LES DEUX SALONS: NO OIL PAINTING

We've had a few (scrub that, thousands) of mails asking us why no updates to the blog. I can't speak for HS but in my case it's mainly down to the fact I’ve been on holiday but it’s also because I have a certain ennui with the current dining scene in this city.

While I'd like to believe that the many new Burrito joints (it's a flipping wrap - get over it), Bahn Mi shops (it's a sandwich pal, not Babette’s Feast) and grim chains (oh goody, yet another Eat, you are spoiling us, City of London) are raising the foodie bar in London I tend to see them as no more than exercises in seeing how much dosh can be squeezed from gullible Londoners for the least outlay.

Ditto most restaurants which rather than attempting to provide something so wonderful that you’d never want to go anywhere else again work on the “What can we get away with” principle based on the premise there’s always another mug punter around the corner.

Ok. Now I’ve got that little lot out of my system I can tell you about my visit to Les Deux Salons, a pretty major restaurant opening and as good a way as any to get the blog rolling again (albeit creakily).

First a confession: I've never had a satisfying meal at any of Anthony Demetre's restaurants. First at Putney Bridge - even after he had gained a Michelin star - then at Arbutus and Wild Honey. The latter two restaurants have always been extremely popular, due in part to keen pricing and perceived value for money (=cheap, something us Brits are very keen on) but I’m afraid I just didn't get it.

Les Deux Salons is a big step up from the more modest gaffs in the collection. It occupies what was previously a barn-like Pitcher and Piano located just South-West of Covent Garden. It’s now been converted by Martin Brudzinski from pissy lager-selling, pickup joint into, well, I guess it’s supposed to be an evocation of grand European brasserie. I think Mr Brudzinski must have knocked this one out on a Friday afternoon after a few stiffeners at the Dog and Duck.

I’m afraid I didn’t like it. It all felt a bit insubstantial to me. HS said it all sounded a bit Trompe l'oeil but he’s a smartarse and nobody likes them do they? The other tables were too spread out as well (limiting numbers?) – the seating in a brasserie needs a certain density. To cap it all my table was wobbly. Not a great crime against humanity, but, still.

Unfortunately, the food failed to compensate for the dodgy décor and the wobbly service – although the latter did improve as the evening progressed.

Once I’d got over the shock of not getting a slice of orange in my Lillet Rouge and the shock to my choppers of some tough bread – why are the simple things so hard – there was the triple whammy of not seeing any sort of Bivalves or Shellfish on a Brasserie Menu. Odd seeing as big trays of Fruits de Mer going out does add a certain glamour to proceedings. And who doesn’t like a dozen on the half shell with a glass of fizz?

Instead, and more prosaically, I went for the Brawn. A little bit of me died when a plate with a small glass jar turned up. This affectation has been done to death by now and isn't an improvement over a slab of terrine. The Brawn itself was underseasoned and tasted mostly of fat without any porkiness to compensate.

The small Beetroot and apple salad was strewn with some microgreens but was a bit apologetic. What was wrong with some piccalilli - this was English Brawn after all?

The Salt Cod Brandade dish was an improvement but had a built in entertainment factor. They omitted to tell me the Parsley Cromesqui would, when speared by my fork, spurt out dark green parsley puree like some sort of alien ejaculate. Well, the waiters probably had a chuckle.

The offending Cromesqui would have been a bit better (and less dangerous) if it hadn’t been so tough. I was pleasantly surprised by the baby squid which were properly cooked and having ate my bodyweight’s worth of them in Spain recently I know from baby squid. The brandade wasn’t too shoddy either although it was quite salty. Somehow though the dish was less than the sum of its parts.

Roast Halibut with razor clams was one of the most expensive dishes on the menu so what the dish lacked in embellishments should have been made up by good ingredients and precise cooking. The quality of the Halibut was fine but it was flabby and overcooked especially surprising as they’d not managed to get any colour on it. I suspect it may have been cooked properly then left on a hot plate to cook some more.

