S o, off to Le Gavroche, with my companion for the
evening, Mr Dom, whom I shall call only that, as his surname (Joly) might give him away. Mr Dom has to be one of the funniest, coolest blokes ever, if you discount Les Dennis, Brian Conley and Joe Pasquale, as one always has to do in these circumstances, just to give anyone else a fighting chance. Le Gavroche is said to be as good as French fine dining ever gets. It has three Michelin stars. Over the years, it seems to have won every award going, including ‘Outstanding Contribution to the Aperitif’. I’m not sure that if I was ever celebrated for making an outstanding contribution to something, I would especially choose the aperitif. Mind you, who am I to sneer? When I was growing up my father used to say to me, ‘Why do you have to sneer at everything?’ I think if I knew then what I know now, I’d have replied, ‘Because one day, dad, I hope to make a career out of it.’ I might even have added, ‘And because I shall have to have something to fall back on should I fail to make any kind of contribution, outstanding or otherwise, to the aperitif.’ I meet Mr Dom (Joly) in the restaurant’s upstairs reception and bar area, which is most weirdly decorated, being a surreal mix of dark reds, bamboo and tartan. Mr Dom says it looks like the sort of place where Russian mafiosi and Japanese businessmen might choose their hookers. Obviously, Mr Dom only imagines it looks like this sort of place, otherwise he would not know. Also, there appears to be some strange sort of shop where you can buy everything Roux-related — the chef-proprietor is now Michel Roux Jnr including a bronze table sculpture of a strutting cock for £4,500. I am already beginning to feel a little out of my depth. As far as souvenirs go, a novelty pencil usually does it for me. Or sometimes a 50p key ring, if I’m in the mood for pushing the boat out and it comes with the British Kitemark. I like to know I’m buying quality and the British Kitemark is always a guarantee of that.
Mr Dom has been to Le Gavroche once before, so knows that male diners are required to wear a jacket, preferably with trousers, one assumes. Last time Mr Dom came here he did not know this, so had to borrow a house one which was much too small. Mr Dom reckons that if you are going to spend a lot on a meal, no matter how sublime, you have: a) the right to non-restricted arm movement while eating and b) the right to not look like an overstuffed, button-straining Wee Jimmie Krankie. Dom wears a jacket this time. And trousers, I am pleased to say. I am getting on in life and if I were to see another you-know-what this evening, I would probably faint. And if it were proudly strutting, I most surely would.
We have a glass of wine in the upstairs area. Does this count as some kind of contribution to the aperitif? I do, by the way, so love Mr Dom and all his TV programmes (Trigger Happy TV; This is Dom Joly; World, Shut Your Mouth). They may even be my favourite shows, so long as you discount You’ve Been Framed and Celebrity Wrestling, as you have to do, if you’re going to give any other show a fighting chance. Mr Dom’s next project will be a prank phone-call show on the radio station XFM. I do enjoy a good prank call. When I was a kid, I’d phone random telephone numbers and ask, ‘Is Mr Wall in?’ No. ‘Mrs Wall?’ No. ‘Are there any Walls there?’ No. ‘Well, how come your roof is still on, then?’ While I have the opportunity, I think I would quite like to apologise to the one Mr Zebedee in the London phone book who I persistently called to tell him it was time for bed. I do not know why kids don’t make prank phone calls any more, but you can bet it has something to do with PlayStations. Most things do.
Anyway, the dining-room is downstairs, in a basement. It is quite formal, dated and stuffy, all velvety opulence and rich drapery. It feels very Eighties. The army of black-jacketed super-attentive waiting staff — there to flap your napkin and theatrically lift silver domes — don’t make it feel any more contemporary. And it’s bloody hot. Poor Mr Dom starts sweating, and makes to take his jacket off. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ says the waitress, one of a pair of quite spooky twins with red hair and thick, black glasses, ‘not allowed.’ ‘Why?’ asks Mr Dom. ‘It’s the rule, sir.’ It’s a very ruly kind of place, so ruly in fact that it makes you wonder quite who is doing whom the honour here. There are little ruly notes all over the menu, including ‘A cigar can be satisfying after a meal, but it can be disturbing to other diners (no pipe-smoking).’ And, ‘Please bear in mind that the use of mobiles may be a disturbance to others.’ (How I yearn for Mr Dom to take out his big phone and scream, ‘Hello!’) And even, ‘The temperature of the dishes depends on their content and varies from tepid to hot but never very hot.’ What is that last about? I mean, I know chef knows best, and if a dish is cold perhaps it’s intended to be so, but really. It’s just so pompous and bossy. Or perhaps it’s just that they ship it all in from a takeaway down the road.
I doubt it, though. You just can’t quibble with the food. It is seriously good. There are grilled and raw marinated scallops as tender and plump as babies’ bottoms, which I know for a fact, because when my son was all tiny peachy I bit his bottom all the time and often thought, ‘Scallops!’ There are artichokes filled with foie gras truffles, lying atop smooth duvets of chicken mousse, which Mr Dom describes as simply glorious, although a little salty, but we think that might just be the sweat, which is dripping off his brow at quite a rate now. There is roast saddle of rabbit, utterly soft and melting, served with contrastingly crispy potatoes and vegetables somehow formed into a ribboned tower. There is the Scotch beef, with marrow bone and red wine sauce, that proves wholly seductive: full-flavoured but subtly so, the meat cutting like butter. And then there is pudding. I have the arctic roll. It was a toss-up between that and the viennetta. OK, maybe not. I have the bitter chocolate and praline indulgence, which made my mouth dance with happiness before moving down and settling for evermore around my hips. Drat.
The final bill, with two bottles of a £40 wine, cost us £350. Worth it? I suppose so, if you have always longed to dine at the shrine of French gastronomy and are willing to ignore all the silly, self-aggrandising bossiness that comes with it. ‘The best thing for diners,’ advises Mr Dom, ‘is not to wear anything under their jackets.’ He adds, ‘The whole place just feels about 20 years out of date.’ I think I would agree. But there I go, sneering again. I have made an outstanding contribution to that, surely.
Previous page
