BONAVENTURE, ISLE OF LEWIS AND BALI SUGAR, NOTTING HILL

by Robert Hardman

CHANCING upon a gem of a restaurant always produces a certain thrill. I imagine that metal-detecting enthusiasts derive a similar buzz when the machine goes ping and up pops a 10-denarii coin. Somehow, a good dinner just tastes better when it is a surprise. And a disused RAF radio station on the edge of a cliff on the outer bit of the Outer Hebrides really is the last place you would expect to find a first-rate French restaurant run by a Frenchman.

Bonaventure must be the last decent eating place between Scotland and Nova Scotia. Stuck out on the western tip of the Isle of Lewis, it is isolated even by Lewis standards. Even so, do not expect to drop in without a reservation.

The wedding of an old friend, bold enough to appoint me as best man, had brought me north to Lewis, the largest blob in the Hebrides — or the Western Isles, as they are now known. I knew we were talking remote when Mike, the groom, told me that the stag night was taking place on the island of Taransay, location for the BBC's Castaway series. It was certainly the only stag night I have known to be gatecrashed by a real stag.

From there, we made our way to Lewis and the village of Uig for the wedding a couple of days later. Since the groom and the hest man had nothing constructive to bring to the wedding preparations, it seemed wise to get out of the poor bride's hair. 'Let's see if we can get a table at Bonaventure, but its probably full,' said Mike, as if contemplating a spur-of-themoment, prime-time excursion to the Ivy. Full? Having encountered nothing more than a couple of crofters all day, how could anything be full round here? Three ramblers would constitute a traffic jam.

So, off we drove along a winding singletrack road up hill and down glen, dodging the occasional sheep which still run wild in the merciful absence of any foot-andmouth in these parts. At the end of this breathtaking peninsula, the road fizzled out at Gallen Head next to an unlovely cluster of concrete huts.

During the Cold War, this had been a vital link in the Nato command. Now, the radio mast has disappeared and the orders come via satellite, but the MoD buildings remain. And there, in a low, prefab building from the Portakabin school of architecture, was Bonaventure, flanked by a row of cars which suggested that it might indeed be full. It was. But the owners were certainly not going to turn away the local groom-to-be, and we sat in the bar pondering an intriguing Franco-Hebridean menu featuring things like 'Stornoway langoustine flambeed in Cognac'. The interior was nothing like the exterior. With an open fire in the bar and warm terracotta shades in the diningroom, it definitely qualifies for the 'snug' tag as you stare out at gale-force drizzle and the Atlantic beyond.

I sensed that we were in for a good dinner when my £15 bottle of Cote du Rhone returned in a decanter. Sure enough, the cassolette of Loch Roag mussels was as good as any moules farcies I have found in France — in fact, with a sprinkling of crumbs of homemade bread, it was better.

The loin of Lewis lamb in what is best described as a mint sauce sauce managed to match the mussels. Lewis, like most wild, upland sheep areas, produces 'light' lambs. Because of the climate, they are smaller than the average lamb, but their heather-enriched diet and sturdier build mean better, tastier meat. The average British shopper is more interested in size than flavour, which is why most 'light' lambs are exported to the Continent — or would be if foot-and-mouth had not meant a ban on exports. A few mouthfuls of this dish, though, would soon persuade the domestic market that 'light' means 'good'. It was exquisite.

Mike started with a dish that sounded like a Caledonian send-up of Californian fusion food — crêpe of haggis in a sweet chilli sauce. The spiciness of the sauce was an interesting counter to the shepherd's pie texture of the haggis. It worked well — but I think the mussels won the day. Mike's Stornoway langoustine was also a hit: juicy specimens riddled with garlic and gloriously messy to eat. There was no way either of us could contemplate pudding.

It was three years ago that Richard and Jo-Ann Leparoux, both in their mid-thirties, decided to open up in the middle of nowhere. Richard, who learnt the trade in his native Brittany, had been working in Edinburgh where he met Ulster-born JoAnn, but nothing could have prepared them for the rigours of this part of the world. It was make-or-break stuff for the first year, but word gradually spread. Suddenly people were driving across the island from the bright lights of Stornoway, Lewis's capital, to try out this curious newcomer — even if it did involve an arduous 80-mile round trip. Bonaventure added a few bedrooms and a small hotel business evolved.

It soon won a following among the large number of Labour politicians with second homes on the island, Alistair Darling among them. The night before our visit, the whole place had been taken over by a Scottish Parliament delegation who had apparently come all the way out to Gallen Head to discuss energy.

All the meat and seafood come straight from the local moor or loch. At £18.50 for two courses and £22.50 for three, the prices are not exactly provincial, but no one complains — except for one haughty chatelaine from a local estate who, told that she could always take her custom elsewhere, realised that there was nowhere to take it and came back grovelling.

From Bonaventure to misadventure a few days later. A dinner at one of London's most feted restaurants left me pining for this windswept little bunker. Having devoted my last review to Manor in Notting Hill, several friends asked why I had overlooked its 'amazing' neighbour, Bali Sugar. There would be no thrill of discovery there. Bali Sugar, successor to the Sugar Club, has attracted rave reviews. The Sugar Club cookbook can be found rubbing spines with Nigella on a thousand kitchen shelves.

Having booked a smoking table for 9 p.m., we were plonked on a non-smoking table and waited 55 minutes for a menu. By 10.30 a plate of tepid, congealed squid (with Inizuna, shishito, tobikko and lemon ponzu') arrived without a murmur of apology. Doodling in my notebook, I knocked four letters off `shishito'. My lamb loin with smoked anchovy kebab (arrival time: 11.25) seemed to have been hanging around for as long as we had and tasted, rather alarmingly, of toffee. Victoria, a Sugar Club cookbook fan, insisted that her plaice was 'perfect' and that I was just being grumpy.

I certainly was as we left our oubliette at 12,45, having spent 20 minutes trying to pay the £112 bill. You do not need to go all the way to Taransay for the Castaway experience. Just try London W11.

Bonaventure, Aird Uig, Timsgarty, Isle of Lewis HS2 9JA; 01851 672 474. Bali Sugar, 33A All Saints Road, London W11; tel.. 020 7221 4477.

Robert Hardman is a columnist for the Daily Mail.