Le Muscadet
WHEN I started this column, the first restaurant I wanted to write about was Le Muscadet in Paddington Street (935 2883). Unfortunately I got rumbled by one of the patrons, Francois Bessonard, who was horrified by the idea and told me that he didn't 'want strangers coming to his res- taurant'. At last he has softened and given his go-ahead, but I had to see his point. Much of the charm of the place lies in its patently genuine friendliness. Without any of the claustrophobic smugness of the more self-consciously fashionable restaurants, Le Muscadet — frequented largely by locals (or ex-locals like myself) — gives off an atmosphere generated by everyone knowing, and liking, everyone else.
It is not big — it seats about 30 — and, from the outside, not particularly impress- ive: a small, glass-fronted room wedged in between Baker Street and Marylebone High Street. But once inside, you can tell things are going to be all right. Francois opens the door to you and, in his volup- tuous accent, which makes Maurice Cheva- lier sound like an old Etonian, takes you through the extras scrawled up on the blackboard. There is a printed menu, certainly not to be sniffed at, but Francois' recitation is central to the evening's enjoy- ment. Eating there when he is away just isn't the same.
The extras chalked up on the board remain — save seasonal modification and culinary invention — in the main the same. To start with there might be asparagus with Le Muscadet's own special creamy vinaig- rette, in fact a cold sauce of simply white wine vinegar, double cream, salt and pep- per; gambas fried with garlic and herbs and maybe a schlurp of Pernod or maybe not; marinated herrings on warm sliced boiled potatoes coated in a wonderfully oily dress- ing; a lamb's-lettuce salad with bacon and garlic croutons; or duck liver pâté studded with pistachios. And there is always their croustade de champignons, which has ac- quired almost cult status among their regulars — a puff-pastry case oozing with juicy mushrooms in a flecked and fragrant sauce — and tomate maison, tomato stuf- fed with avocado, prawns and celery. Best on their written menu, I think, are the boudin noir aux pornmes and the steamily odoriferous fish soup with garlic and saf- fron mayonnaise, mead and cheese.
The only problem with having the crous- tade to start with is that it precludes your trying their vol-au-vent de volaille for a main course. Forget wedding receptions. Forget office parties. Forget tired, disin- tegrating pastry, three-quarters stuffed with sawdusty strands in a sad, congealing custard. Here you can see how the vol-au- vent came to be named: miraculously light leaves of pastry piled high with (I hate to have to use the word but it's the only one for it) succulent chunks of chicken in a bubbling sauce of finely minced onion, mushroom, white wine, brandy and, above all, cream. The lightness, richness and sweet-smelling perfection of this plat takes it out of range for true comparisons, but if you are still not tempted, the rest of the menu does not lag far behind. Still on the blackboard specials, there may be duck breasts in a green peppercorn, duck stock, brandy and cream sauce; rack of lamb with rosemary and dry sherry; quail boned and stuffed with foie gras in a raspberry vinegar sauce (a more recent addition) or a memorably barbed steak aux poivres. De- pending on the season there might be salmon sauce hollandaise or halibut sauce cardinale — a deep-tinted sauce of cray- fish, white wine, brandy, cream and tomato.
There is an extraordinarily good cheese- board for a restaurant of this size: 30 or so cheeses mainly from Philippe Olivier but supplemented at Harvey Brockness, and immaculately kept. They have been wise to keep puddings to a simple minimum; who would want anything too stickily elaborate after the robustness of all that has gone previously? But if you have got a sweet tooth, why not an iced Grand Marnier soufflé (made by Francois)? The wine list is small but trustworthy; and a soupy Brouilly at £8.80, Muscadet at £6.85 and a fine Sancerre rosé at £9.80 is not bad.
Going to Le Muscadet is the nearest thing to instant transportation to France (even the local vicar eats there), although the chef and co-patron Alex Grant, for whom no praise is too high, comes not from some French gastronomic heartland but Skegness. Nothing could cheer me up more than a visit to Le Muscadet, and no one I have taken or have recommended it to has been disappointed. But don't rush: I have tried to shield them from instant stampede and have written this to coincide with their fermeture annuelle, but they open again on 2 September. I have already booked my table.
Nigella Lawson
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