Cracking good time at Prix Fixe bistrot.

Meandering through the wierd and not so wonderful world of the post-break up, heart still a touch battered and appetite on a whirlwind of ups and downs, I decided to amuse myself by exploring a little light-hearted internet dating.

Call it part social experiment, part desperate attempt to move on, part insanity.

So, blind date number one (and this is in no way meant to sound like there's hundreds of them lined up!), let's call him "A" to preserve the poor guy's anonymity, was at Prix Fixe Brasserie which is only appropriate as my date was French (anyone seeing a trend here?) and, thank heavens, not vegetarian.

Last time I ate here I don't think I'd ever even earned a pay check, although not much has changed, except they now serve Atlantic Rock Oysters (hurrah!) of which I ate five as my starter. Plump, sweet, large, perfectly good and not horrendously overpriced.

A opted for roasted foie gras (you can keep 40 virgins and God, when I die I want a bathful of this stuff) on toast. Actually, since we were too busy discussing my traumatic friday (neighbour jumping off roof, coma, police etc. average Brixton night) I never actually asked to taste it, but since he finished the lot, and hey, its roasted foie gras, I'll make a stab at it and say it was very good.

Mains were slow-roasted pork belly for me, with sauerkraut and apple relish. The slab of belly was humungous and the crispy skin so thick I nearly swerved it off my plate a few times, but quite scrumptious, although a smaller portion might have made me feel less like a hog myself.

A. had simple entrecote and frites on recommendation of the waiter who seemed to snub the filet. Again, yakking away as I do when I'm nervous, I totally missed the food exchange opportunity. So... probably a decent steak...

The fun came at the cheese course, where for almost ten pounds I got served a wedge of cheese small enough to mistake for a postage stamp but accompanied by enough cheese crackers to build a second leaning tower of Pisa. How I was supposed to divide my teeny cheese wedge onto so many crackers was beyond me, and I could see A. (scientist) eagerly making calculations in his head, but the mathematical conundrum that this cheese to cracker ratio presented was beyond all of us. It did provide quite a few laughs though, and the cheese, though small, was very good.

I won't bother telling you what A. had for pudding because AGAIN I failed to try any. Poor show on the Itinerant Epicure's behalf I must say...

But anyhow, the lot was washed down with a rather good New Zealand Jibe 2006 Pinot Noir and conversation flowed very nicely and we both have problems with mice in our houses and an inevitable Strasbourg connection (small world, getting smaller by the minute). So all in all a pleasant evening.

Which is good since I'm heading to Prix Fixe next week for my birthday dinner, which means I can try the steak and the foie gras and the dessert and actually report back properly as a good food blogger should and even take annoying photos of my dishes!

Now, must go and read that article on French Basque cuisine in the Guardian... the mind tries to move on but the heart doesn't so quickly...


PRIX FIXE
39 Dean StreetLondon
W1D 4PU
020 7734 5976

FROMAGE

VERSUS

Just a note to respond to many demands made to me by various French compadres I have met over the years about Britain's "lack of cheese". It turns out Britain produces over 700 varieties of cheese. We have 14 "Protected Origin" cheeses. So the French can stop complaining, we can wheel out the fromage just as well as they can. Stick that in your reblochon and smoke it! Merci.

Le Bouchon Bordelais - Un vrai bordel...

