So when Bruce String-bean and his partner Helen Mirin came to town, Restaurant Il Vino – Enrico Bernado’s Michelin star restaurant where wine comes first – was an obvious choice. Upon arrival at the very chic little right bank dwelling (where Brad purportedly took Angelina for her 38th birthday dinner), we were greeted by Enrico Bernado himself, the charming, and very humble owner (and youngest-ever winner of the Worlds Best Sommelier award). Wine is the protagonist at Il Vino and everything, from the waitstaff (who are all world class sommeliers), to the menu (from which food is distinctly absent), to the interior design (which is based on earthy terroir tones) is decidedly oeno-centric.

In a rather novel concept, there is no choice of food whatsoever, you simply choose the wine and the chefs bring food to match. The degustation menu consisted of three options; Sur les Routes du Monde – (wines from the world) 75 euros, Sur les Routes de France et Italie – (wines from France and Italy) 95 euros, and Supplement Grands Crus – (optional addition of Grands Crus wines) 35 euros, from which we chose the latter.

And so the wine flight began….with a delicious glass of Bruno Roulot a La Chapelle-Monthodon champagne served with homemade seaweed crisps and parmesan straws.  A lovely plump ball of burrata sitting on an incredibly flavoursome tomato gelée dotted with what appeared to be anchovy stuffed blueberries (or it could have been something else entirely) followed suite –  making a perfect marriage with the crisp, nosey and interestingly mineral Vermentino 2013 Bolgheri . 

Sticking with the Vermentino,  next up was a very tender and oddly tasty square of marinated salmon covered in shredded coconut –  basically a salmon lamington –  and a tad too-chewy pastry puff filled with a divinely unctuous parmesan cream.

Continuing dad’s much-loved tradition of wine guessing, for the next leg of the flight the sommelier gave us a black wine glass and made us guess the contents.  Despite tasting undeniably like a red, I, thinking there must be a trick, guessed it was one of those orange wines that seem to be making cameos in trendy Parisian wine bars of late. I was completely and utterly (and embarrassingly) off the mark. Papa Bruce String-bean was, of course, right on the money with his guess of a Nero D’Avola. It was indeed a very full bodied glass of rich Il Passo Nerello Mascalese which was served, surprisingly with a fish course – a most toothsome tuna tataki, with perfect seared edges, and a fuchsia pink middle, peppered with deliciously tangy fruits of the forest. This was hands down one of the best dishes of the night.

The peppery turbot that was served next, although delicious, left the spot-light on the entirely moreish glass of Les Heritiers du Comte Lafon from Burgundy. The beautifully complex biodynamic white produced by renowned French winemaker Dominique Lafon was one of my favourite wines of the evening.

Moving onto meats and big reds – up next was what could only be described as an (absolutely delicious) chicken sausage roll, which was lolling about in an intense (again, delicious) jus and served with a heavenly glass of 2004 Giorgio Pelissero Nubiola, Barbaresco DOCG, Italy – swiftly followed by showstopper 2004 Château Canon 1er Grand Cru Classé de Saint-Emilion with a sumptuous rack of lamb to match.

After our little tour of France and Italy, by the time the wine flight landed in Languedoc, I was excessively full, and demonstrably tipsy and when the enormous chunk of parmesan was carved out of the wheel and placed on my slate, as partner to the Chateau Daurion Syrah/Grenache 2011, I simply couldn’t fit it in.  And so, much to Helen Mirin’s horror, I wrapped up the cheese in a napkin and placed it in my bag for later.

No, it wasn’t very chic, but hey, que syrah syrah. 

A moreish little praline choux pastry and an endless parade of mignardises, matched with a Moscato D’Asti 2013, ended what was a fabulous, innovative and memorable experience. Bernado’s passion for wine is evident in every aspect of his restaurant, from his dedicated, friendly and knowledgable team, to his ridiculously stellar cellar.

After kissing Bruce String-bean and Helen Mirin bonne nuit, my night (somewhat inevitably) continued with a very late night boogie in Oberkampkf (red wine lips and sweating parmesan in tow) with Olivia-Crouton John and Kanye Wurst and ended (again somewhat inevitably) in me sending a series of unsolicited texts to my spring fling Peas Brosnan at 5am telling him that I was eating peanut butter with a spoon and missed him.

I guess you could say it was an old case of in (Il) Vino veritas.

Yours sancerrely

xoxo

Paris Stilton

While the French seem incapable of pronouncing an H at the beginning of any sentence in which it is necessarily required (help becomes “elp”, have morphs into “ave” and happy indubitably comes out as “appy”), they are oft inclined to add a forceful H at the beginning of words where it is not needed, creating their own hilarious conlang of vocab such as hupgrade, helephant and hunderstand (for the first 6 months at her new job, a friend of mine actually thought that her colleague was called Harthur – I kid you not).

And so it was that sister Sienna Millet, Yummy Mummy and I found ourselves squeezed onto a mezzanine table at Restaurant Pirouette, chortling at the very dashing young waiter’s statement “I sink you should ave ze hegg”. The hegg in question was a perfect coddled egg, served with haddock, cauliflower and croutons. And golly gosh was it good.

Tucked away behind a monstrous car park and a concrete jungle of renovations that is currently Les Halles, Pirouette – with its large, open, steel-clad glass windows, Scandi style wood furnishings and charismatic staff – brings a ray of distinction to an otherwise fairly charmless corner of Paris.  Chef Tomy Gousset (formerly of Daniel in New York and Le Meurice, amongst others, in Paris) whips up consistently fresh, seasonal, and ever evolving dishes on an extremely well priced prix-fixe menu. At lunch the restaurant offers an 18€ 3 course menu, as well as à la carte options and at night there is a 40€ 3 course menu or a 60€ 6 course chef’s surprise menu.

Still giggling at the very endearingly translated ‘dolphin potatoes’ (pommes dauphinoises) we popped open our bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape to celebrate Sienna Millet’s birthday and got started on our little amuse bouche of shortbread biscuits with wasabi paste and herring eggs and coffee cream topped prosciutto slices – which were both as tasty as they were innovative.

For entree, Sienna Millet’s cured trout (truite bio, citrons et oignons confite, noisettes) was a bit trite, while Yummy Mummy’s perfect egg was slightly less than perfect, but wonderful nonetheless.

However my gnocchi with morels (gnocchi, morilles, sauce vin jaune) was, quite honestly, one of the best pasta dishes I have had since moving to France. I have such a deep fondness for French mushrooms – the succulent chanterelles, the tempting trompettes de mort, the sumptuous cepes, and best of all, those magical, moreish morels. The beautifully fresh (not vaguely floury) gnocchi was snuggled amongst whole morels piped with an intensely flavoursome jus, and finished with young fresh sprouted green leaves, a trace of pureed spinach and a light yellow wine sauce. It was pure, mouthwatering, indulgence.

Everyone had food envy – the best kind of morel dilemma.

