Some of you may remember reading about the nightmare that was Piccolino Bristol. A couple of days later, I explained that I had decided to print off my post and send it to the company that owns the entire chain. And I promised to let you know if I received a response.
Well, a response has arrived – delayed by the snow and and glut of bank holidays.
The company's guest communications manager has asked me to call her so that she can "personally apologise" to me. All my comments have been passed on to the restaurant's general manager and operations manager for "further investigation".
And I have been invited to enjoy a complimentary meal for two at one of the Piccolino restaurants in London.
There's a side of me that wants to refuse the complimentary meal. Not out of some sort of bad grace or anything, but partly because I was hardly the only one who was affected by the Bristol experience and also because, when I wrote that piece and when I sent it to the company, it wasn't because I wanted some sort of compensation beyond what the manageress had given us the day after.
I wanted – I hoped – that I could have some small impact; that they would perhaps rethink what they're doing and see if there are not improvements that they can make so that those problems don't occur again.
If I take up their offer, does that compromise this blog? That might sound a bit daft, but as much as I can, I want this to be an honest and up-front endeavour. There's really no point in doing it otherwise.
On the other hand, let's see if they can do better on the food front. In terms of the letter from the company, I was impressed with the attitude shown. That's certainly a good start.
But the moral of this little story is that complaining works.
Showing posts with label Bristol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bristol. Show all posts
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Monday, 22 November 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
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.
Saturday, 20 November 2010
Time on my hands
With time on my hands in Bristol, I headed to Harvey Nicks to see if they had a food hall here.
No hall, perhaps, but a little corner of the store had been given over to fodder. There, I found a few things to interest me.
First, a tub of Tom Douglas “rub with love” for salmon. I’m always looking for ways to make our regular bit of fillet more interesting and this ticked the right box.
Containing brown sugar, smoked paprika, salt, black pepper and thyme, it should be interesting.
Then a white fig confit to eat with goat’s cheese and a bag of pfeffernüsse, those gorgeous little German ginger biscuit/cakes, covered in icing, which probably won’t actually make it back to London on Sunday afternoon.
And then, as if I hadn’t been tempted enough, I found a Harvey Nicks Christmas shop a few doors down. Having wandered around, I was about to leave, wending my way toward the exit, past the cheese counter.
Except that I couldn’t force myself “past” said counter without reaching out to try some of the comte that was sitting on a little wooden platter waiting to be tasted. Lovely.
And that started a conversation with the rather good looking and muscular (what biceps!) young man who was serving.
Comte good, of course, but how about something regional?
“Oh, I can’t really buy cheese – it won’t keep between now and my journey home on Sunday.”
“Well perhaps a little to keep you going while you’re here,” he suggested in flirtatious manner, unwrapping a piece and proffering a taste. That’s really not a fair tactic.
It was Keen’s cheddar – something I’ve never liked. Or not until now. Perhaps that’s because I’ve only ever had it from a supermarket. This, however, was out of this world: absolutely gorgeous.
He actually works as a cheesemaker with Gorwydd Caerphilly, which I recognised instantly on the stall. Indeed, as I told him, I’d had some from their stall at Borough Market a couple of weeks ago.
He explained that the farms that produce Keen’s and Mongomery cheddars are incredibly near (only a couple of miles apart), yet the taste is so different. He suggested that perhaps it’s the extra layers of cloth that the Keen family put on their cheese that gives it such a different taste, showing me the difference in thickness of covering.
Inevitably, I bought a small piece, wrapped specially in wax paper (none of that plastic nonsense). Fortunately, while my hotel room’s minibar is empty, it’s still working and the cheese won’t get hot and sweaty in what is a quite warm room. But like the pfeffernüsse, it’s possible that not much will make it home.
And then it was time for the real countdown for my meal at Brasserie Blanc to begin. Which seemed to cause time to slow down.
Having earlier played ‘hunt the iron’ to no avail, I’d attempted to press my trousers with one of the Corby Trouser Presses that haunt every hotel room in the UK. To no avail, as it was reluctant to heat.
