The Brackenbury
I AM fairly sure that I have never eaten a meal cooked by Mr Marco Pierre White, Mr Nico Ladenis, Mr Anton Mosimann or the brothers Roux. Perhaps a restaurant critic should not make such an admission; but, after seeing a recent television pro- gramme, J'Accuse, denouncing these so- called superchefs, I do not really feel deprived.
I was amazed to hear that critics such as Fay Maschler have been banned from the restaurants of `superchefs' for writing less than wholly favourable reviews. Sir Terence Conran told of the occasion when White spent most of dinner sitting at the table, talking and smoking incessantly. As Paul Bailey, the programme's accuser, quite rightly said, chefs belong in the kitchen. But these people have awarded themselves star status: they publish books Cgastro- porn') which are more about themselves than their cooking; they abuse diners who dare to criticise the food; and they even have the impertinence to refuse to put salt on the tables. Some palates, jaded by tobac- co, need more salt to revive the taste-buds. But no one must be allowed to disturb the perfect balance of a superchefs creation. No longer, it seems, is the customer deemed to be right — though at least Lade- nis was honest enough to admit that he was not always right either.
I consulted an old friend, Tim Abel Smith, gourmet and no mean cook himself. There was no denying, he said, that the tou- sle-haired and loutish White was a brilliant cook, but he did not rate Mosimann nearly so highly. From what I have seen of Mosi- mann on television, he seems more con- cerned with the prettified appearance of his dishes on the plate (four strips of carrot laid diagonally across three mange-touts, flanked by two cherry tomatoes and deco- rated with one leaf of apple mint). I don't think I could go to his restaurant for fear of having to listen to that simpering Swiss voice.
According to Tim, responsibility, at least in France, for the surfeit of the kind of nou- velle food that often looks better than it tastes, lies partly with the Gault et Milian guide. We discussed the decline of proper French cooking, also the highly unsatisfac- tory selection of starred restaurants in the Michelin guide to Britain. So where should we go for lunch? Tim chose The Bracken- bury, London W6, between Hammersmith and Shepherd's Bush, in what local estate agents like to call Brackenbury village. It is 'In my day if you asked about sado- masochism you got six of the best.' definitely a neighbourhood restaurant but also, it seems, a restaurateurs' restaurant When I saw Simon Slater of Kensington Place also lunching there, I knew we should be in for a good meal.
One might describe the food as 'imagina- tive English', using excellent raw materials.
There are no complicated sauces, no namby-pamby arrangements on the plate. The chef is not a self-publicist, but he cer- tainly deserves a mention — Adam Robin- son, formerly at 192 during Alastair Little's time there.
While having a couple of glasses each of dry sherry, we were brought a plate of hors d'oeuvres of such variety that trying to remember later that day what was on it became rather like a version of Kim's Game. My notes record smoked haddock mousse on fried bread, marinated herring with pommes a l'huile, fresh grilled sar- dines, batter-fried aubergines, red peppers, french beans, pork belly with lentils, a piece of roast beef, a cold soft-boiled egg, salami and black olives. Like tapas in a Spanish bar, one could have made a meal of a few more of these delicious things, but it was time to go on to the starters. We thought hard about the seafood soup with rouille and the purple-sprouting broccoli with anchovy dressing, then went for fritters of lambs' brains and sweetbreads with a salsa verde (a surprisingly delicate dish) and mar- inated salt cod with a well-flavoured salad of softened red peppers and red onions.
Having started with fish, I chose a whole- some stew of boiled ox tongue, capon and chorizo, with chick peas and saffron. The stock was good and strong, but the carrots and leeks in it were a bit old and tired.
Tim's roast John Dory (a fish enjoying a well-merited renaissance), with cockles, more youthful leeks and spinach, was a great success. We were tempted to return the following day for the grilled lamb with a couscous and mint salad and the salad of pork and avocado with hoisin sauce. The choice of puddings was somewhat limited, though we made do quite happily with a blood-orange sorbet and a caramelised apple tart and cream. Tim recalled a delectable prune and armagnac mousse from a previous visit.
Prices here are very reasonable: no main course cost more than £8, and we had an excellent bottle of 1990 Barossa Valley Shi- raz at £14 which the Wine Society has in its lists at just under £1 1. What other restau- rant operates on such a small mark-up?
With two glasses of pudding wine (Château Septy), coffee and the four glasses of sherry at the beginning, the bill came to no more than £62. Service was friendly, there was plenty of salt on the table, and the chef stayed by his stove. I think I can do without the `superchefs'.
The Brackenbuty, 129 Brackenbuty Road, London W6; tel: 081-748 0107.
Simon Courtauld
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