visited).

The music was low-key lounge jazz, avoiding muzak, but just taking the edge off the quietness.

I could sit back and enjoy the scene: staff bustling around – a form of synchronised waiting as they go about their work. They reminded me of watching the horses towing cannons at speed and appearing to barely miss each other in the Royal Tournament.

Good bread and butter were supplied, plus chilled water with a big slice of lemon. The latter was just the sort of touch that is appreciated and shows a bit more thought.

I was enormously tempted by the prune and Armagnac terrine, but with the main course almost certainly destined to be meat, it seemed like the perfect reason to try the starter of the day, a smoked haddock risotto. Now I’m sure that the terrine is wonderful, but I’m also sure that this was the right choice.

It was just sublime. Beautiful, natural smokiness from the fish; the rice was superb – grains still just distinct, but soft enough to have almost melded together; a lovely little egg, perfectly poached, topped it, and the buttery hollandaise complimented everything delightfully.

Unctuous and soothing, the sort of food that mellows and relaxes you … well, I could eat that every day, frankly. Nothing complicated, nothing pretentious. Just good food done superbly well.

And accompanied by a glass of Domaine St Jean de Conques Vin de Pays D’Oc, which was light and fruity, providing a nice contrast to the lush food.

For a main course, I opted for Dutch calf’s liver with bacon, sage, a smooth mash and a lovely dark gravy.

It came with fine beans – which was a small irritation because I know perfectly well that they’re not currently in season and seasonality is also something that the Brasserie Blanc brand proclaims. But I will say that they were perfectly cooked: how do you get fine beans that are cooked but still crisp? In other words, crisp but most definitely not raw, which is how the staff canteen at work so often serves vegetables. It’s clearly an art form.

The liver was lovely – very light, almost with a mousse-like quality. Puréed potatoes great – although I can’t say that I really spotted the sage anywhere. Bacon nice and crisp too.

For this, I chose a glass of Côtes du Rhône Château de Montfaucon: bold berry tastes, but not too strong for the lightness of the meat.

In some ways, this course was always going to struggle a little after the culinary orgasm of the starter, but it was good. Very good.

My waitress – a charming young lady who was unrushed and perfectly happy to answer questions or advise on the wine – allowed me a welcome respite before dessert.

Feeling pretty much stuffed by this time, I decided to go safe and ask for ice cream or sorbet. So what flavours were on offer?

The first thing I learned was that an ice cream or sorbet dessert means four scoops.

Well how can a girl refuse? I picked vanilla and chocolate ice creams, with mango and blackcurrant sorbets. When it arrived, with the little balls of frozen wonderfulness atop a crisp biscuit, just melting to reveal their true flavour and scent, and topped with yet another biscuit, it almost felt sacrilegious to destroy the delightful presentation.

But I made the sacrifice. And the sorbets in particular were fabulously flavoursome and refreshing.

As always, I skipped coffee – I can’t drink it after a meal. For some reason, it’s as if it makes my stomach over-heat and, in the dim and distant past, has been known to send me running to the ladies.

It was an enormously satisfying meal, the thought of which lingers and will doubtless linger for some time.

Nothing over-fancy; just essentially simple food done exceptionally well, and served in a very pleasant environment by good staff.

What more can you ask for? Well indeed. But while Brasserie Blanc's mission statement might seem rather unnecessary, the following night was to show very clearly just why such a restaurant feels the need to make a statement of intent.