Eventually, I found the iron, hiding on its board at the ‘wring’ side of the wardrobe. Let’s face it: you can’t turn up at a Raymond Bland eaterie with creased pants!
No hall, perhaps, but a little corner of the store had been given over to fodder. There, I found a few things to interest me.
First, a tub of Tom Douglas “rub with love” for salmon. I’m always looking for ways to make our regular bit of fillet more interesting and this ticked the right box.
Containing brown sugar, smoked paprika, salt, black pepper and thyme, it should be interesting.
Then a white fig confit to eat with goat’s cheese and a bag of pfeffernüsse, those gorgeous little German ginger biscuit/cakes, covered in icing, which probably won’t actually make it back to London on Sunday afternoon.
And then, as if I hadn’t been tempted enough, I found a Harvey Nicks Christmas shop a few doors down. Having wandered around, I was about to leave, wending my way toward the exit, past the cheese counter.
Except that I couldn’t force myself “past” said counter without reaching out to try some of the comte that was sitting on a little wooden platter waiting to be tasted. Lovely.
And that started a conversation with the rather good looking and muscular (what biceps!) young man who was serving.
Comte good, of course, but how about something regional?
“Oh, I can’t really buy cheese – it won’t keep between now and my journey home on Sunday.”
“Well perhaps a little to keep you going while you’re here,” he suggested in flirtatious manner, unwrapping a piece and proffering a taste. That’s really not a fair tactic.
It was Keen’s cheddar – something I’ve never liked. Or not until now. Perhaps that’s because I’ve only ever had it from a supermarket. This, however, was out of this world: absolutely gorgeous.
He actually works as a cheesemaker with Gorwydd Caerphilly, which I recognised instantly on the stall. Indeed, as I told him, I’d had some from their stall at Borough Market a couple of weeks ago.
He explained that the farms that produce Keen’s and Mongomery cheddars are incredibly near (only a couple of miles apart), yet the taste is so different. He suggested that perhaps it’s the extra layers of cloth that the Keen family put on their cheese that gives it such a different taste, showing me the difference in thickness of covering.
Inevitably, I bought a small piece, wrapped specially in wax paper (none of that plastic nonsense). Fortunately, while my hotel room’s minibar is empty, it’s still working and the cheese won’t get hot and sweaty in what is a quite warm room. But like the pfeffernüsse, it’s possible that not much will make it home.
And then it was time for the real countdown for my meal at Brasserie Blanc to begin. Which seemed to cause time to slow down.
Having earlier played ‘hunt the iron’ to no avail, I’d attempted to press my trousers with one of the Corby Trouser Presses that haunt every hotel room in the UK. To no avail, as it was reluctant to heat.
Eventually, I found the iron, hiding on its board at the ‘wring’ side of the wardrobe. Let’s face it: you can’t turn up at a Raymond Bland eaterie with creased pants!
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
A burst of eating out
The eating-out season starts this weekend. It’s probably fair to say that, between now and the Monday before Christmas, I’ll eat in more British restaurants than throughout the rest of the year.
‘Why is it starting so early?’ you ask.
Ah well, to start with, I’m being sent to Bristol this weekend for work. Now I have to eat for two days and two nights while there. The daytimes won’t offer a great deal of time for fodder, so I’ll grab something light.
Of course I could eat the cheapest and plainest food available, but I really have little interest in that – and besides, as I illustrated elsewhere, what is often regarded as cheap eating in this country is not.
Saturday evening is taken care of with the staff dinner, to which my somewhat belated invitation only arrived this morning, with an appeal to choose my meal straight away.
We’re going to Piccolino at Cabot Circus – to which all I can say at present is that I hope it won’t be like our last visit there in January 2009, when we had to wait over two hours for the food (cooks had gone missing). To be fair, the staff were deeply embarrassed, very courteous and as helpful as they could be: and we got everything free – including the wine. But it was an odd evening where my interest in the food (when it eventually emerged) was wrecked.
As the organiser of this conference’s staff meal (a thankless task) has pointed out, hopefully, by choosing what we want now, it’ll help avoid such problems on the night. She might have a point, although I can't help feeling that any establishment that has as much space as Piccolino does, and which happily takes large bookings, should be able to deal with the maximum number of covers without insisting that some people select their food in advance. After all, what happens if the place is full of couples or very small parties?
