A rural pub, the Jolly Gallows or the Cousin Tup or something, in Little Dribble under Gusset or Doggin’ on the Sly or somewhere out in the mud where interior decoration and fashion are designed by the weather, put on a Valentine’s Day special menu that included foie gras. They were blitzkrieged by an organised campaign of intimidation: hundreds of vicious phone calls, hoping that the waitress dies horribly, emails, fake bookings, threats of firebombing.
The local police said there’d be a presence, in case it turned nastier than usual. This is a pub in the country — that offcut running down the side of motorways, frequented by country people, whom Countryfile insists are our closest relatives, sharing 90% of our human DNA. The point is, this was a thuggish attack on people who live with animals by anonymous people who claim to speak on behalf of animals. If you don’t like foie gras, don’t eat it. You have no moral, ethical or Doctor Dolittle-given right to bully anyone else from farming, preparing or consuming it.
Moving on, a couple of weeks back I took part in a talk about obesity with Jamie, from two pages back, and George Monbiot, who writes in The Guardian, but is nicer than that makes him sound. Monbiot said he only eats animals that have been killed as vermin, and insects, so he’s just a regular guy, really. We were discussing how to stop people consuming sugar and becoming fat, clogging up hospital lifts and school corridors with ugly, floppy bodies. The talk was whether to nudge, cajole, educate or legislate people into sour thinitude. By people, they mean you.
You must learn to eat healthily, which is like insisting people learn to dance as cardiovascular exercise or read as dementia prevention. Diabetes may account for a gazillion pounds of NHS cash each year, but who says getting rid of it will save us a single penny, any more than reducing infant mortality or eradicating ergotism did? We all die of something, and the glutton’s share of money spent on our declining health will be blown on the last year of our lives.
I see a connection, a collusion between these two events: the drippily angry, anthropomorphic, romantically thwarted animal fascists, and the smiling, rule-bound, good-for-you authoritarian liberals. They both think they have a right to stick their fingers down your throat, and that the overriding property of food is health and morality. I suspect they also both think the overriding purpose of sex is to make more RSPCA inspectors.
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Food is far more important than merely a matter of life and death. It is the buffet of all pleasure, the heart of all culture. Wanting to ban foie gras is racist. It is the offal of French gastronomy and European Jewish husbandry, therefore it’s possibly anti-semitic as well. We must take a stand against foie-Nazis, so I shall look kindly on any restaurant that serves foie gras.
By chance, Frenchie has one of the best foie gras dishes I’ve had in years: duck liver with smoked eel and beetroot. A mouth-coating French kiss of epicurean loveliness: the round, whispered meatiness of the duck with a fishy smokiness, and just a touch of rooty sweetness.
“The maître d’ cups his hands and draws circles in the air. I think, am I having dinner or being fitted for a bra?
Frenchie is that thing I’d almost given up hoping I would see again: a really, really good modern French bistro. Not nostalgic or revisionist, but a sensible, sophisticated and relaxed, accomplished and confident place that neither denies its origins nor is in hoc to them.
The Blonde and I took the writer Peter Godwin, who was president of Pen during the Charlie Hebdo attacks, so he knows all about defending the freedom of what goes in and comes out of your mouth; and his sister, Georgina, who is a radio journalist for Monocle 24.
This is the Anglophile spin-off of a restaurant in Les Halles that was as pleasant a surprise for Parisians as this should be for Londoners. But the room is not ideal. It’s contrarily, awkwardly laid out and the service is fantastically French. It felt like strolling Catholic missionaries seeing to the basic needs of unmarried mothers.
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The menu, however, is short but perfectly formed: smoked anchovies; eggs mimosa with black truffle; bacon scones with clotted cream; veal and scallop tartare; carrots vadouvan (a French version of Indian spice) with dates and barley; whiting with mushrooms and lemon; braised pig’s head with smoked bramley, onion and buckwheat; chicken in cheese and wine sauce; ricotta tortelli with lapsang souchong tea and lemon caviar; Basque salted pork with Buddha’s-hand lemons. The kitchen has rather a thing for outré citrus. All of it was exactly what you wanted to eat the minute you put it in your mouth.
The wine list was short, but the three who drank said it was soigné. The sommelier opened two bottles, but refused to serve them because they were corked. I admired his attention and honesty. I also liked the very French fact that he had to let us know as, obviously, it was unlikely we Saxons would have noticed. The puddings are good. You have to admire a French bistro with the nerve to offer banoffee. The room is replete with pleasantly animated Covent Garden folk.
One mouche in the sabayon: as you sit down, the maître d’ comes over to explain that the plates are for sharing. Some are a mouthful, some slightly more, some a soupçon larger than that; others are small main courses, but not that small, more like this — and he starts cupping his hands and drawing circles in the air. I think, am I having dinner or being fitted for a bra?
It’s infuriating, and militates against all the careful skill of the kitchen. These dishes do not lend themselves to multiple occupancy. It’s a timidly trendy capitulation to a fad. Plate-sharing and made-up courses are such a transparent way of bumping up bills, and inflict an implied formula of familiarity. Some culinary traditions grow out of plate-sharing, but French isn’t one of them. The convention of having a plate of what you want to yourself is as old as restaurants. Here, it is discarded for no better reason than everyone else is doing it. So all the goodwill they earned for the foie gras has been rescinded for this silly, slippy fork-and-spooning.
Frenchie Covent Garden, 16 Henrietta Street, London, WC2E 8QH; 020 7836 4422, frenchiecoventgarden.com; Tue-Sat: noon-2.15pm; 6pm-10.30pm
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From the menu
Starters
Bacon scones £3.50
Eggs mimosa with black truffle £7
Mains
Duck foie gras, smoked eel and beetroot £11
Ricotta tortelli with lapsang souchong tea and lemon caviar £12
Desserts
Banoffee with nutmeg £9
Sorrel with granny smith and matcha tea £9
Total for two, including 12.5% service £57.90
Three of the best: modern French restaurants
63 Degrees, Manchester
The signature dish at this Northern Quarter restaurant, which promises a “taste of Paris”, is the chicken cooked at 63C — a technique to retain the tender texture.
104 High Street, Manchester M4 1HQ; 0161 832 5438, 63degrees.co.uk
Restaurant Martin Wishart, Edinburgh
Wishart trained under the celebrated French chefs Albert Roux and Michel Roux Jr. His eponymous dining room was awarded Edinburgh’s first Michelin star in 2001.
54 The Shore, Edinburgh EH6 6RA; 0131 553 3557, restaurantmartinwishart.co.uk
Kendells Bistro, Leeds
This intimate eaterie prides itself on being relaxed and informal. They are so French, they say, they don’t have a service charge and don’t charge for the bread, either.
St Peter’s Square, Leeds LS9 8AH; 0113 243 6553, kendellsbistro.co.uk