Le Bouchon Bordelais in Clapham boasts a great location, comes equipped with young, athletic, tanned, study-abroad-type waiters in crisp aprons, the requisit 10 irritating Parisians sat at the table at the back and the most ridiculously over-priced bar-snack menu this side of the Thames.
Yes, they show all the rugby you could possibly hope for. Yes, Ricard afficionados and expat Frenchies will lap it up and yes, it's probably the highest concentration of good-looking people you can get in Clapham, but this does not justify £9.50 for a plate of cheese consisting effectively of 5 shavings the size of a 1/4 Babybel and a single fig, quartered to give the illusion of abundance.
Similarly a plateau de charcuterie at a cool £10.50 - and by cool I mean the rillettes were rock solid and compacted together in a frozen lardy lump, also wasn't the best showcase of a country whose every village produces at least one variety of heavenly cured pig/goose/duck/animal poached in butter and fat until it becomes an unctuous patè from Paradise.
Maybe it was the fact yesterday's Clermont-Perpignan top 14 final was particularly boring. More than likely my spritely mood was scuppered by the constant drunken bellowing of one lone, hyper-active Clermont fan with severe ADHD and a 1000 decibel voice who not only felt it necessary to pound his own table with his feet/arms/head every time anyone with a yellow rugby shirt appeared on screen, but also everyone else's, resulting in shattered glass, sprays of beer and spittle and a slightly terrified looking Perpignan fan huddling under a wall-hanging hoping not to be found.
Indeed, it is hard to enjoy good-looking staff, sub-standard charcuterie and deep rugby analysis amongst friends when a gurning idiot is having a brain aneurism/epileptic fit brought on by extreme Clermont fanaticism right behind you.
Did I mention the £8.50 Moules (we're talking a starter portion here, and no, this isn't Chez Gérard)? Did I mention the Croque Monsieur at £6.50? I know the French claim that their version of a cheese toastie is some sort of gourmet culinary feat of immense achievement, but let's be honest: bread, ham and bechamel shoved in a toastie-maker should only cost £6.50 at the Savoy if it's served on a silver platter or drizzled with truffle oil.

AND YET! I shall no doubt return. Since they do have very good-looking waiters. And show rugby. And it's French. And I'm a sucker. And even sub-standard charcuterie can make me smile. As long as Clermont aren't playing.

Chais Nous - Le Blinding Bifstek.

If you're looking for crisp white tablecloths, stalker-like service and Chateau Lafite, look away now, book a cab to Pètrus and be prepared for an evening of smears, reductions and waiters who appear to have rods up their arses. If, however, you are looking for a melt-in-the-mouth, buttery, juicy, dribble-down-your-chin, fat Angus bavette, cooked to bloody perfection at a non-heart-attack inducing price, let Jérôme, the suitably unimpressed patron of Chais Nous, usher you in to his wee French haven tout-de-suite.

The great thing about this place is, a lot of English people think its "not French enough" precisely because it DOESN'T contain those horrendously twee bits of crap that most London French-style "bistrots" contain. In the same way as Irish pubs abroad all look suspiciously similar, and nothing like the spit and sawdust hovel you went to in deepest Limerick, so do most "cafè français" in London look like they came in an ikea box with the requisite "Pastis" posters and wicker chairs.

Chais Nous is so unadorned and unfussy and lacking in any kind of effort at selling itself as a French bar that it actually feels exactly like sitting in a street corner bar in a not very thrilling quartier of a small French town.

The telly will inevitably be showing some third division football game between two teams from places you've never heard of and in the corner, scarf-bedecked fans will be nodding and mumbling into their glasses of Ricard as another group of students behind you, probably from the Lycée Français round the corner, moan about how terrible everything in London is and discuss at length the best way to cook endives. How can you not love this!?!?!

There's a menu du jour and a plat du jour and if you don't like it you can stuff it. There's things like gizzard salad, "salade de gésiers", escargots swimming in garlic butter and tête de veau. Fred and I opted for the Bavette d'angus, and, joy of joys, when I asked for it "really saignant" they offered it to me "bleu" and I thanked the gods someone in this green and verdant land understands that cow should be served still mooing when it comes to the table and not fried to a crisp or blackened into a charcoal brick.

Sunny had a rather divine looking Filet Mignon de Porc in a mustard sauce that I'd have salivated over had I not drunk too much plonk and guzzled my steak like a starved beast.

So, instead of spending squillions at Le Gavroche (yeah, ok, I know there's no contest...) go and fill the modest coffers of the South Ken francophone community, catch up on all the latest gossip of the Luzenac FC, and get your nashers around a big plate of snails. Go on, you know you want to.

Chais Nous

21 Bute Street
London SW7 3EY

Tel: 0207 589 7311

Jean Christophe Novelli's Burger à la Michelin Star.

Yours truly chilling with "J.C"

Oui my little croissants, yesterday was spent in a glorious flurry of champagne-quaffing and celebrity chef hob-nobbing, whipping up a meat storm with cookery TV's Mr. Handsome: Jean Christophe Novelli. 