I hate choosing a meal days or weeks before I’m going to eat, but sometimes you’re given no choice.
But my choice for Piccolino this time is marinated nocellara olives to nibble, before a roast red and yellow pepper soup. Then skewered king prawns, scallops and salmon in oregano, chili and lemon, with tender stem broccoli, chili and garlic as a side. Thankfully, we have not had to order a dessert at this stage.
But what is really exciting me right now is Friday’s dining plan. For the first time, I have actually made a reservation to dine alone.
I realised, with some surprise, that the last time I was in Bristol, I lunched at Brasserie Blanc, as in Raymond Blanc.
Now it seems completely awful to admit, but I don’t remember a thing about it. That’s almost certainly because I had little time and raced in and out again, managing just one hurried course and half a bottle of sparkling water.
But of course, such things can be rectified. And now I intend to spend considerably longer there and invest considerably more attention to the experience.
The Other Half looked up from his terminal when I announced this and commented wryly that that’ll be my daily living-away-from-home-for-work allowance gone in one sitting, but the prices are not necessarily particularly high.
Indeed, they do a two-courses-with-wine deal for about £12. So, little more than the cost of a McDonalds meal for two. Which makes for an interesting perspective on something or other, I think.
Now, I admit to already having drooled over the menu – but I’m not choosing yet, simply anticipating. And what pleasure there is to be had in that.
‘Why is it starting so early?’ you ask.
Ah well, to start with, I’m being sent to Bristol this weekend for work. Now I have to eat for two days and two nights while there. The daytimes won’t offer a great deal of time for fodder, so I’ll grab something light.
Of course I could eat the cheapest and plainest food available, but I really have little interest in that – and besides, as I illustrated elsewhere, what is often regarded as cheap eating in this country is not.
Saturday evening is taken care of with the staff dinner, to which my somewhat belated invitation only arrived this morning, with an appeal to choose my meal straight away.
We’re going to Piccolino at Cabot Circus – to which all I can say at present is that I hope it won’t be like our last visit there in January 2009, when we had to wait over two hours for the food (cooks had gone missing). To be fair, the staff were deeply embarrassed, very courteous and as helpful as they could be: and we got everything free – including the wine. But it was an odd evening where my interest in the food (when it eventually emerged) was wrecked.
As the organiser of this conference’s staff meal (a thankless task) has pointed out, hopefully, by choosing what we want now, it’ll help avoid such problems on the night. She might have a point, although I can't help feeling that any establishment that has as much space as Piccolino does, and which happily takes large bookings, should be able to deal with the maximum number of covers without insisting that some people select their food in advance. After all, what happens if the place is full of couples or very small parties?
I hate choosing a meal days or weeks before I’m going to eat, but sometimes you’re given no choice.
But my choice for Piccolino this time is marinated nocellara olives to nibble, before a roast red and yellow pepper soup. Then skewered king prawns, scallops and salmon in oregano, chili and lemon, with tender stem broccoli, chili and garlic as a side. Thankfully, we have not had to order a dessert at this stage.
But what is really exciting me right now is Friday’s dining plan. For the first time, I have actually made a reservation to dine alone.
I realised, with some surprise, that the last time I was in Bristol, I lunched at Brasserie Blanc, as in Raymond Blanc.
Now it seems completely awful to admit, but I don’t remember a thing about it. That’s almost certainly because I had little time and raced in and out again, managing just one hurried course and half a bottle of sparkling water.
But of course, such things can be rectified. And now I intend to spend considerably longer there and invest considerably more attention to the experience.
The Other Half looked up from his terminal when I announced this and commented wryly that that’ll be my daily living-away-from-home-for-work allowance gone in one sitting, but the prices are not necessarily particularly high.
Indeed, they do a two-courses-with-wine deal for about £12. So, little more than the cost of a McDonalds meal for two. Which makes for an interesting perspective on something or other, I think.
Now, I admit to already having drooled over the menu – but I’m not choosing yet, simply anticipating. And what pleasure there is to be had in that.
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