I quite like the idea of chopping up the clam and serving it in the shell but it was tasteless and a bit rubbery. It really could have done with a a squeeze of lemon to liven it up a bit.

The accompanying veg was beyond help.

A sweet of Rum Baba – fast becoming my number one dessert choice (sorry Ice Cream, you’re so dumped) – rescued things somewhat. It was light with a decent texture and a good measure of navy rum (other brands are not available) which was poured over it at table. I was a bit wary about the thin slices of pineapple served but they worked well providing a fresh, sweet counterpoint to the rum-sodden pudding. That’s not me BTW.

I wish it wasn’t so but at the end of the meal I was thinking that I've still never had a truly satisfying meal in an Anthony Demetre restaurant. But, hey, what do I know? The other places have been enough of a success to open a 250 seater restaurant in the heart of London’s famous West End which was filled and buzzing with (apparently) happy people. Call me an old, misery-guts naysayer but for me this says more about the low expectations of London’s restaurant-going public than it does about our burgeoning London restaurant scene.

OSSIE'S JERK CHICKEN:

Can anyone tell me how long Ossie’s Jerk Chicken has been on Exeter St near Covent Garden?

I must have walked down that street a thousand times on my way to somewhere more important and yet it was not until Tuesday evening that I first spotted this small café with its lurid green frontage, nestled next to the doorway for Joe Allen’s. Bizarre, but it stuck in my mind for long enough for me to consider it as a lunch spot today after a mid-morning meeting.

The notion of a small café selling Caribbean staples amongst the tawdry tourist tat of Covent Garden is an odd one and everybody else must have thought so too given that, for my short time there, no one else bothered to darken their doors. A shame given that Ossie obviously knows what he is about and the menu is filled with a fantastic sounding selection of Jamaican staples. Jerk pork, curry mutton, cow foot, rice & peas, fried dumpling and callaloo, it all sounded like the stuff that could agreeably fill a lunch time hole

But, if Ossie feels strongly enough about it to put his name to it, then it had to be the jerk chicken and I ordered two pieces with some rice and peas, a side order of akee dumpling and a can of fiery Jamaican ginger beer. For £9.00, pretty reasonable value, particularly when you consider that what arrived would have fed two people.

The akee, mixed with salt fish sat on top of a fried dumpling that, if you did believe God existed would convince you he was not a benign and loving overlord. Although the small pieces I tore off tasted good in a deep fried lump of dough kind of way, I can still feel them digesting some hours later. The akee itself was, as I remembered it, an acquired taste, as HP puts it, “more of a texture thing” and I soon pushed that portion of my lunch to one side to concentrate on the chicken.

Now, that was more like it. Well-flavoured and spiced rice, plumped out with beans next to a generous mound of bone-in chicken glistening in its jerk coating. The meat fell from the bone and the chilli heat hit the tongue, then the back of the throat before working its way down to the stomach in a satisfying flame of savoury heat as I turned the bones to shreds.

Ossie’s with its two tables and a handful of chairs is not a place to linger and I was in, fed and about my business in twenty minutes. But, it is an interesting place to stop for a quick snack, particularly in an area bereft of any options outside the standard chains.

That is, of course, unless I have missed them.

WAHACA

Wahaca

I remember the thirty-five sweet goodbyes
When you put me on the Wolverine

Mexican restaurants used to be pretty thin on the ground in London but now there’s a veritable slew of them, no doubt down to the avalability of ingredients like the many varieties of chilli peppers that we couldn’t get over here before. The latest is called Wahaca and occupies an unloved spot in Covent Garden that hosted Bad Bob’s (I think) and latterly The Springbok.

It’s a bit of a strange space, is Wahaca, not packed with tables and was there really supposed to be no ceiling or maybe I’m just to old to appreciate cutting edge restaurant design. A few days into the opening though and everyone’s on best behaviour – I was greeted and shown to a table straight away and had the menu concept explained. I think it was AA Gill who didn’t want to know about any concept in a restaurant that wasn’t “I order, you bring, I eat, you clear away”. Still, it’s nice to have a bit of enthusiasm even if being asked if everything was ok after each mouthful began to pall after the 20th time. Ex-Masterchef winner Thomasina Miers was working her cotton socks off in the kitchen which is a good sign and the place was, if not quite jumping (like a Mexican bean) was pretty busy with 20-somethings, mostly women, enjoying themselves. As did I.