J.C, as we call him, ("we" being the 20-odd starry-eyed journalists swooning over cheddar cheese cubes) was at L'Atelier des Chefs

being "the face" of a new campaign by Flora to promote healthy heart awareness in Britain. Now, I'm always sceptical when it comes to celebrity chefs flogging supermarket food stuffs. Witness Marco Pierre White trying to convince me that the Knorr stock cube was his saving grace. 

The idea of Jean Christophe Novelli making roux at the Four Seasons using a pack of Flora marge just seemed wrong, in so many ways. That was until I nabbed one of the sugar-dusted biscuits proffered to us at the reception and experienced a blissful moment of orgasmic butteriness. Surely this delight couldn't have been made with dreaded margarine, could it? But yes! Evidemment!

So, it took precisely one biscuit and three words issuing from the mouth of Jean Christophe to convince me that Flora "butter" is nectar of the Gods and that I will forever more keep it within my arsenal of dastardly cooking must-haves.

Maybe not. But we did learn a lovely little trick for cooking mushrooms. Which is to NEVER use olive oil, as the mushrooms simply soak it up like a sponge, then release it all again in a river once they're on your plate. To cook a perfect mushroom, place them in a searing hot pan, coat with a teaspoon or two of melted butter (or Flora...) and shoogle them about to coat them thinly and evenly. Cook for about a minute like this, then add a soupspoon of water and cover, allowing them to steam and the butter to evaporate leaving only a delicious taste and moistness... C'est parfait!

On to the recipe! What did Michelin-starred Jean Christophe Novelli rustle up? Un hamburger, naturellement! No froths, jus, or glazes for us, mes amis, no wine reductions or fiddly stacks of julienne veggies. just a good, hearty, juicy, cheesy and oozing-goodness burger.

Jean Christophe Novelli's Family Favourite: Cheese and Mushroom burger.

Ingredients:

1 x 400g lean beef mince

1 medium onion

60g reduced fat cheddar cheese, diced

2 tspn English mustard

1 tblspn Worcestershire sauce

2 cloves of garlic, crushed

cracked black pepper

Combine all of the above ingredients in a bowl, knead well and divide into even-sized burgers.

2 beef tomatoes cut into four slices

1 small bread stick

2 tblspn Flora Buttery, melted

8 large portobello or flat cap mushrooms

cumin seeds

balsamic glaze

2 cloves garlic

fresh thyme

Cook the tomatoes in a very hot pan with a little Flora, seasoning with salt, pepper and garlic. Turn once and finish with a little balsamic glaze to sweeten.

Remove from the pan and leave to one side.

Trim the underneath of the mushrooms so they have a flat base. Season with pepper and melted Flora. Cook these in a hot dry pan, flat side down to start with, adding a little cumin seed if required. Turn over and cook on the other side but add a splash of water and voer with a lid. Keep warm.

To cook the burgers grill them for about 6-8 minutes turning a couple of times until cooked through. 

Toast the flattened slices of bread in a hot dry pan or toaster.

Stack your burger like this: slice of bread, mushroom, tomato, burger, tomato, mushroom, slice of bread. Skewer to hold it in place until ready to eat.

La Trouvaille - A Great Find in the Heart of Soho

A friend of mine introduced me to La Trouvaille a few months ago and since then, I seem to have wound up here once every two weekends, as if a large magnet lay at the heart of Carnaby Street and I was dressed in metal.

A slice of France in the heart of London there is nothing phoney or twee about this cosy retreat. The staff are all French, the wine list is serious, the food is simple and good with proper French dishes and they do a lot to promote organic wines from the South West regions of France through organised wine tasting evenings which are always very well attended.

I have only eaten in the downstairs wine bar which has a short menu perfect for sharing with friends. Prices are perhaps a little over what you'd normally pay but the food is of a high standard. £10.50 gets you a delicious and abundant assiette de charcuterie and two kinds of fresh baked bread. Or choose from a cheese platter served with truffle honey. The tartiflette, an indulgent oven-baked dish of potato slivers topped with creamy, pungeant reblochon cheese and cubes of bacon is perfect for winter.

The wine list offers plenty of choice by the glass and the staff are knowledgeable about the regions and types of wine and how to pair them.

