J oël Robuchon, the French chef who is variously referred to
as ‘a genius’ and ‘legendary’ and ‘the chef of the century’ has just opened his first London restaurant, L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon. This is, apparently, ‘everyone’s most eagerly awaited restaurant opening of the year’ although whether that ‘everyone’ includes, say, Big Issue sellers isn’t made clear. Actually, and though it pains me to say it, I don’t think Big Issue sellers are terribly bright. I saw one the other day plodding on and on — ‘Big Issue, sir? Big Issue, madam?’ — in the most fearsome rain. I had to tell him, ‘You silly, silly boy. Haven’t you got a home to go to?’ Well, someone had to say something. He might have got pneumonia.
Anyway, this L’Atelier, which is a sister to the ones in Paris, Tokyo and Las Vegas, is situated on West Street, just a few doors away from the Ivy as well as St Martin’s Theatre where, surely, The Mousetrap is only a decade or so off being crowned ‘Crappest play of the century, if not ever’. (The policeman did it; there, I’ve saved you the price of the ticket.) Although I’m still a little confused about all this, the restaurant appears to be divided across three floors with a topfloor bar, a first-floor formal dining-room and a more casual ground-floor dining space. When I booked this wasn’t explained to me, so we somehow end up in the more casual space but, actually, that’s OK as I can’t be doing with the kind of formal eating that is all silver domes and the sort of exaggerated napkin-flapping that’s going to take someone’s eye out one of these days. I’ve yet to poll any Big Issue sellers about this, but I’m guessing they would say the same.
As it happens, I’ve inadvertently done rather well, as the ground-floor design is pretty knockout. It’s quite dim, all black and very red, with astonishingly cerise tumbler glasses, but you also get these wonderfully lit pools picking out the whimsical touches: birdcages of lemons; vast glass bowls of surreally suspended tomatoes or eggs; huge jars filled with chillies and peppers; Snow White-style glossy red apples piled atop a dish of illuminated ice. It’s a gas. The back wall, by the way, is covered in fleshy ivy and is less a wall, more a hedge. I hope they don’t get a letter from their local council’s street officer telling them they must cut the hedge back as it represents a danger to blind pedestrians. I once received such a letter from our local street officer and immediately replied as follows: ‘Dear sir, Has it ever occurred to you that blind pedestrians might represent a danger to my hedge? In fact, when I came out this morning I noticed three blind-pedestrianshaped holes — one more than yesterday and I’m not happy about it at all.’ I hope L’Atelier will do likewise. Aside from anything else, the cry of a blind pedestrian falling into a hedge can disturb your evening quite substantially.
Now, there are no formal tables down here. Instead, you sit at a breakfast-style counter with a direct view of the open kitchen. This means, though, that diners have to sit side by side rather than opposite each other, which may not be to everyone’s taste, and may be tricky if there are more than two in your party. But as I only have one friend, Robbo, it’s not a problem for me. Robbo, who is still from Leeds — nope, still can’t place it — is a very good and true friend and while, sadly, he was much, much too busy to accompany me that time I did the Angus Steak House, and was similarly too busy to accompany me when I reviewed a Little Chef, he did valiantly turn out for Ramsay at Claridge’s, as well as the Guinea Grill, and that is the measure of a good friend, I think. A lot of people just pretend to like me for the free food, but that’s not Robbo.
Whatever, he is very, very late, but that’s OK. Sitting at a counter rather than a table means you don’t feel quite as daft as you otherwise would, plus there is the kitchen to look at — I watched them assembling the most gorgeous, teeny-weeny hamburgers — and there is the staff to look at. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful staff. Men with Nureyevesque cheekbones; fabulously chic French girls. ‘Blimey,’ says Robbo when he eventually arrives, ‘it’s like a beauty parade in here.’ Luckily, I’m a beauty myself, so I feel quite at home.
The food appears to work as follows, via three menus. There’s one from which you can order a typical three-course job, one of smaller, lesser-priced tasting dishes, and one that is a tasting menu of the aforementioned smaller, tasting dishes. We opt for the tasting menu of tasting dishes at £55 a head, which offers, among other things, both a tarte de frai benteuse (Fray Bentos pie) as well as a délice d’ange caramel (Angel Delight, butterscotch). Only kidding. Our first little plate, the amuse bouche, is a divine sliver of quite the sleekest foie gras ever, and you know what? It’s uphill from then on: an avocado velouté, intensely flavoured but also as light as air and utterly heavenly; the sweetest, teeniest frogs legs served with a spoon of garlicky mash; an egg cocotte served in a martini glass with a mushroom cream which makes Robbo almost yelp with ecstasy; fantastic pan-fried sea bass with a lemongrass foam; calves’ sweetbreads, proving that there is nothing sweeter than bread from a calf, and then it’s the two desserts. One is something so intensely chocolatey that I almost yelp in ecstasy, while the other — a delicate soufflé which is fed with a teaspoon of ice cream at the very last minute makes us perform a duet of yelps. Honestly, if a blind pedestrian were to fall into a hedge at this very moment, we simply wouldn’t hear him.
It’s a fabulous place, this. More, the staff are entirely charming and we’re allowed to sit from 7 p.m. until midnight without being hassled to pay up and get out. Robbo does later complain about the high stools (saying they gave him bum-ache) but as he also complained about the chairs at the Guinea Grill, maybe he’s just reached the age where he now has to take a cushion with him. When I finally leave, and am waiting for my taxi outside, I get to talking with the doorman who says he’s new to London and is planning to go and see The Mousetrap in a couple of days when he gets his first night off. I say, don’t bother, the policeman did it. He says: ‘Oh great, thanks a lot.’ Actually, I’ve never seen The Mousetrap and have no idea if the policeman did it or not, but it’s an amusing little game all the same.
L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, 13–15 West Street, London WC2. Tel: 020 7010 8600.
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