Brasserie Chavot

http://brasseriechavot.com

41 Conduit Street, Mayfair, London W1S 2YF

+44(0)20 7183 6425

Closest Tube: Green Park, Bond Street

Friday 22 March, 7pm

Verdict: Thumbs up

A drizzly end to a working week and we are hurrying up Conduit Street to make our reservation. We sweep through the doors and pass through the horseshoe velvet curtain to enter an art deco haven. One radiant smile from the reception lady and the worries of my week and my damp hair are forgotten. The space exudes class, sophistication and a welcome air of tranquility. We walk past bucket backed chairs and textured red leather booths. There are striking pillars on the walls and dramatic chandeliers hanging from the ceiling reflected in tiled smoky mirrors. 

We sit and an attentive waiter is at my elbow within moments to ensure we have water. Sparking Badoit is opened and poured without interrupting our conversation. We are comparing notes on how many Chanel handbags we counted on our way through to our table. The place is awash with those with money and those that for all intents and purposes want to look like they have money. I guess that goes with the post code.

We are presented with menus, adorned on the back with a picture of the tiles from the beautiful mosaic floor at our feet. The front lists the traditional dishes they serve, hailing from the borders of France and Germany, such as Choucroute Granite, Snails, Sardines, and Liver.

It is their busiest night since opening that week, their first Friday. We keep an eye on the tables near us to see if any early diners are being rushed through their meals in readiness for the next sitting. There is no sign of this which is great given they could be cramming in the masses based on reputation alone. We strike up a conversation with the happy couple next to us. The cerviche gets a double thumbs up from the table next door. We are excited to order.

We are bought potato bread and sour dough. A nod to the Irish. Our waiter is French and delightful. I do my usual routine of quizzing him on the set-up, how opening week has been going and what he thinks of the menu. Rapport built and a fountain of knowledge to tap. He tells me that while he is French, the rest of the restaurant’s employees are a mix of different European backgrounds. Apparently, there was a conscious decision to ensure the staff were diverse to prevent this French Brasserie becoming too French, whatever that may mean.

The wine list is extensive and we are delighted to find they serve carafes of wine for peanuts. Crab Mayo arrives for my dining companion. It is lovely and fresh. Simple and good. My soft shell crab, a personal favourite, is served to me on a chopping board lined with an edition Parisien. Nice touch. My crab is crispy to perfection with no trace of oil. Given my past consumption of soft shell crab I have the potential to give a scathing review but in this instance it is not required. This is up there with some of the best. Within medal contention if this was the food Olympics.

We have decided to share two dishes as is our want. A lentil stew with cod and carrots, presented with a vinegar, white wine, and shallot gravy for the fish. Along with a tiger prawn. Literally singular. The plate is colorful with the large crustacean flanked by  chorizo, tomato, chickpeas and olives.

The two dishes are interesting by collation. The lentil is subtle and elegant versus the loud, assertive prawn. The contrasts between the dishes are endless. Soft lentils with a crunch of shallots, understated and well balanced. The prawn on the other hand has less substance and is limited in quantity. The one similarity to highlight is that both are rich. A comparison of the Middleton sisters springs to mind. Kate is the high protein pulse while Pippa is the aquatic arthropod. Who can help but love both?

We are comfortably stuffed so we split the sweet course. Coupe Exotique is our closing ceremony, which explodes like fireworks in your mouth. Danny Boyle would be proud. Its very sweet contents is served in a double walled glass and is like an exploration in dessert: Mango sorbet, fruit including banana, kiwi, watermelon, and tremolo, topped with merengue crusted in sugar along with crumble. 

I visit the bathrooms and am tracked back from the toilet to my chair like I am the Pope on parade. I watch the waiters gesturing almost imperceptibly to each other as I walk, with the final one in the line stepping forward in readiness to help me with my chair. I’m impressed.

They serve us Jung tea in Jenaer glass pots. I’m in tea heaven. A fitting compliment to a flawless evening. Picking up the £117 bill makes me happy. Value for money in a lovely setting with impeccable service and tasty food. What more could delicious nation want? *rhetorical question*

Launceston Place

www.launcestonplace-restaurant.co.uk

1a Launceston Place, Kensington, London W8 5RL

+44 (0) 20 7937 6912

Closest Tube: Gloucester Road, High Street Kensington

Sunday 17 March, 12 noon

Verdict: Neutral

Launceston Place is, well, on Launceston Place, set in a quiet residential street in the heart of Kensington. An area full of diverse people, beautiful houses and proximate to some of London’s nicest wide open green spaces, it is not however a locality known for its eateries.