For mains Sienna Millet and Yummy Mummy went for the beautifully executed slow cooked lamb shoulder (epaule d’agneau, oignon, darphin, piment) which was topped with incredibly sweet seared baby onions encasing a deeply aromatic jus with a gourmet hashbrown potato cake as accompaniment. Needless to say they both licked their plates clean.

I went for the duck (canard, asperges, kum kwat, porc) – a perfectly pink, jus coated specimen covered in tiny, slightly bitter confit cumquats with a delicious stem of fresh asparagus and tiny peppering of croutons to give it a bit of crunch. I believe there was also some pork in there…somewhere.  A delicately presented dish with subtle, yet interesting flavour and texture combinations – I was one very happy little duckling indeed.

Approaching dessert time, I managed to sneakily get the waiters to cover Sienna Millets (food-envy engendering) rice pudding (topped with salted caramel butter, crushed macarons and honey coated granola) in toppling candles and the whole restaurant erupted in cheerful stanzas of ‘joyeux anniversaire’ while Sienna Millet, Yummy Mummy and I bathed in a wine induced merriness.

For desserts I went for the melting meringue with mango, passionfruit, peanuts and coconut (meringue fondante, mague/passion, coco, cacahuettes) which was, for all intents and purposes, a fabulous rendition of my least favourite dessert the infamous île flottante.

All in all it was a fabulous night, replete with delicious food, beautiful wine and unbeatable company.  The space is light, open, polished, warm and welcoming, and the food unpretentious, seasonal and decidedly (and indeed consistently) moreish.

Pirouette – a good hegg.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

But they really are fighting an uphill battle. For there is nothing cooler for a French youth than dropping a YOLO mid-sentence, or doing something pour le fun, or parce que c’est cool, or even, for that matter, using l’internet, or having a weekend, or dating a model, or eating a sandwich or stationing their moped in le parking (all oft-employed English words L’Académie française has previously tried to ban). My all time favourite Anglicism, however, has got to be ‘too much’ – most often used in the phrase, ‘c‘est too much quoi‘ (with quoi being something akin to innit).

‘C’est too much, quoi‘ is what first sprung to mind as I contemplated the tepid cockle bouillon that was poured into my soiled ceramic bowl mid-way through the degustation at David Toutain’s eponymous restaurant last week.

But let us start at the beginning…

It was on a drizzling Tuesday night that I arrived at David’s new abode – tucked away in a quiet corner of the 7th – with old friend Danny DoRito on my arm, and anticipation in the air.  Having indulged in two exceptional and highly memorable meals at Toutain’s previous establishment L’Agapé Substance (he has also worked with the likes of Alain Passard at Arpège, Andoni Luis Aduriz at Mugaritz, and Paul Liebrandt at Corton), I had been eagerly awaiting the opening of his much-hyped new venture.

At night the restaurant offers three different tasting menus, the Polypode (68€, or 118€ with matching wines), the Reine des Prés (98€ or 158€ with matching wines) and the Menu Truffe (a truffle based menu at 158€ or 210€ with matching wines)  – all being ‘surprise’ carte blanche degustations, in addition to a 42€ lunch time menu. Being both incredibly indecisive, Danny DoRito and I chose to go with the ‘safe’ middle Reine des Prés option, along with with a beautiful bottle of organic Saumur-Champigny red.

The meal started with an amuse-bouche of roasted rainbow garden carrots, to be dipped into an unctuous, and intensely moreish, herb-capped mountain of white chocolate cream, which was swiftly followed by a (charmingly translated) ‘interior of crab head wafer with avocado points’ – an exceptionally tasty little up-market neo prawn cracker.

As we savoured our deliciously sweet, and rather rustic caramelised onion brioche with burnt butter cream, served in a delightfully provincial hay-filled cast iron dish – the intimate, light filled, Scandinavian-feel mezzanine dining room quickly filled up with a well-heeled, exclusively French, patronage who all seemed to know Toutain on a double-bises basis.

Next up was a palate-cleansing bowl of cockles, razor clams and icy cold fennel powder. The dish was interesting, although the intense chill of the fennel ‘sorbet’ detracted somewhat from the subtle flavours of the shellfish . But just when we thought we were done, a waitress arrived with a teapot and filled our dirty bowls with the lukewarm stock that the seafood had been prepared in. Had the stock been hot, it would have been mildly unpleasant, but this tepid fishy bouillon was, quite honestly, inedible. Danny DoRito looked green.  And yet everyone else seemed to be relishing it. Perhaps, I thought, it is like Tracey Emin’s £150,000 unmade bed, perhaps it is the Malevich’s white on white of molecular gastronomy – perhaps I just didn’t get it. Either way, I didn’t like it. And the experience was only made worse by the waitress’s irrefutably appalled face as she took away our still full bowls.

The dishes that followed were much more appealing , if not extraordinary – a single oyster veiled in an intensely acidic yet sweet yuzu kiwi dressing, a slither of tender mackerel bathing in a robust potato skin bouillon with seared chargrilled baby broccoli, an almost translucent parmesan water ‘gnocchi’ in a soy milk based, parmesan sauce, and a lightly seared scallop with perfectly crunchy caramelised onions and a herb jus.

The cuttlefish – beautifully paired with a smattering of yuba (bean curd) and incredibly sweet mini leeks – was delicious, although bordering on slightly  too generous in size.

In a similar vein to Passard, I had expected Toutain’s cooking to be heavily legume based, but our meal thus far had almost been a mollusc monologue. And so joy of joys when a ridiculously tender, juicy, coffee infused piece of pork, which had been encased in a salt pastry was brought to our table.  Served with orange inebriated pumpkin squares and a pumpkin puree, this course was immensely sublime – as Danny DoRito mused, ‘Dad’s Sunday pork roast will simply never be the same again.’

After a rustic wooden board replete with mountainous slivers of deliciously grainy vieux comté, came a little pot of coconut, cauliflower and white chocolate cream. Normally I am not a huge cauliflower enthusiast (unless it is submerged under avalanches of cheesy béchamel) but I have to say that even though the cauliflower was demonstrably present, this was a shockingly divine merger.

However what I was really holding out for was that haute-couture ferrero rocher ball I had spied at the next table. But (‘the horror, the horror’) as I forked into the spherical little dumpling, it turned out to be a chocolate coated jerusalem artichoke. It was innovative, I will give it that. And I can understand the appeal of marrying an earthy, almost nutty root with chocolate – but it simply wasn’t tasty.  It was a dud root, and I wanted it to be over.

The meal finished with a little confuse-bouche of chewy vanilla confit celery – original indeed, but I wasn’t exactly pleading for another. I do feel molecular gastronomy is like that though – more a science to be appreciated and admired, than a meal to be savoured. It is intriguing, at times awe-inspiring – but you often find yourself debating with your dinner companion over how dishes were conceived and produced, rather than reaching for crusty bread to mop up remnants of parmesan infused soy milk.

Nevertheless, on the whole, the food was magnificent; an intricate web of innovative tastes, creatively conceived, harmoniously married and exquisitely executed.

