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. 

Chrysan

http://www.chrysan.co.uk

1 Snowden Street, London EC2A 2DQ

+44 (0) 20 3657 4777

Closest Tube: Liverpool Street, Shoreditch High Street

Saturday 2 March, 7pm

7 course dinner for two for 202 pounds (no alcohol was ordered)

Verdict: Thumbs up

A large wooden door, unmistakably Japanese, marks the entrance to Chrysan. Once inside this magical portal we are transported 6,000 miles to Kyoto in a heartbeat. If it wasn’t for the host that greets us with a thick east-end accent, I may have believed we were in the Land of the Rising Sun. 

The reception area is dimly lit and airy all at once, simplistic with both sharp lines and soft focus. Endless contrasts. Exactly what we are expecting from Chef Yoshihiro Murata’s menu.

We are escorted through to the main dining room and the sense of time travel seems certain. It is hard to believe that the hassle and bustle of Liverpool Street station is a stone’s throw away and that we walked past soulless office buildings to arrive in this space. It is a continuation of the traditional Japanese aesthetic; framed crafted timber-work and feature murals, shoji screens and lanterns, and to complete the theme, waiting staff neatly turned out in understated Japanese uniforms.

Perhaps it is because Murata-sama wishes to create Japanese dishes by fusing the traditional with the innovative that alongside our chopsticks, a knife and fork are also provided. As regular eaters of Asian food we wouldn’t countenance using these but for the less dexterous amongst us this may be a blessing.

Murata-sama’s reputation for being the master of umami precedes him. Umami, being synonymous with delicious (or more specifically delicious taste), is savoury and sits alongside the basic tastes of sweet, sour, bitter and salty. After downing the splash of lychee sake we are presented with, we do not hesitate to order the Kaiseki course menu, a traditional multi-course Japanese dinner for the uninitiated, analogous to Western haute cuisine. 

It is a type of art form that balances the taste, texture, appearance, and colours of food. To start with, we are presented with fish atop crispy vegetables. It looks and smells like cat food. I take a mouthful and leave the rest. Hoping this isn’t a sign of what is to follow. 

Next up is a celeriac brulee. It melts in my mouth, just like it’s creme cousin, yet it is not sweet. A thick prawn sits in the middle as a contradiction. It all works perfectly. My faith in this being a delicious experience is somewhat restored.

We move on to half a dozen sashimi presented in little colored glass jars, in pastel hues, that make me think of the hot pants that featured in the recent spring/summer fashion week collections. The standout pottle is the one containing a mouthwatering slice of tuna with a satisfying blast of mustard. Starting to see promise in this feast.

With barely time to reflect, a plate of sushi is set in front of me. It looks like it could be an entry into a flower show. The maki rolls and salmon cake are beautifully embellished with mini radishes and everything has been artfully presented on a plate that enhances both the appearance and the theme of the meal. I am loathe to disturb anything but my curiosity wins out. I am happy to report everything is fresh and I clear the plate, including the edible garnishes. Potentially foolish with four courses still to come.

Nimonowan, simmered or boiled foods served in a soup bowl is course number five. A couscous-encrusted scallop swims in a sea of chrysanthemum green. I am uncertain whether to use my chopsticks or a spoon. It is savoury and full of flavour but I’m not in love. My heart is still processing my feelings for the gorgeous sashimi and sushi I just met. 

We are thankfully given some space and time before we hit the ‘substantial’ course, Shizakana, of which we had five choices. I opted for native Scottish lobster in a miso broth, Orkney meets Kyoto, while my dining companion favoured the grilled red mullet. My dish is lovely but I am perplexed by the accouterments I am presented with to the extent that I embarrass myself by attempting to serve up a helping of my meal using my bowl rather than the ladle. The plate is for the dry-cooked fish. School girl error. At least I don’t drink the water from the finger bowl.

Pre-dessert, Hyouka or ‘ices’ is a sensory delight. A dinky long stemmed mini wine glass containing green tea ice cream smothered in foamy hazelnut mousse. The icy texture alongside the crunchy nuts creates a taste sensation. A lovely prelude that awakens my hunger for the sweet course. 

I am at the point of culinary exhaustion, uncertain if I can finish the comestible marathon but it seems what they say about having a separate pudding stomach may actually be true. At least figuratively if not literally. 

Of the four Kashi choices, I select the soy caramel apple tatin who appears with it's trusty colleague, cinnamon ice cream. Nice team. My friend selected the whisky parfait which arrives with an entourage, honey oats, raspberries and matcha ice cream. I prefer my traditional partnership to the more adventurous party plate.

Without wanting to be the blogger that blogs about the bogs, I can report they have Toto toilets installed. The self cleaning, multi functional, seat warming Japanese comfort stations. For anyone who has used one, I need say no more. For anyone that hasn't you're in for a treat.

Chrysan prepares "bento box lunches for the City boys" during the week alongside an a la carte menu. There is also a reasonably priced kanpai ("toasting") menu comprising a tasty dish and two cocktails for less than 20 sliders. 

We are presented with our coats and we re-emerge through that large wooden door and land with a thud back in the West after our brief escape to ancient, ritualistic Japan. 

With a big sigh, I conclude that I am both distended and fulfilled. It was not just a meal out, it was an experience in perception. The Kaiseki here is at least as good as the Kaiseki I enjoyed in Kyoto. Thumbs up Murata-sama.