A little cocktail action to start, a Margarita, was nice and limey, the chiccarones I had with them were a bit on the lightweight side. The Guacamole exhibited the main problem with the food – it really needed a bit of pepping up. A little bit of salt, some of the beautifully smoky habanero hot sauce (which despite being told all the time how hot it was, wasn’t) and a bit of lime cheered it up no end.

Most of the dishes benefited from the same treatment. I was told by the co-owner that they didn’t want to spice things up too much and preferred to leave it to customers' individual preference. Fair enough I suppose but a bit at odds with the aim of authentic Mexican market cuisine.

I stuck to the Street Food section of the menu and liked the Black Bean Tostadas and the Pork Pibil Taco although the corn tortillas were a bit heavy. There was also a rather toothsome piquant pickle that went with a couple of dishes. The chorizo in the Quesadilla was nice and smoky but the oil had seeped out making the tortilla a bit greasy. This would be a distinct advantage though if you’d had one Modelo Negra too many. A big bowl of chocolate ice cream was very good and had a surprising chilli finish. They aced the mint tea test.

I wasn’t completely convinced by the food but it’s fresh, inexpensive and doesn’t leave a nasty taste in the mouth. A sort of Latin version of Leon. If they could inject a bit more oomph or soul into the food it would be so much better. Holy Frijoles !

Great Queen Street

Tell all your buddies That it ain't no drag

Sometimes restaurants lose sight of their raison d’etre and in case you’ve forgotten this is to feed, to entertain, in short, to give the patrons a jolly good time. I realised this during DH’s recent visit to Padstow. The gulf between the dismal No. 6 and the sprightly and enjoyable Margot’s was palpable. Places where the emphasis is on giving the punters a good time (dearie) are becoming more prevalent though and the latest amongst them, Great Queen Street, is the offspring of the Eagle, Anchor and Hope and last but by no means least The Fox.

I’d had the heads up about the joint a month or two ago but everything had gone quiet, then all of a sudden there’d been reviews in a London free sheet and then Fay “I’d attend the opening of a envelope” Maschler had been there twice. Time for DH to move in.

Great Queen Street is situated, somewhat incongruously (for a gastropub) in Covent Garden. The incongruity lies in the fact that in an area where the majority of restaurants pin their flag unashamedly to the pole of mediocrity this place stands out like a…well a Welsh Bengali at a BNP Rally. The design is firmly in the mould of Eagle/A&H type gastropubs with plenty of stripped wood and dim lighting to go around. There’s also a longish bar where you can get the full menu.

With an appetite made keen by a well made DM at the Renaissance Chancery Court I did the only thing I could and went for double starters. Cured Gurnard with leeks and aioli read better than it looked or tasted. The taste of the fish was killed by a heavy hand on the salt shaker and the aioli was non-existent. Much better was the smoked eel which came in the generous form of two large fillets. The Cucumber accompaniment was lightly and sympathetically pickled.

The Ox Heart with Beetroot and Horseradish was one of those dishes where you wonder why it isn’t on every British menu. Tender, meaty, subtly Offaly, it had been cooked with care. The cubed beetroot with horseradish provided the necessary counterpoint. Chips cooked in duck-fat didn’t taste like it and had a slightly tough skin but were tasty nonetheless. The pud list is a bit small and it didn’t have HP favourite: helado. Luckily a special of Muscat crème brulee proved a suitable substitute.

Despite being pretty full, two or three staff managed to keep the service rolling along and indulge my endless questions about the restaurant’s origins. As an antidote to the overpriced and the pretentious Great Queen Street deserves to succeed and provides the only sensible option in this neck of the woods.