The verdict – if you’re looking for a unique dining experience in Paris, and molecular gastronomy is your cup of tea, then David Toutain is definitely worth trying – for the profoundly original fare, for the beautiful hand-made crockery, or just pour le fun, quoi.

Mot-dièseYOLO

xoxo

Paris Stilton

And so it is that I found myself out to dinner last Saturday at a wonderful new steak restaurant with my favourite queens Elton Scone, Anchovy Hopkins and Quinoa Reeves – as well as the darling Robert Brownie Jnr and fabulous new Australian exports Penne Zellweger and Jus Barrymore.

Set in what was once The London Tavern – an up-market singles club that turned into somewhat of an institution in the 70’s – the lavish 3-storey steak and whiskey bar Steaking is the latest hip haunt to grace Saint-Germain-des-Prés with its presence.

When our merry team arrived for our 8.30pm booking we were the only people in the restaurant, and with the muted grey tones, opulent chandeliers and shadowy serpentine staircases conjuring up scenes from Eyes Wide Shut, I momentarily feared it may have been the preferred purlieu of a more ‘swinging’ kind of crowd – but the parlour quickly filled up with carnivorous young Kooples and groups of dashing men donning three piece suits and indoor shoulder scarves.

The menu offers a world-wide contiki tour of steak ranging from Australian wagyu, to American black angus, to Austrian Simmental fillet and an array of quality cuts in between. Robert Brownie Jnr, Jus Barrymore, Penne Zellweger and I all went for the ridiculously tender Argentinian entrecôte with a side of deliciously caramelised bitter endive salad and a pot of potato mash to rival that of Robuchon. The meat was beautifully flavoured and cooked to rare perfection.  Anchovy Hopkins chose the unfortunately named, but wonderfully tasty ‘chuck flap’  black angus, while Quinoa Reeves happily tucked into his 28 day dry aged prime rib from Galice.

Over a bottle or two of Pinot, the conversation merrily flowed from filet mignons and mignon fillies to the psychology of Grindr and Tinder – Penne Zellweger and Elton Scone both agreed that Paris fashion week was doing wonders for ‘online suitor shopping’.

After sharing an unmemorable chocolate fondant and a piece of cheesecake paired with an exceptionally tasty raspberry and basil sorbet, we rolled up the stairs, past the second dining room to the 3rd floor whiskey and cigar bar and entered an otherworldly room of smoke and mirrors and braces and bow ties and taxidermic peacocks, where indoor smoking is entirely au fait and wincing at straight whisky is not.

Our friendly waiter and whiskey-master Joud was a wealth of knowledge about all things single and malty. He whipped the team up some hard hitting old fashioned’s, while Quinoa Reeves and I nursed our Nikka Pure Malt Black’s straight up (it seemed the appropriate thing to do whilst lounging on a dark leather couch under seductive crepuscular lighting).

Although I generally have a proclivity for more laissez-fare Paris institutions, if you’re on the hunt for a good steak you really can’t go past this little gem; the service was prompt and friendly, the setting is truly something to see, and the steak was nothing if not sensational.

Alas, if only finding a tender piece of meat in the metaphorical meat market was as simple as this.

Xoxo

Paris Stilton

Well, pretty much.

Half way through an exquisite dinner with my Dad, lets call him Papadum, at L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges (aka Restaurant Paul Bocuse) in Lyon, who should sit down at the table next to us but Paul Bocuse himself – the father of classic French cuisine,  Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur, Meilleur Ouvrier de France, “Chef of the Century”, namesake of the prestigious culinary award La Bocuse D’Or and owner of the restaurant with the longest held three Michelin stars in history (48 years) – dining with three time three Michelin star holder Alain Ducasse.

I was, needless to say, star struck – I swooned, I tweeted, I instagrammed, and in one fell swoop, I broke at least 3 of the 10 signs that you’re a foodie douchebag. At one point Ducasse, assuming I could not speak French, even leaned over to Bocuse and chuckled, ‘haha I believe you have a huge fan in that American girl over there’. Oh dear.

So what were they discussing, in their hushed tête-à-tête as they tucked into their veal chop and kidneys à la bourgeoise? Rumour has it that, in the absence of interest from Bocuse’s chef son and pâtissière daughter, Ducasse is set to take over the reigns of the famous restaurant that has been in the Bocuse family since the 1700’s.

But enough of rumours – on to the food, which was as classic and saucy as a Mills and Boon novel. But who doesn’t love well developed characters, a comfortably predictable plot, delicious passion, and a happy ending? The meal was seamless from start to finish, the service impeccable, and the food, phenomenal.

After a deliciously cheesy gougère washed down with a glass of Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé and an amuse-bouche of the most incredible chilled tomato soup I have ever tasted, the first plate on the 6 course degustation Menu Bourgeois was the Maine Lobster Salad.  Splayed like a psychedelic swimming turtle over a mound of a Russian pea, carrot and potato salad, the lobster was exquisitely sweet and tender, not to mention generous in size.  Aside from the tasteless gelée tomato on its back, the dish was faultless.

For second course I chose the Turbot in Champagne Sauce, against the recommendation of the waiter who suggested the Red Mullet in Crispy Potato Scales which is a speciality of the restaurant. The dish was beautifully executed – the turbot was firm but came away in large buttery flakes, mopped up with confit leek and crispy puffed potatoes.  The champagne sauce, a favourite french classic of mine – which is made simply by reducing champagne over low heat, adding an egg yolk and cream and whipping frantically – was light, creamy and divine, with the perfect lingering tang of champagne.

Papadum ordered the Mullet with Crispy Potato Scales, another stalwart of French gastronomy, which again was exquisite in both taste and presentation.

After the rather punchy palate cleansing Beaujolais Sorbet, I opted for the Pigeon in Puff Pastry with Young Cabbage. There was a time when I was appalled at the thought of eating squab, but after a year of plucking, gutting, filleting and cooking this bird at Lenôtre, I have become quite partial to the odd pigeon. And this one – tender juicy pink meat, a flakey puff pastry shell and a divine girolle sauce – was truly superb.

The portions at Bocuse are nothing if not generous and by the time France’s Mr Bean wheeled out the ridiculously large cheese trolley, I was all but bursting my seams.  But I soldiered on – through a hard hitting roquefort, a creamy fresh chevre and a nicely aged comté to arrive at a moist, raspberry soaked chocolate cake heaven.

Paul Bocuse has received a fair share of criticism over the years for his staunchly traditional style of cuisine. It is true that the restaurant has been serving the same food since before man landed on the moon (seriously). It is true that the black doorman dressed in a comical bell boy’s outfit playing happy birthday on the organ grinder isn’t vaguely au fait. It is true that the food is more ‘airs and graces’ than airs and foams.  You wont find live crustaceans or beetroot smears to be washed down by a glass of Fanny Sarbre, you will find butter and chives and 1988 bottles of Chateau Haut Brion.

Paul is the cashmere twinset of the culinary world.  So what? Since when did ‘classic’ become a derogatory term? And, in a time when confit de canard is usually plucked straight from can, and steak haché is actually haché horse, we should be privileged that someone is still doing classic french cuisine with some dignity. 