Balthazar

http://www.balthazarlondon.com

4-6 Russell Street, London WC2B 5HZ

+44 (0)20 3301 1155

Closest Tube: Covent Garden

Sunday 24 February, 5pm

Dinner for two for 82 pounds

Verdict: Thumbs up

We have to wait in the cold because there is a queue. It’s not even been open a week and we have turned up promptly at opening time so we make allowances for the jam of people at the door. It is London’s restaurant de jour after all. Once we’re inside the cavernous art deco space the cause of our wait is clear. It’s evident that a highlighter pen and paper may not be the best reservation system, and lord knows if we will ever see our coats again. We are seated at an end table, allowing us to sit perpendicular to each other on the ox-blood red banquet so we are happy. No fight over who has to sit on a wooden chair.

It’s just after 5pm on Sunday. The end of London Fashion week means we are in the company of hipsters. But then anyone who has a reservation for Keith McNally’s London edition of Balthazar in it’s debut week knows what’s what. Since 1997, Balthazar has been a stalwart of the New York restaurant scene so there was little doubt when the rumours seeded of a London outpost that Keith and his magic formula would be a hit. Or at least a magnet for the trend-conscious foodie. 

Matthew 4.4 teaches us that “Man shall not live on bread alone”. That may have been true back then, but Matthew clearly hand’t tasted the delicious large dark-crusted rustic loaves on offer here. The generous portion provides challenge both to the bible and to one’s ability to refrain from spoiling one’s appetite. 

One look at the French brasserie-inspired menu has me and my dining companion beaming. And I was already smiling thanks to the immaculately turned out Bradley Cooper look-alike waiter-in-white. He is ever-present and tending to our every whim. He has already been on his hands and knees to rectify our wobbly table. The marble floor tiles look f-for-fabulous but are not f-for-flat. This waiter is one of many assigned to the section of the restaurant our table resides in, and it is almost comical as the staff buzz around us, to the extent of some near-miss collisions and moments of looking like they didn’t know what to do next. Forgivable for new staff during a much anticipated opening week. 

Due to snarffing too much bread and knowing that the dessert menu was chocked full of delights, we decide to share the Pumpkin Agnolotti to start. Instead of being made to feel like cheapskates, we are presented with two sets of plates and cutlery with the dish set down in the middle, as if sharing is encouraged rather than scorned. This made up for the fact that the dish itself is salty and over-bitter. Still two rounds to come and the surroundings and scrumptious bread (have I mentioned the bread?!) carry us forward without complaint.

Our mains arrive as we discuss the merits of having tea towels for napkins and what amounted to kitchen roll for a table cloth. Remnants of the Agnolotti showing on the table convince us that linen may be a stretch in a 140-seater restaurant with at least two dinner sittings. Once they are open all day these tables will be turning more than Adele’s hit complaining of the same (“Turning Tables” for the those with no appreciation for Adele’s complete library of crooning tunes).

My dinner mate is presented with a whole grilled Dorade, accompanied by romesco sauce and a simple herb salad. The grilled lemon is a nice touch, making for easy-peasy lemon-squeezey. The fish is expertly cooked, elegant in its simplicity and downright delicious. It is enough to overlook one of our pet peeves, the fact that they keep ground pepper on the tables. Only the waiters are trusted with a pepper grinder. 

Linguini “Fruits De Mer” is my main. Springy pasta popping with chili, parsley and garlic.  The range of seafood is limited with clams and squid battling for prominence to the exclusion of the expected prawns, mussels and scallops. Tasty enough but no food orgasm. Anyway, any enjoyment is disrupted by the clearing of plates when I still have a fork en route to mouth. Hopefully teething problems and not a blatant hurry-along tactic. We shall see. The dry cooked side of spinach is a good accompanying choice, both for the splash of colour and the iron hit.

Our thoughts turn once again to waste disposal as an elder gentleman from the waiting staff replaces our stained (we are enthusiastic eaters) table covering. We start talking and are informed that he is a veteran from Balthazar New York who has been flown in to train the new cohort and ensure the systems mirror those of the original restaurant. Kudos.

By this stage, I have consumed at least my recommended daily intake of water due to my glass being topped up as soon as half an inch of empty glass reveals itself. I have to admit I was taking a swig whenever the aforementioned hot waiter was nearby to bring him over to our table. Sure, the lazy spinning ceiling fans, frosted glass encased strip lighting, wood panelled pillars and antique mirrors provide a lovely ambiance, but this man is beautiful. 

My coquettishness forces a visit to the facilities. After a mountainous climb up two flights of stairs I am rewarded with spacious cubicles, clean surfaces and luxury soap and moisturiser. The ticks in the approval column are outnumbering the black marks so far.

Next, to the dessert menu. We are given a list of mouth-watering ideas for pudding, and presented with a mobile (hand held) cheese board. We opt to try the Rhubarb Crumble Soufflé for two with a side of banana ice cream. The sharing aspect is welcome - taste sensations are the objective, bulging waistlines are not. We aren’t disappointed with the finale of our Balthazar dining experience. Sitting tall and fluffy, with a gravy boat full of creme anglasie, the lighter-than-air treat is exceptional. The stuff dreams are made of for the sweet-toothed among us. 

Having given up alcohol for lent (and maybe my sanity) I didn’t even allow my eyes the distraction of reviewing the wine list. My friend had a glass of Lusac for a hefty 10.50. The total bill for a starter, two mains, a side, one glass of wine and dessert came to 82 for two. 

We are pleasantly stuffed and have vowed to return for many reasons. It’s a lovely place to sit, we need to sample other delicious looking menu options and we want to check up on the progress of their service culture. And if you are wondering, I didn’t ask that chiseled waiter for his number. I’m not that kind of girl. Like the rest of the experience, it is about appreciating and evaluating another episode in the culinary adventures of delicious nation.