D&D, the company that owns this suburban restaurant is the parent to many successful children across this city, as well as Paris, New York and Tokyo. I’ve frequented some of their other London establishments which set a pretty high bar. Each of their restaurants has its own unique selling point, from high quality French dining set to a planetary theme at ‘Orrery’ in chic Marylebone, to authentic Italian at ‘Sartoria’ located on Saville Row in the heart of the British tailoring district.

We reach our destination after navigating down pleasant tree-lined streets and walking past the sweeping curved frontage of the restaurant, feeling hopeful that our Michelin starred Sunday brunch experience will easily be as good here as any meal we have had at a sibling restaurant. 

We are ushered to a table, bathed celestially in light, in front of a large picture window. The surroundings are luxurious in their simplicity. We promptly order a chardonnay from the small selection of wine by the glass and begin to survey the set menu. The Sunday lunch deal is three courses for 25 pounds.

Bite-sized pastries filled with pungent smelling cheese arrive, along with an amuse bouche of cauliflower mousse with pureed lentil to stimulate our taste buds. We chat and sample, both happy with the nibbles on offer. Our plates are then cleared and switched out simultaneously for our starters and I start to worry that the leisurely lunch we had envisaged will be anything but.

Our winter veggie salads are divine. Beetroot, broccoli, onion, carrot and cauliflower cooked to perfection. Not crunchy enough to be raw but warmed through to retain the vitamins, minerals and flavours, complimented with honey mustard and a tasty unidentified creamy sauce. Delicious, and nutritious.

An all too brief pause before my portobello mushroom main is in front of me. The fungi comes with parmesan bon bons and sherry vinegar but these two comrades are outwitted by their nemesis, sweetcorn puree. The maize is all I can taste. I push the parts to the far corners of my plate after a few mouthfuls, like an anorexic, artfully positioning the food to make it look like I have eaten more than I actually have. Thankfully my body mass wouldn’t lead anyone to think I was suffering from this sad affliction.

My friend is battling through her Sole. I reach over for a forkful. It is soaked with citrus and the fishy smell that hits your nostrils before the texture hits your tongue makes me think that ordering fish on a Sunday will always be problematic in a land-locked city. Freshness is questionable given the likelihood of a delivery that day.

I excuse myself to visit the facilities, which are subterranean and subzero (temperature-wise). I’m starting to feel niggles of annoyance building, which are amplified when I make my way back to the table to discover my dessert waiting for me. Sure, my napkin has been folded and placed neatly to one side, where it had been earlier disregarded on my chair. But I’m expecting the service levels to be akin to the threat of terrorism, ever-present but not always visible. It was clear I would be back in a matter of minutes, not hours. I had gone to the bathroom not the hairdressers. I would have thought they’d hold off for long enough to let me return to my seat, settle, before bringing the sweets.

Thankfully my chocolate mousse goes some way to assuage the hurt. It is whipped brilliantly and served with caramel-crusted banana and sorbet. My pal’s treat is baked vanilla yoghurt with rhubarb from Yorkshire. Those northern folk have been forcing this hardy plant since the 1800s. Scrapped plates evidence our enjoyment of our ultimate course. 

On balance, the lunch was good, but I chalked up enough black marks from the experience to reduce the score to middling or average. My lunch companion assures me that previous visits to this venue surpassed expectations and affirmed that Chef Tim Allen deserves his Michelin star. 

Sadly, as a long-time listener, first-time caller to Launceston Place I’m left with the distinct impression that this is a neighbourhood restaurant trying hard to match up to the other more successful D&D offspring. Or perhaps, as can happen to the best of us, they were just having a bad day.

Coya

www.coyarestaurant.com

118 Piccadilly, Mayfair, London, W1J 7NW 

+44 (0) 20 7042 7118

Closest Tube: Green Park, Hyde Park Corner

Saturday 16 March, 7pm

Verdict: Neutral

It’s a bit like New Year’s Eve. Sometimes the expectation of having a good night sets you up for disappointment. You don’t have to be an avid reader of Shakespeare to know that expectation is the root of all heartache. Coya is Arjun Waney’s latest culinary venture and being a fan of both Zuma and The Arts Club I had been eagerly awaiting my chance to dine there.