From start to finish our meal was executed with meticulous precision and immense skill – honest, simple, and quintessentially French.

I for one, am a huge fan.

Paul Bocuse – the coeur de Lyon.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

At the end of a rather long sejour in my hometown, Leonardo diCarpaccio and I decided to pop over to Sydney for a weekend of wining and dining with happy newlyweds Thyme Burton and Helena Bonham-Tartare,  and (aside from the shameful meal of frozen fish fingers and potentially off tomato sauce that we ate on arrival) the weekend was one of pure hedonism.

Photo: Porch Bread and Wine Parlour

We ruminated over the roast lamb shoulder at The Chiswick; we sweated over our generously spiced Pla Pad Cha at Spice I am; and each morning we could be found sipping our creamy flat whites, moseying from the moreish ‘veggie brekky’ breakfasts to prodigious ‘porch pie’ lunches at the ever charming Bondi institution Porch Bread & Wine Parlour.

Photo: Porch Bread and Wine Parlour

Then there was the time we went to Ruben Hills for a mid morning coffee and accidentally polished off the ‘Fried Chicken with chilli in a basket’, a ‘Dirty Bird burger’ and a ‘Baleada with pulled pimenton pork and chimol’ …oops.

But perhaps the most memorable moment of hedonism happened at Bodega – that très cool Argentinian tapas bar in Surry Hills run by Ben Milgate and Elvis Abrahanowicz, where we found ourselves happily ensconced between Thyme, Helena, and our favourite Sydney-siders, hot couple Halibut Berry and Olive Martinez.  The venue is colourful, loud and eclectic (not unlike the hyper-hip, ink-ed up, quiffed, braced, rock star team of waiters that bustled about, delivering mouthwatering treats and calling us lovelies) and the food is ingeniously divine.

From the tinned white anchovies with fish pate on water crackers to the chilli crab sauced, pickled up pork sausage wrapped in a lettuce leaf, there was nothing on the menu that wasn’t incredibly executed, and instantly devoured. The hiramasa fish fingers – those devilish morsels of raw kingfish hidden under a web of cuttlefish and mojama, served on crunchy charred toasts – were simply heavenly (a whole different kettle of fish from the aforementioned frozen fingers); the pork, octopus, cabbage and green apple salad with jalapeño dressing was a salad even I could make friends with; and the sweet mustard encased BBQ wagyu tri-tip, tasted decidedly like a whopper – which, lets be honest, is all you ever really want in a meal.

Picture: Rohan Kelly Source: The Sunday Telegraph

Then came the dessert, that unfathomably mouthwatering banana split. The banana parfait was velvety and unctuous, with a perfectly crunchy brûléed shell that demanded it be cracked with the back of a spoon, and the caramel was cooked to the precarious point of dark golden perfection, 10 seconds between a lacklustre sweetness and bitter burn.  It was truly magical.

We licked our spoons clean, finished off the bottle of Chacra Barda and with happy hearts and bursting jeans, we stumbled onto the streets of Surry Hills.  What a meal.

And then somehow, 5 hours later, after making a rather long cameo at at a slightly depressing fashion party full of people who most definitely didn’t accidentally eat fried chicken for breakfast, Leonardo diCarpaccio and I found ourselves romantically perched on a balcony overlooking the harbour…eating a whopper.

The weekend was indulgent, yes perhaps even excessive – a whole lot of YOLO. But boy was it worth it.

Abstinence certainly never made the heart grow fonder.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

Covered head to toe in snow, we hesitantly pushed open the door of this trendy Oberkampf establishment, expecting to be joining a long queue of Saturday night punters – but to our surprise, after a bit of playful banter from the ever jovial waitstaff about ‘being quite far off piste’, we were led downstairs and instantly seated in a cosy corner table ensconced between walls of wine bottles.

The waiter briefly explained to us the principle behind the no choice, seasonal tasting menu, with optional wine flight (it would be rude to say no, non?), before sending out the first plate.  It looked good, nice white plate, bit of foam, a white dollop, a green leaf…but what was it? ‘Wouldn’t you like to know’ (or the French equivalent)  said the jocund garcon, ‘We will tell you when you’re done, bon appetit!‘

Having recently graduated from my year long masterclass at French cooking school Lenôtre, I should be a whizz at this game. But I am not.  In fact I am totally useless at it.  I would have failed the Masterchef taste tester challenges; I would have guessed cumin instead of coriander and been the girl that cried on national TV.

Luckily this one wasn’t so hard.  “I guess oyster!!” I squealed. “Der” said DiCarpaccio “…it tastes like Fremantle.”

For those of you who don’t know Fremantle, the famous port town in Western Australia, this comment could mean that the oyster tasted like anything from an unwashed hippy to a happy Hare Krishna – although I think what he really meant was that it tasted an awful lot like sea salt. But though I don’t particularly like oysters or eating sea salt, this little critter, served with a mouthful of cabbage, a foam of cucumber and a dollop of sake and radish cream, was really quite nice.

The next plate arrived, as did our next wine, a Côtes de Provence which was as light, sweet and merry as the over-zealous sommelier who spilt it all over our table mid-swirl.  Subtly smoked, meltingly soft, and barely cooked haddock with artichoke, tangy, sort-of-crunchy pickled carrots, herring roe and a creamy chive imbued mash – it was utterly mouthwatering and such a delight for the taste-buds after a week of melted cheese.  Leonardo DiCarpaccio was, thus far, a very happy chappy.

The plate that followed seemed a bit odd. A pink square, a beige triangle and a yellow circle – it felt like some abstract art installation that I didn’t understand. So I ate it.  And it was good.  A little mouthful of tender tuna sashimi and a triangle of tempura’d something (maybe pork? I told myself it was pork…knowing all too well it could have been something more sinister) sitting on a deliciously creamy, rather spicy, parsley filled, modernist take on the classic béarnaise.  A truly divine mélange. 

That is until the waiter informed me that I had just eaten tempura’d andouillette. I like to think I am open to new food, but there are some foods I just don’t do. Ever. And tripe is one of those foods.

Nevertheless as it is my job (and I use that term loosely) I will be partial and admit…I actually liked  the andouillette (a veal tripe sausage). In fact I liked the whole dish, a lot.

“You didn’t trick us this time, we know all the ingredients” I said to the waiter as he took away the next plate. DiCarpaccio and I agreed that the slow cooked lamb ragu that we had just eaten, tucked in its caramelised onion shell, on top a bed of warm unctuous polenta with a light parmesan snow on top, was truly delicious.

“Euh non, zat was tung und cheek ragu”

Tongue-in-cheek I heard him say – he’s having a laugh, making a joke. Cute.  Nope that’s not what he said.  He said we had just eaten tongue and cheek ragu. And it was seriously amazing.

Then there was the cheese course – which was just a piece of cheese with a squirt of quince paste.  Not much to say there, the cheese was tasty, but a bit blah.  Without sounding rude, Pierre probably just could have cut the cheese.

