Great food, shame about the ambience, says TOM PARKER BOWLES of this central London restaurant
A few years back, it seemed that regional French cooking, in London at least, had gone the way of le dodo.
Where once the capital was awash with rillettes de porc, escargots à la bourgogne, lapin à la moutarde and tarte tatin, there was gradually, then suddenly, next to nothing – la fin de l’affaire. Racine, La Bouchée, Galvin Bistrot de Luxe and La Brasserie shut for good. And while stalwarts remained (Le Colombier, along with those grandes dames La Poule au Pot and L’Escargot), pickings were unquestionably thin for those in search of some serious Gallic succour.
And while stalwarts remained (Le Colombier, along with those grandes dames La Poule au Pot and L’Escargot), pickings were unquestionably thin for those in search of some serious Gallic succour.
Then Neil Borthwick (that great Gaul by way of Falkirk) took the reins at The French House, and last year Henry Harris returned to shake the pans at the excellent Bouchon Racine, swiftly followed by Claude Bosi’s magnificent Josephine, a few months later.
With that, all was agréable once more. Even more good news followed: Anthony Demetre, a genuinely talented chef who was behind Arbutus and Les Deux Salons, was to open his own Bistrot at Wild Honey at the Sofitel St James.
‘The food is very good indeed,’ says Tom, who tried dishes including asparagus with ‘crushed’ poached egg (left) and pâté en croute (right)
And the food is very good indeed. A beautiful pâté en croute of chicken, pork and duck, the pastry soft and golden, the jelly luscious and wobbling. Asparagus come with a ‘crushed’ poached egg, verdant with herbs.
Ham croquettes are immaculately fried orbs of gently oozing beauty, while a slab of crisp pig’s head, rich and gloriously fatty, comes with a mound of buttery pommes purée. Grilled red prawns are as sweet as a mermaid’s sigh, while spit-roasted young chicken – all crisp, burnished skin and sweet, juicy flesh – is a masterclass in the art of rotisserie.
So why am I not utterly enamoured? The room, for a start, with its oxblood leather banquettes and black-and-white tiled floor, feels like a hotel lobby. And on this Tuesday night it’s all but empty, meaning the large, cavernous space is almost entirely devoid of atmosphere.
Not so much the bustle of a bistro as the icy cool of a marble mausoleum. Loud and irritating Muzak makes things worse. Even the service, as flawless as it is warm, cannot make up for its fundamental lack of soul. Because a room like this needs filling, a seasoning every bit as essential as salt.
About £50 per head. Wild Honey St James, London SW1; wildhoneylondon.co.uk
