Interlude de Chavot
I HAVE LEARNT, in ten years of restau- rant reviewing, that it doesn't pay to have expectations. Disappointment is an occupa- tional hazard. I had, though, to go hopeful- ly to the newlyish opened Interlude de Chavot. Eric Chavot has done time with Pierre Koffman at Tante Claire, Raymond Blanc at the Manoir aux quat'saisons, Nico Ladenis at Nico at 90, and, most recently, with Marco Pierre White who has set him up here in Charlotte Street. Impossible, then, to go without expectations. I'm still reeling with the dazed delight of having them gloriously met. Not everything is per- fect, but I still feel tremendously buoyed up by my visit, which makes me confident and expansive in my enthusiasm.
The tweeness of the restaurant's name, apart from anything else, made me think a certain frilliness or preciousness was in store. Not so: this is serious food, far removed from the studied rusticity of all the new-wave Italian joints but still with some of the same robustness and vigour. What Chavot also brings to his cooking is a master's delicate sense of flavour and form. This is truly pleasurable eating, not a call to worship at a rarefied temple of gastronomy.
The place has been done over intelligent- ly. That's to say, walls are cream and no pictures hang on them; instead there are large, unmatched mirrors. This means that although the room is small and intimate it doesn't feel cluttered. It's relaxing, and the menu works in the same way. There is just a list of dishes, starters on the left, main courses on the right, with no prices under each of them. On the left-hand page is written, 'All at £6.50'; on the right, 'All at £12.50'. This is a brilliant idea, not only because it makes for such restful reading —silly as it may sound, it does make a dif- ference, it does contribute to the pleasure — but because it must make sense. After all, the ingredients themselves are the least part of restaurant pricing: it's the labour, the time, all those factors which may as well be calculated across the board.
I made a three-pronged attack on the starters. Quail Pithivier [sic] came in the form of a low-domed small pie made of exuberantly buttery puff pastry, lined with a slice of potato, on which sat a chunk of quail breast topped with a farce of quail, chicken and foie gras, and then another layer of golden, egg-shiny pastry. Maybe the pastry was a hit too heavily rich for a starter, but it worked. I thought I'd just try a bit, and leave room for all the rest, but I couldn't leave it alone. Scallops came on a warm tomato and shallot vinai- grette, reminiscent of those light but intense Japanese broths. Snail ravioli with basil and creamed gar- lic turned out, as of course I knew it would, to be just one big raviolo. Readers will know this is something of a bete noire of mine. So there it was: a great bulging pil- low of snail chopped with bacon, the pasta so fine that the nubbly stuffing within gave it rather the look of cellulite-pocked flesh. The bacon was, I think, too much in evi- dence: it made it too salty, but again, as I said earlier, I couldn't leave any of it for all that. And the whole snails to the side, which had been rolled in finely chopped like dust — basil, the colour of snooker baize, so that they had the appearance of deeply hued gnocchi verdi, were a joy. For a main course the pave of home- smoked salmon was a niggling disappoint- ment. Somehow the smoky saltiness was too invasive, and the juniper berries which were promised in the beurre blanc entirely undetectable. To make up for that was the leg of rabbit, stuffed with cabbage and bacon, chopped shallots and mushrooms bound creamily so that some- how the aroma and softness of sweet- breads were evoked. But the piece de resistance was the pearl barley risotto which came with it. These seeds seemed to pop with roundness, they invaded the palate so explosively. The scent of marjo- ram, tarragon and basil wafted from the creamy mixture: this was heaven. Puddings, or my choice of them, were less impressive: chocolate soufflé was a bit of a let-down — not deeply, voluptuously, darkly, bitterly chocolaty enough — and the crème brill& with Armagnac-soused prunes was too fierce, too strident.
With a bottle of Fleurie, a great deal of water and mint tea, the bill for the above came to £88, which includes service and is, remember, for ace cooking. Said service is also impressively calm and uncramping. I loved this place.
Interlude de Chavot, 5 Charlotte Street, London Wl; tel: 0171 637 0222.
Nigella Lawson
Previous page