The chocolate fondant that followed, with its hints of rhubarb and dollop of cinnamon foam, topped off what was an incredible meal – and for Leonardo DiCarpaccio, definitely a first degustation to remember.

Restaurant Pierre Sang is a true Paris gem – the staff are good-humoured, the atmosphere is convivial, the menus are seriously well priced, and the food is offally tasty.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

And you can all but forget about ordering your coffee ‘to go’.  One morning when little brother Burrata Obama and girlfriend Linguine Lohan were in town, I popped down to my local café and ordered three coffees à emporter to take to the weary travellers. I emerged 10 minutes later with three miniature disposable plastic cups (the kind you get at the dentist) with no lid, swerving about on a porcelain plate.  Yes, you heard it, the waiter had lent me a porcelain plate to transport the coffees on.  Needless to say I had laughed so hard on the journey that by the time I arrived all I could offer Burrata and Linguine was a plate of coffee.

But little by little, smart little cafés, focused on good coffee, with baristas who live and breathe their boulot, are starting to pop up around Paris.

Here are my favourite finds for my daily grind.

La Caféothèque

I don’t know how it took me so long to stumble across this amazing café, which I can practically see from my bedroom window, as the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans oozing out the door permeates the entire street.  The café is decked out rather randomly with three salons – my favourite being the bright carpeted room overlooking the Seine with comfy vintage armchairs and its host of diverse characters, including the local music composer who waves his non-existent conductor’s baton in the air while sipping his espresso, or the young boho artist who idly sketches unwitting customers.

I have tried most of the coffees on the menu, with beans from Colombia to Guatemala and Ethiopia, including a coffee degustation (you know I can’t resist) but I most often go to La Caféothèque for the V60 filtered coffees, which are, incidentally, rather strong.  So much so that the young friendly barista told me in his first week working there he drunk half a litre before collapsing and being taken off in an ambulance (not that it seemed to deter him, when I arrived at 9am he was on his third for the morning).

Télescope

This tiny little café in the 1^st arondissement with its retro bike parked out the front, its old wooden beamed roof, and cosy wood-clad interior consists literally of a kitchen bench, a coffee machine and 4 two person tables. You pull up a chair, tap your feet in time with the rad background music and smile into your cup of smooth and intensely aromatic coffee as the owner, Nicolas, a friendly Frenchman, chats happily with his regulars over the counter. A fashion photographer for years, Nicolas decided one day (after a shoot involving coffee) to give it all up and travel the world learning the art of coffee making before opening Télescope in March.  And his efforts have paid off, the coffee is divine.

The ambience of this quaint little French café was as warm and inviting as my delicious filtered brew.  Needless to say, I will be back, again and again.

Ten Belles 

Following in the theme of trendy hole in the wall cafés, Ten Belles is the epitome of minimalist cool with its polished concrete floors, demountable ply wood furniture and sparse but chaleureux fit-out.  The coffee machines are manned by two dashing young lads, a Frenchman (the owner Thomas Lehoux) and an Australian (Chris, who emphasised that he was merely ‘the lackey’), with good taste in music and even better taste in coffee. The boys have been dishing up beautifully sweet, richly flavored brews (using beans roasted in Paris by Télescope), from around the world since the café opened in September last year.

I sampled the café filtre and an espresso, a deliciously intense and succulently smooth 50% Guatemalan 50% Honduran blend (as well as a cute homely ‘brown paper wrapped school lunch’ style soft boiled egg, mayo and cress sandwich).

Ten Belles, two beaux and a lot of seriously great coffee – what more could a gal want.

And then there is Coutume Café, whose coffee is out of this world good, but that’s another story for another day…

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t profess be an expert on the subject of coffee – indeed I have measured out my life more in wine glasses than coffee spoons, but I’d like to think I know a thing or two about a good brew. And these three cafés certainly offer that.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

My older brother, lets call him Thyme Burton, and his fiancée, the gorgeous Helena Bonham-Tartare were the latest antipodes to brace the guerre of Gare du Nord and arrive on my doorstep in search of culinary adventures.  And, knowing Thyme’s weakness for degustations (which he affectionately terms ‘degos’), I booked us into Restaurant Akrame, the Michelin star venture by chef Akrame Benallal, where tasting menus are the rule rather than the exception.

I had high hopes for this slick little restaurant nestled in a side street a stone’s throw from the bustling Arc de Triomphe, with Benallal having previously worked under the likes of Pierre Gagnaire, Alain Soliveres and Ferran Adria, and despite a few metaphorical hiccups I left impressed.

After being warmly welcomed into the cosy, albeit very modern dining room, with its muted colour scheme, black leather chairs and perfectly aligned pink orchids, we were given a delicious selection of amuse bouches to munch on while we sipped our champagne, and asked which sized menu we would prefer – the larger menu with matching wines obviously.

The first course, a perfectly gooey soft boiled egg which arrived all dolled up in a decadently creamy tonka bean butter and topped off with a little pile of finely desiccated cashew nuts on the side, had a sort of high class nasi goreng-esque taste about it.  A good egg. A very good egg indeed.

Next up was a homage to the humble tomato – the fruit that should have been a vegetable.  A simple mixed tomato salad with an unnecessary but acceptable touch of raspberry came accompanied with an exceptionally clear and rather strange, but nonetheless impressively tasty, cold fizzy tomato consommé. It had pizazz, I liked it.

And then came the cockle course.  I am a big fan of the clam family, and the idea of cockles basking in a fleur d’oranger foam sounded brilliant. And they were tasty, very, very tasty…but for the mouthful of sand we all encountered as we took our first bite.  Sand is only acceptable when it is at the Fat Duck and it is actually crispy fried panko crumbs posing as sand. Real sand is not okay, ever.

Nope, this dish didn’t exactly warm the cockles of my heart.

On the upside, the matching ‘wine’, a clean, crisp strangely orange coloured white (“oh yeah I’ve seen this before, a white done like a red” I said, pretending to sound learned) with hints of marzipan, was fabulous. Even more so when the very friendly sommelier revealed it was actually sake.

Up next was a delicious morsel of lobster hidden under a wafer thin slither of spice encrusted radish. “Ah I get it now” proclaimed Thyme Burton, with no hint of sarcasm, as he crunched his little gritty radish between his teeth, “the grit’s intentional…it’s like a grit degustation.” Indeed the use of texture is a very important sensory pleasure in cuisine, but I am not sure a grit degustation is the effect Benallal was going for.  In any event, the lobster was very good.

Still on the marine theme, next came a beautiful little steak of coal encrusted swordfish with its sumptuous side of creamy risotto.  This is one lump of coal I would happily find under the christmas tree – it was cooked to perfection; fresh, succulent and so divinely flavoursome, the plate was mopped clean with the ever-replenished stock of deliciously warm crusty bread in 5 seconds flat.