First impressions are good. The restaurant is housed in the basement of one of the lost mansions of Mayfair. We walk up the steps to the front door to be greeted by two smartly suited gents protecting the entranceway. We are deigned to be acceptable enough to be granted access.

Steps down open up into a bar area besieged by beautiful creatures, and a reception desk for the restaurant. I feel like I have walked onto the set of a James Bond movie. We are greeted by the blonde equivalent of an Amazonian princess and at 5’7 with heels on I am craning my neck to look her in the eye.

We are seated at a table in the middle of the restaurant with leather banquette tables watched over by Inca masks to the left and the open prep area to the right, adorned with large glass bowls full of peppers and onions. The mood music is a rhythmic mix of percussion and lute.

We decide to order a selection from the leather-bound menu and share everything. The best way to taste as much as possible from the extensive selection. My wine-educated friend orders a bottle of white wine with no objection from the sommelier. Our starters all arrive in a hurry. The tuna ceviche is bursting with flavors of sesame, spring onions and chili and there is lime in there somewhere. Spectacular.

The scallops arrive and what we are presented with is unspeakable for sharing; three pieces for two people. The shellfish is lightly undercooked, probably five seconds too short, but the salad garnish of red onion and herb leaf makes up for this. I taste nutmeg, black pepper, dried tomato and something else, akin to polenta.

Our waiter is a smiley South American. I discover he is from Ecuador. I am assured that while many of the waiting staff hail from all corners of Latin America, the kitchen is dominated by Peruvians. Our plates are swapped out so we don’t have to put our dried monkfish on the same plate as the cerviche juice. 

The monkfish, on a stick, clears my nose. It is succulent and intentionally cold. The lime and chili battle with the fish for prominence. In terms of heat, it is on the verge of acceptable (on my scale). The combination of tastes and sensations is on the edge of genius, right on the cusp and it is heavenly. Any further and it would have been a complete disaster. 

Our main dish comes. Rib eye cooked rare-medium-rare flanked by two side sauces. The first accompaniment is tomato, chili and lemon. Its companion is onion, chili, parsley and lime. That second steak friend is hot!

Anyone who has eaten great steak in South America will recognise the expert cooking. While the sauces are tasty, it is cooked so well it could be eaten on its own. It’s a treat to be eating meat tasting of MEAT - not of blood - but close. It is slightly charred, not quite bitter, but heading in that direction. The interplay of soft meat with blackened edges is a harmonious contrast. It is crispy but not burnt.

We have sprouting broccoli with sea salt and a hint of vanilla. It’s been chili-fried in a light dusting of olive oil. All the dishes arrive on colourful fired clay plates and we eat off clean white crockery with Elia cutlery. 

We finish the bottle of Albariño and like notes in a score of music the wine and food we have eaten combine melodiously. As we make our dessert choices my tongue reminds me that I’ve taken a handpicked tour of a selection of the thousands of chilies of South America.

We share a tasty chocolate fondant delight with ‘Coya’ on top, and a creme brûlée packed with a fruit that is a somewhere between an avocado and a mango, with passionfruit on top. The caramelised topping has hints of toffee. We wash it down with a Hungarian Tokai dessert wine. I feel like I’m drinking syrup but my dining companion loves it.

So why the neutral rating you may be thinking after my the pleasing description of the dishes? It may be that my view is influenced by the champagne absinth cocktail I’d enjoyed earlier as a pre-dinner aperitif at Cafe Royal’s Grill Room. I had felt inspired as a budding writer sitting in the very same place where Oscar Wilde and Virginia Woolf had taken their tipples many years previous. 

Perhaps a brain soaked in alcohol may be less able to discern the nuances of the culinary experience I had just had. But I think it is more to do with how I was feeling about the complete experience; it was good but not exceptional. As I said in my opening statement, it was all about expectations and I felt like mine had been mismanaged. Sure, they were sky-high given that Coya is being billed as one of the ten hottest restaurants in the world right now, but I was left feeling like a kid who had been given an amazing toy for Christmas but my parents had forgotten the batteries. I’m sure you will want to check it out for yourself, however I don’t think I’ll be going back, unless Mum buys those batteries to make the gift complete.