RESTAURANTS Deborah Ross
THIS week I've discovered a true find: a local restaurant that's staggeringly brilliant. And, amazingly, it's all thanks to my partner and his singing. He's a Welsh boy, so of course he sings. He's a bass baritone, and does a lot of classical choral stuff. He practises endlessly at home. 'Wh0000000WHHHHAHH000000,' he goes, until the cat shoots out of the cat-flap and I'm minded to follow. Honestly, I don't know why he can't do some proper songs. Something from Abba, say, or Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I love Joseph. I once had the good fortune to accompany Tim Rice somewhere, and I sang the entire score to him on our journey. I think he thought he was trapped in the back of his Rover with Kathy Bates from Misery. Strangely, on our return, he didn't invite me in for a nightcap, which was odd, as after a brandy or two I'm quite well known for doing a very good 'My Dream Will Do' with a tea-towel on my head. Now. this is making me sound very lowbrow, I know, but I'm not. I like opera too. Certainly, I think she's much better than Rikki or Trish. People often say they find it hard to follow, but I don't. What's hard to follow in 'I'm in love with my second cousin four times removed, even though he raped me while I was Mr Muscle-ing the oven and before I'd even put my shopping down'? Seems perfectly straightforward to me. Some people are just so thick, aren't they? (Ballet? Love it. Or would do, if they didn't make those poor girls stand on tippytoe all the time. Honestly, why don't they just get taller ones?)
Anyway, where were we? Oh yes. My partner has a weekly singing lesson on Hornsey High Street, which is the sort of down-atheel part of Crouch End, not much frequented by up-at-heel folks like me. Here, though, he's noticed a little French place, Le Bistro, which he thinks we should try.
Usually I would take no notice of his recommendations as, on the whole, he has the most appalling taste. Recently I came home to find him wearing a Val Doonican-style, machine-knitted sweater, with big lemon and pale pink overlapping diamonds on the front. 'Good grief,' I said, 'where's that from?' 'The charity shop. Only 50p. What's wrong with it?"1-Immm. Where to start? Still, you could give us a few bars of a proper song, like "Danny Boy", now you're dressed for the occasion. Shall I find you a long-legged stool?"Oh, ha-bloody-ha.'
Nevertheless, I agree to give Le Bistro a go, which, yes, is on Hornsey High Street, tucked between a greasy spoon and a bakery shop. Inside, it's not in the least ostentatious: no tablecloths, Seventies-style wicker lampshades, framed Monet and Picasso prints. We book for 7 p.m., on a Sunday. By 7,30 p.m. it's two-thirds full, and by 8 p.m. it's not only packed but also seems to be catering to
quite a few French customers, which seems like a good sign. The waiting staff, too, are all French. I go with my partner and our young son, who has just got interested in sex. No, not in doing it. He despises girls, as it happens. Indeed, when he was recently paired with Katie Simon for a class science project, he apparently pulled his school jumper over his nose and mouth so he didn't catch anything off her. He is very interested in the mechanics of sex, though, which I recently explained to him in full. His questions afterwards included 'How long do you have to stay attached?' and 'How much sperm comes out?' 'About a teaspoon,' I said. Actually, I'd no idea whether it's a teaspoon or not, but faced with having to go and look something up or just make up an answer on the spot, I do find making up answers considerably less tiresome. ('Mummy, how does electricity come out of a hole in the wall?"Well, dear, in the night these elves come with big buckets of electricity, which they scoop up and push up the holes. . . ') Anyway, his next question was 'How will I know when it's a teaspoon?' Ask your father.' I can't.' Why ever not?' He's wearing a really pooffy jumper. I'm not speaking to him while he's wearing that.'
To the menu, which, as the French would say, is right up my rue. (Yes, I'm bilingual.) And it's incredibly reasonably priced: £.10 for the three-course set menu, £20 for the three-course a la carte menu. Being greedy, we go for the £20. While choosing, we are brought a basket of French bread that is warm and proper, not like those woolly sticks you get from Budgens up the road. Now, what shall I have to start with? Grilled squid with avocado and coriander salsa? Wild-mushroom salad with red-wine dressing, pine nuts and shaved Parmesan? Foie gras with a marmalade of plums, pears, apple and port? No, I opt for the Provencal fish soup with cheese and croutons. I am fond of fish soup, and this is exceptional — beautifully textured, beautifully flavoured and richly conker-coloured. My partner has the wild mushrooms, my son the grilled squid. Both were exquisitely executed.
Next I have the fillet of beef with sauté potatoes and homemade Béarnaise sauce. It's the nicest piece of meat ever, meltingly tender, meltingly pink. Truly, I want to faint with happiness. My partner feels similarly about his duck breast, cooked in a redwine sauce with figs. 'This is terrific,' he says. Our son has the rack of lamb, served with honeyed chicory. He says the lamb is 'heaven'. I taste the honeyed chicory which is a revelation — bitter yet deliciously, sweet. Thus far, it's abso-bloody-lutely perfect, but then the vegetables. I suppose I should mention the accompanying vegetables: a bowl of cauliflower, carrots and courgettes, which are cold, not tepid, not lukewarm, but freezing, icy-cold, with chunks of frost in. 'Excuse me,' I say to the waiter, 'these vegetables are cold, not tepid, not lukewarm, but freezing, icy-cold with chunks of frost in.' Sorry about zat,' he says happily. Two minutes later the people at the table next to us complain about the same thing. 'Sorry about zat,' he says happily. We are later given coffee free of charge, but it would have been nice to have had some kind of explanation.
For pudding, we share a very chocolatey chocolate mousse and a board of French cheeses with more proper French bread. The bill comes to £82, which includes service and a good bottle of Cotes-du-Rhone. Vegetables aside, it's probably the best meal I've eaten locally, which must count for something, considering that Crouch End has about 57 restaurants, and possibly more. Anyway, that's all for now. Toodle-pip. Or, as opera lovers like to put it, 'See you next week, when we'll be discussing: My midget husband left me for our one-legged au-pair and now I want revenge.' How, 1 wonder, could anyone not like opera?
Le Bistro, 36 Hornsey High Street, London NS; tek 020 8340 2116.
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