After a beautifully presented, and very moreish little lemon sorbet to cleanse the palate, we moved onto the meat course with a pigeon from Brittany.  The pigeon which arrived with its beetroot smear (oh how I hate that word), beetroot sauce, freshly julienned beetroot, and, last but not least, the side bowl containing a larger portion of beetroot smear which was vaguely reminiscent of the ‘freshly slaughtered’ venison from L’Autre Pied.  But it was deliciously tender, and the beetroot was a perfect, although I dare say somewhat overbearing, marriage partner. It wasn’t so well married with Thyme’s beautifully tailored Smalto shirt, which is unfortunately where half of his ended up.

Although well trained in degustations, by this time, Helena Bonham-Tartare, Thyme Burton and I were feeling the effects of the previous 7 courses, and we all agreed that one dessert and we would be done.  But we were far from the finish line.

A beautifully subtle and creamy dollop of goats cheese with tid-bits of fresh and dried fig, toasted brioche and honey was quickly overshadowed by a decadently oozing species of chocolate fondant with its dusty chocolate hat, and a scoop of yuzu ice-cream resting on some sort of crumbled biscuity delight followed suit.

But the pièce de résistance was without a doubt the unbelievably moreish banana halves stuffed with a peanut mixture that was at once salty and sweet and smooth and indescribably amazing, especially when it was dunked into the buttery caramel sauce that accompanied it. Heavenly.  Divine. Please sir can I have some more.

All of us were bursting at the seams 4 dishes prior, but every morsel on every single dessert plate was greedily licked clean – such is the sign of a good restaurant, and a great chef.

There may have been a few misgivings, but I would happily grit my teeth and bare them for another dinner at Akrame.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

Mulling over a café crème and a sneaky scone at trendy concept store and cafe Merci that morning, little Burrata and I began reminiscing about the amazing restaurants we have been to over the years (counting our lucky Michelin stars you may say).  It was like reciting a list of lovers; Brett Graham was banging, Andoni Aduriz was a tad too quirky, Gordon Ramsay was sensational (and with his 13 course degustation we were at it all night long), while Alain Passard’s famous argan oil “sausage” was, well, a bit of a flop. Where would Joël fit in?

On arriving at the dark Saint Germain atelier we were ushered in by the extremely effusive team (happy “bonjour’s” being thrown at us from every direction) to our seats at the counter that encircles the avant-gardesque open kitchen, complete with its primary colour schemed installations and futuristic hanging pot plants.  Communal counter service like this often doesn’t work in restaurants, and when you are forking out a lot of money (pardon the pun), private tables seem more haute couvert. But at L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon the open seating seems only to add to the experience.  Indeed by the end of the lunch I had even been invited on a culinary tour of Brussels, including an open invitation to stay at the home of the lovely lady sitting next to me (at which point she received a very unsubtle under-the-table kick from her not so hospitable husband).

Our main waiter for the meal was a charming, chatty Frenchman named Julian; who managed to get the balance between professional attentiveness and hilariously sarcastic French humour spot on.  Following Julian’s advice we picked two of the small (I use this term loosely) degustation plates and a main each.

First up (that is, after our complimentary charcuterie board – pulling out an SLR and dropping the Lenôtre line never hurts) was Le Gyoza - à la plancha, farcie de volaille dans son bouillon au parfum d’Asie.  These perfectly seared little poultry stuffed dumplings bathing in a fantastically flavoured exotic Asian broth were as delicious to the mouth as they were to the eye.

Next up for Linguine Lohan and I was La Langoustine – en ravioli truffé à l’étuvée de chou vert (truffled crayfish ravioli with steamed green cabbage).  Could ingredients like that ever be wrong? No probably not, but that said one probably couldn’t get it much more right either. The delicate ravioli, subtle sauce and buttery sweet cabbage were perfectly balanced to allow the beautiful freshness of the langoustine to take centre stage.

However nothing could have prepared us for the taste sensation that was Burrata Obama’s Le Burger – au foie gras et sa sauce aux aromates.  One bite of these scrumptiously sinful sliders and Burrata’s cheshire cat grin told us everything.  The tender, juicy meat, the sweet, potent foie gras, the home-made tomato chutney, the crunchy hand-cut chips…FOOD ENVY.

For mains I chose the special of the day, a beautifully fresh, lightly grilled fillet of sole which was delicately and niftily filleted before my eyes.  Judging by the two very French ladies next door, this was apparently a dish that was meant to be shared, but that must have been lost in translation (selective hearing?).  In any event I made sure it didn’t go to waste.

Burrata Obama went for Le Black Angus – coeur d’onglet fondant, aux échalotes confites. As I have previously mentioned, onglet,  the former underdog of meat cuts, has been getting quite a lot of air time of late – and I think this is a very good thing.  Incredibly tender slices of angus steak that cut like butter with a sweet shallot confit was a marriage made in heaven.

However Linguine Lohan took out the prize for the best main, with her La Caille – farcie de foie gras et caramelisée avec une pomme purée trufée (caramelised foie gras stuffed quail with truffled potato purée). Crispy, sweet caramelised quail on the outside, soft melting morsels of foie gras on the inside and accompanied by a side of creamy potato puree that was flattened under the weight of generous slithers of truffle. Pure contentment.

However perhaps one of the most memorable points of the meal was the never-ending supply of Joël’s famous mash.  Each of our mains came complete with a not-so-little ramekin of unfairly creamy, utterly orgasmic potato mash, which was, despite (weak) protestations, refilled as soon as it was emptied.  It was like the up-market gourmande’s version of the refillable McDonald’s coca cola.

The first time it was funny, the second time borderline OTT, but by the third time, it was just plain unnecessary.  On the (very generously offered) private tour of the kitchen that I was taken on half way through the meal, Julian even forced one of the poor chefs to make up the mash from scratch in front of me (to prove to me that the unbelievably creamy texture was the product of an old fashioned hand held whisk).

For desserts, too full off mash to think about consulting a menu (though obviously not enough to skip desserts), we left it to Julian to decide.  “Any requests or allergies?” he asked.  “Oh, um, Linguine Lohan, doesn’t like fruit…when it touches other fruit.” Julian didn’t even roll his eyes. He simply noted the bizarre request as if I had said she was allergic to lactose and off he went.

Fifteen minutes later he came back back with two waiters and three plates containing every dessert off the menu in miniature form.  There was an unctuous layered choclate ganache, a perfectly puffed passion fruit soufflé, a sweet exotically spiced sorbet, an apple cider jelly and its foamed friend, a lychee sponge with fresh raspberries, and a millefeuille of mango fruit jelly with marmalade discs and mini merignues – to name a few.

The cherry on the cake (one of the many) of this ooh la la amazing dessert was the complimentary subtly peach flavoured crispy cold, bubbly glass of Moscato D’Asti.

As we contemplated our espressos (served with very unnecessary mini madeleines and cellophane wrapped salted caramel butters – along with an extra little goody bag supply to go) Julian looked over at our tired faces and bursting buttons and nodded with a knowing smile “ah, I see you have encountered ‘the Joël effect’“ .

