11111 11 1RIIIIIIMIEUW1111111111 e Palms du Jardin and Auberge de Provence AS
A MAN renowned for his rudeness in restaurants, I jumped for joy when asked by the editor to add my two-pennyworth on the subject to his pages. What a marvellous opportunity to get off my chest the frustra- tion and irritation I am caused by sub-stan- dard, overpriced food, sloppily served in pre- tentious surroundings. The trouble is that having decided to investigate the French accent in London cooking, I was left for the most part purring with pleasure, glowing with admiration, and admitting that I had in no way been overcharged.
My first venue, Le Palais du Jardin, in Long Acre is French in name and menu, bogus in virtually everything else, except for the all-important cooking. Three years ago it opened under Iranian ownership with a young English chef, Winston Matthews, trained by Anton Mossiman, and has an almost entirely non-French staff, whose enthusiasm makes up for their lack of exper- tise, under the vigilant eye of the friendly Por- tuguese maitresse d', Maria. Nevertheless the Palais manages to achieve the aura of a Parisian grande brasserie in London terms. A huge glass wall lets you in first to a wine and seafood bar, then, up a couple of steps, to the main dining-room, full of light, mirrors and white table-cloths, and, beyond that, up some more stairs to a gallery. When full, it holds 350, but on a relatively peaceful, two-thirds full Sunday evening the noise level was entirely acceptable.
Thanks to the large number of covers served per day, prices are amazingly reason- able. Where else in London, I wonder„can you find a whole lobster mayonnaise for £10.50, or six Pacific oysters for £4.50? It means that in the wine bar you can consume a glass of champagne (£4.50), a lobster and an espresso, throw in a tip and still receive change for £20. We were hungrier and greedier, and advanced on the restaurant for three substantial courses. My companion's foie gras sauté with a tarte tatin of apple and parsnip with braised chicory was ambitious, though the strongly flavoured parsnip was probably a mistake. At £5.95 the escalope of foie gras was a minor miracle. My baby scal- lops, grilled on the shell and accompanied by a timbale of spinach and chopped bacon, was a treat. So -was my tender young lobster, grilled and surrounded by a wonderfully unc- tuous beurre blanc — a gift at £11. The but- tery, herbaceous pommes purées I ordered with it were a further pleasure. My friend's sirloin steak with pommes dauphinoise, wild mushrooms and rather sweet red wine sauce was good, but the meat, impeccably blue as ordered, might have tasted better unadorned. Desserts were a selection of four, slightly bland ice-creams, and an agree- able Austrian vanilla soufflé doused with warm honey. With a bottle of 1994 domaine bottled Pouilly Fume, coffee and 12.5 per cent service the bill came to £78.92: very fair value for capably cooked luxury ingredients in a cheerfully unpretentious setting. The Palais plans to open another branch in Sloane Avenue next year on a similar scale with similar prices.
Auberge de Provence is a rather different set-up and French to its core. Part of the large and luxurious St James Court Hotel off Victoria Street, it works under the aegis of Jean-Andre Charial, chef-patron of the Michelin-starred L'Oustau de Baumaniere in Provence. It has a French chef, Bernard Brique, and the staff are mainly French too. Its rough-plastered pseudo-crypt with white walls covered in Provençal pottery has that slightly impersonal atmosphere that the French seem to identify with good taste; the tables are well-spaced, and at lunch-time when it is busiest, the clientele is predomi- nantly sober-suited MPs and senior civil ser- vants and more cheerfully clad denizens of Channel 4. Service is ultra-professional and informed, yet manages to be sympathique and undaunting. At lunch a £24.50 prix fine offers three courses and coffee, dinner is £32.50 for Le Menu Provencal, or d la carte.
Once again the Beckmesser in me was thwarted. The cooking was finely-tuned cui- sine bourgeois, immaculately served. Starters of tartelette of beautifully soft poached egg with prime smoked salmon, and a warm salad of chicken with ground pistachio nuts in a port sauce, were followed by my com- panion's blanquette of monkfish and scallops sauced with Meaux mustard and by my splendidly plump roast partridge, jointed and served on a bed of red cabbage with grapes and a sauce of wild mushrooms. The cheese trolley was all-French and comprehensive, with such rarities as Norman Cados, with calvados, and boulette d'Auvergne, and my dessert of mandarins between croustillant pastry in a light custard was only slightly banal. Many of the wines come from Pau- maniere and our Coteaux de Tricastin 1989 was a snip at £17.50. With Kir royale as an aperitif, plus glasses of Trevallon and excel- lent Muscat de St Jean-de-Minervois to accompany cheese and dessert, the bill came to a substantial but by no means unreasonable £94, plus tip. After all, c'est un restaurant sdrieux.
Le Palais du Jardin, 136 Long Acre, London WC2; tel: 0171 379 5353; Auberge de Provence, St James Court Hotel, Buckingham Gate, London SW1; tel: 0171 834 6655.
David Fingleton
Previous page