In my long list of epicurean escapades, Joël easily ranks among the best.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

L’Autre Pied, the cleverly named offshoot of David Moore and Shan Osborne’s two Michelin star Pied à Terre, opened its doors in 2007 with a team headed by the talented Marcus Eaves, who has since passed the baton on to the equally capable young chef Andy McFadden.

The restaurant is certainly more relaxed than its sibling, with its informal, convivial atmosphere, friendly service and flower and fruit printed olive green walls, but the fare is anything but casual.

The sparse deconstructivist menu laden with bizarre ingredients (Larousse Gastronomique reference book required) that makes you feel like you are reciting a foodie’s shopping list, and the little puffs of ‘flavoured’ foam that found their way onto every plate struck me as all a bit 2004.  However, that aside, the marriage of flavours, textures and colours that McFadden produced in each dish was impeccable. And lets face it, that is what really counts, n’est-ce pas?

Our bouches were certainly amused by the fluffy, creamy, roasted-seed and black quinoa topped cucumber mousse that accompanied our aperitif – just the thing to cool the palate and whet the appetite.

The entrée pick of the night went to me with my divine hand rolled garganelli. The perfectly al dente pasta encasing a delicate shredded crab which moseyed amongst sweet crisp broad beans and warm crunchy almonds was over all too quickly.

Brad Pitta went for the two-way mackerel. A crispy char-grilled fillet and its butter soft tartare partner atop a bed of multi-coloured sweet heritage tomatoes and sorrel. Certainly no complaints there.

A menu mix-up meant that Yummy Mummy and The Eton Mess were served foie gras instead of their scottish scallop ceviche, but the apologies were profuse, the two dishes of roasted foie gras were added compliments of the chef and the deliciously fresh scallop ceviche appeared shortly thereafter paired with fluffy black quinoa, tiny dollops of creme fraiche, crispy succulent radishes and a hint of fresh dill.

Before Yummy Mummy could finish saying “We honestly don’t need to keep the foie gras” Brad Pitta and The Eton Mess had all but devoured the two plates of the sweet roasted delicacy which was accompanied by glazed endive, toasted grains, tea marinated prunes and nutmeg.

For mains Sienna Millet, Yummy Mummy and I ordered the English grass fed spring lamb, served with glazed aubergine, raz el hanout and manzanilla.  The ingredients were dotted around the plate like awkward teenagers at a gathering, but nonetheless this was a party I most enjoyed attending. The herb crusted lamb was succulent, tender and perfectly pink.  The crunchy roll next door, which The Eton Mess described as “the most epic gourmet lamb sausage roll ever” was a strangely perfect accompaniment to the morsel of what tasted like sticky sweet and sour chinese BBQ lamb and the delicately glazed aubergines hanging out around the edge with little green olives created an amazingly orchestrated explosion of the senses.

Always one for a bit of game, The Eton Mess went for the loin of roe deer cooked in cocoa and served with black rice, crapaudine beetroot, tapioca and smoked bacon. The presentation was a tad scary, indeed it appeared as though the poor old roe deer had in fact been hit by a car on the plate, but the taste was, unsurprisingly, magical.

Brad Pitta’s poached megrim sole was delicately and deliciously executed with a light champagne and oyster veloute that was mopped clean with a scrumptious little homemade brioche.

The pave of devilishly decadent valrhona caramelia chocolate that followed with its posse of honeycomb, pistachio and tonka bean ice-cream was unfairly divine.

But the baked vanilla cheesecake topped with sweet, caramelised banana and served with mandarin sorbet, and blueberries was the real winner.  You know a good dessert when you hesitate ordering it as you are too full to justify eating any more, and then find yourself desperately scraping the film of cream cheese off the plate as the waiter is trying to take it away. This was the story with the light, tangy, caramelised, crunchy, buttery cheesecake that ended our daringly imaginative, yet undeniably scrumptious dinner at L’Autre Pied.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

L’Autre Pied

So what better place to celebrate the change of seasons than a meal at Restaurant Spring, led by chef Daniel Rose…or so we thought.

Since Dolly Tatin’s last visit I had been on the waiting list for the American chef’s much acclaimed second and apparently more ‘grown up’ restaurant in the 1st arrondissement, so needless to say I was very excited to receive a call to inform us that a table for two had become available that night.  “Are there any allergies we should know about, or anything that either you or your friend cannot eat?” the girl asked when I confirmed the reservation. “Well actually sorry to be a pain but my friend is highly allergic to seafood products. She is also a part time vegetarian, but she is desperate to come to Spring and is very happy to eat meat for the night.” There was a deafening silence and then…“I am sorry, there must be a misunderstanding, we only cater for people who actually appreciate food.”  Touché.

Twenty minutes and an enormous international phone bill later, I finally convinced the maître d’hôtel, the chef and a waiter to whom the phone had been passed in an attempt to persuade us not to come, to allow Dolly Tatin and I to eat at Spring that night.

Having been warned during our pre-dinner anti-allergy, anti-vegetarian tirade that we would have to be out of the restaurant by 9.30pm, we arrived 10 minutes early and apprehensively rung the doorbell like two naughty school girls waiting at outside the principals office. “I’m scared, they hate me already!” said Dolly Tatin. “Don’t be ridiculous” I huffed, “we are about to spend a fortune, they are hardly going to be rude to us”.  And at that moment, a young, very well dressed and very aloof maître d, who we will call Haughty Couture, opened the door, “I guess you are the party with the vegetarian who is allergic to fish and the self confessed foodie who eats EVERYTHING?” he sneered and ushered us through the empty restaurant, down the stairs and to an unmade table in the corner of the basement wine bar. “You mean this one?” I said, pointing to the table next to it which was appropriately decked out with cutlery, a pretty flower and a candle, “No no, that one there, we will make it up in a minute (sans pretty flower and candle I might add).”

On that note, seeing as we were early and table was unmade, we thought we would pop up to the bar and join the old French couple having an aperitif…or not; Haughty Couture was back in a flash, “No no no, you cannot have a drink, like I said we are very pressed for time with your reservation, if you would like a drink you can have it at the table with your food.”

And so the meal commenced.

First up for the gourmande was an array of small plates including a freshly shucked oyster with mint sorbet and a morsel of ‘gravlax’ trout.  The oyster was deliciously fresh and the peppery mint sorbet was a perfectly subtle and refreshing accompaniment.

The trout on the other hand was rather lacking.  Correct me if I am wrong but I have always been under the impression that ‘gravlax’ indicates that the fish has been cured in salt, sugar and dill.  However this little slither appeared to have left the house without dressing –  like the discerning child in The Emperor’s New Clothes, I wanted to shout, “but he isn’t wearing anything at all!”

For the demanding Dolly Tatin, the chef had very kindly prepared a vegetarian menu which started with two asparagus courses;  soft white asparagus stems served with a traditional drawn butter and parsley sauce, followed by crispy fresh green asparagus stems topped with rocket, dill and parsley and served with a balsamic reduction to match my second course of cripsy red mullet with an interesting side of sea urchin.

Unlike the lucky NY Times writer whose review I had excitedly read before going to Spring, from our basement corner we were unable to view the open kitchen which permits Mr. Rose to “charm guests with his menschy bonhomie”.  Ah well, at least the “rock and roll crowd” that supposedly frequents the den was present; I have no doubt the long table of 70 year old American ladies who were our soul companions for the evening definitely would have been rocking around the clock in the 1950s…

My third course consisted of a portion of a crisp skinned rosy pink (as it should be) magret de canard (duck) with a decent sized dollop of tasty foie gras and little white chive topped radishes. However the plate could have done without the supplementary fatty cut of canard which was grisly and tough. Quite frankly by that point I wasn’t really in the mood to chew the fat.

Meanwhile Dolly Tatin indulged in an artichoke soup enveloping morsels of fresh artichoke, a dollop of pesto, a spattering of crunchy croutons and topped with a handful of jeunes pousses.

The fare thus far had been innovative (unpredictable?) so I was interested (apprehensive?) to see what tricks Rose had next up his sleeve…

Hmmm what to feed someone who arrogantly claims they eat everything? After an oyster, a piece of trout, a side of sea urchin, a topping of fish roe, a seignant duck and a touch of foie gras, I guess it was a no brainer…

So like Hannibal Lecter with his victim’s liver, I started on my fourth course, a plate of brains with some fava beans and a nice chianti, although unlike Hannibal Lecter the foam at my mouth was slightly more molecularly gastronomic.

Meanwhile Dolly Tatin was tucking into her girolles, with fava beans and a nice chianti.  It was almost quite cute, as though they had chosen the vegetarian item that most resembled brain so I didn’t feel left out.  Yet I did.  Even worse, I was green like a fava bean with envy.

As soon as I had finished picking my brains, the deserts arrived…all 6 of them.

I won’t lie, these deserts were good, but, hard as it is to believe, even I find it hard to consume 6 deserts at one time – as we were tucking into the ganache filled chocolate balls, the two serves of goats cheese sorbet were suffering the effects of climate change, while the mini Eton Mess was turning into an Eton Sprawl.

The little sablé biscuits would have been the perfect accompaniment to a mint tea, but alas as Haughty Couture reminded us 3 times throughout the meal, we were on a very tight schedule.

As we were paying the bill, Haughty Couture sauntered over and informed us that, by the way, the reservation after us had been cancelled (I am assuming the same went for the two tables next to us as well) and that we could stay as long as we wanted.  Unsurprisingly, we decided to call it a night.

It might have been Spring, but this restaurant was as cold as ice.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

So with sister Sienna Millet and her local London beau, lets call him The Eton Mess, in tow I trotted off to Brett Graham’s two Michelin star adorned establishment in Notting Hill, The Ledbury for the 9 (but it was really 11) course tasting menu and matching wine flight.  The Ledbury offers an à la carte menu as well, but for a special occasion (or, as in our case, to titillate a tiresome Tuesday), going the full monty is definitely worth every penny.

The journey began with a glass of bubbly and mouthwatering complimentary “pre-amuse bouche” of mini tarts topped with foie gras, goats cheese and cumquat jam.  A very memorable ménage à foie indeed.

These were swiftly followed by an amaze-bouche consisting of a miniature perfectly soft-boiled quail’s egg wrapped in a crunchy nest, topped with shaved truffle and resting on a purée of Jerusalem artichoke.

Next up was the Cornish oyster chantilly and tartare with icy shaved horseradish and dill, along with its batter-half, the tempura oyster in shell with seaweed crisps, which were paired with a 2010 Lagar de Costa Albariño, from Rias Baixas, Spain. Ever since an incident in a French market where an overzealous fish vendor coerced me to try my first oyster at 9am on a hungover Sunday the smell of oysters has made me clam-up, so to speak.  However this little mélange was magical. The soft peachy aromas of the light Albariño perfectly complemented the richness of the chantilly and allowed the subtle flavours of the tartare to shine through.

The first fish course, a flame grilled mackerel with smoked eel, celtic mustard and shiso served with a crisp 2010 Grüner Veltliner, Gebling, Sepp Moser, from Kremstal, Austria was a team favourite.  The smoked eel and cucumber roll, a moreish mix of smoked eel, crispy shallots, crème fraîche and a hint of horseradish housed in a delicate transparent cucumber sheet, was the perfect accompaniment to the mouthwatering mackerel.

Heavenly hand rolled macaroni stuffed with rabbit and celery basking in a velouté of toasted hay and truffle and matched with a 2008 Vin de Pays des Côtes Catalanes, Le Soula, Gérard Gauby et Associés from France was a welcome interlude to the two sumptuous seafood courses. The flavours were quirky and complex without being confused, and rich without being overbearing.  If this macaroni were a man I think I would want to date him.

Next up was came the fillet of sea bass with fennel, bergamot, liquorice and oat crusted mussels (which The Eton Mess claimed tasted like “the best little crunchy non-chicken chicken nuggets ever”).  Unsurprisingly the fillet itself was amazing, but the wine it was paired with, a bottle of 2008 A.A. Badenhorst Family Wines, from South Africa was the show-stopper. A blend of Chenin Blanc, Roussanne, Greanche Blanc, Viognier, Verdehlo and Chardonnay, it was like a seasonal stone fruit salad, at once sweet and punchy, and as refreshing and colourful as its label. A perfect finale to the whites.

With the wine flights taking us from Austria to Australia, and from Spain to South Africa, with a French and Italian stopover ahead, by the time the meat courses came (Berkshire Muntjac served two ways), we were certainly a table of happy travellers; The Eton Mess was making witty quips in Latin, while our dinner companion was describing how his Iranian mother claims that they can cook everything better in Iran (“I think she would even try to claim that they do a better smoked eel stuffed transparent cucumber sheet, or a more moreish Muntjac”).  Well certainly a more Moorish one anyway.

The first morsel of Muntjac was the incredibly tender slow cooked shoulder with parsley root, pear and a sweet juniper jus served with a 2005 Côtes du Rhône, lieu-dit-Clavin, Domaine de la Vieille Julienne from France.

Then came the second serving of Muntjac. “Whats this one again” I asked? “The face of Deer I think” said The Eton Mess, as if Dior had branched off into animal wear and the Muntjac was the postergirl for this season’s campaign. It was actually the loin, roasted to perfection in douglas fir. And with friends liked earthy white beetroot, red wine leeks and crispy smoked bone marrow, it couldn’t go wrong.

In a sacrilegious act, we declined the cheese platter, which incidentally smelt horrendously good and moved straight to the caramelised banana galette with salted caramel and a peanut oil parfait served with a 2008 Recioto di Soave, Le Colombare, Pieropan, from Veneto, Italy. YUM.

An array of petit fours and a coffee finished off what was an exceptional and memorable evening.

I happily stumbled up the staircase, blaming my tight shoes (“I’m sure they swelled up on the wine flight”) for the four falls along the way (“sure sure blame the shoes not the booze”, quipped Sienna Millet) and fell, smiling, into a satiated slumber.

xoxo