If you drop your business card in their box at the entrance you're in for a chance to win an evening of wine tasting. However, you can also simply book a spot, although places go very quickly as it is an especially popular event. Hosted on Monday nights, each month will explore a different region or vineyard which specialises in biodynamic, organic wines. You'll learn about organic wine production as well as the characteristics of each tipple.
£15 gets you six wines and canapés.

This is a great place to take a date, or for a wine, cheese and charcuterie sharing with friends. It's perfect for unwinding after a heady shopping session on Oxford or Regent Streets as it is literally around the corner, but quiet and removed from the rush. One to add to your "slow food" London restaurant list.

La Trouvaille

12A Newburgh Street
London W1
020 7287 8488

The Celtic Connection - La P'tite Folie in Edinburgh

I may be a distant descendant of the Pictish warriors that made up Clan Gunn, and my mother might hail from the more insalubrious districts of Glasgow, but this couldn't stop the Jamieson family venturing as far as Scotland's capital only to wind up lunching in a Breton restaurant. There we were, falling over ourselves to impress the waiter with our gutteral "r" rolling, making those knowledgable grunts of satisfaction only fine connoisseurs can muster as we perused the wine list and freezing our backsides off as we'd been placed by the front door.

La P'tite Folie on Frederick Street is a small, intimate affair, but its airy high-ceilinged room means you don't feel you're sitting on your neighbour's lap. It bears enough gallic memorabilia on its walls to appear genuine rather than those "buy in a box" rustic Provençal places where you can barely take a step without bashing your head against a hanging empty wine flagon or low-flying Bayonne ham.

Dad ordered le steak frites, cooked "medium" - shudder! The meat was tasty and tender, despite being far too brown much for my liking (if it ain't still mooing, don't bring it to my table). The frites were nothing to write home about, but crispy and freshly made and overall perfectly satisfying.

I started with a mini steak tartare, topped with a quail's egg. It felt for a moment as if the sole purpose of a quail's existence on Earth was to provide eggs conveniently small enough to top miniature versions of this bistro classic. The meat was of excellent quality, with just enough chopped cornichons to add a bite but not overwhelm. The egg was just enough to soften the consistency and not transform the meat into beef mayonnaise.

I continued with haddock poached in white wine au beurre blanc. This was frankly a tad disappointing as the fish was clearly right off the boat that morning, but had been slightly overdone giving a rubbery quality that didn't match the smooth sauce. It was full of flavour however and well matched with the lemoniness of the beurre blanc. Potatoes and mange-tout accompanied the lot.

Mum got the pick of the bunch with her confit de canard poached in red wine, the meat was falling off the bones before she even picked up the fork and the punch of the wine enhanced the sweetness of the duck. The mussels she started with would have been more exciting with the garlic butter and toasty breadcrumbs they were supposed to come with, but that's what Weight watchers will do to you, make you deny the joyous sins of BEURRE in all its forms - mum shunned the garlicky normandy butter salé and the result was a bowl of acceptable, but tame Moules Marinières.

We washed the whole lot down with a bottle of Chilean Cabernet Sauvigon then proceeded to dessert. I had crème brulée which was good, but not more. Dad had a dubious looking mint sponge which I admit to not trying (funny how that damn small quail's egg tipped me over the edge of the cream/dairy/egg content of the day).

All in all the meal was proper french food the way I remember it, with not a whiff of phoniness, of trying too hard or with dodgy wall stencils of men in berets wheeling baguettes about on bicycles.

They also have a branch in the West End at Tudor House, with a slightly tweaked menu and an expansive wine bar for the pre-theatre crowd.

La P'tite Folie

0131 225 7983

61 Frederick Street

Edinburgh

0131 225 8678

Tudor House, 9 Randolph Place

Edinburgh

What to do with leftover pigeon! Merci Elizabeth David.

I absolutely adore game, from duck to venison, to wild boar to capon, to hare to partridge. I spent my childhood holidays among Devon farmers every summer who, alongside raising and slaughtering their own sheep, cows, hens and chickens, also went hunting to provide game for local butchers. Kids growing up on farms seem to have such a better understanding of and respect for good food, the proper treatment of livestock and animals, and a greater pride in local produce.

Some of the best meals I've ever had were game based. A thick, almost syrupy wild boar stew in a hunter's retreat in the Andalucian mountains near Jerez, venison sausages with sage mash at home, rabbit and cider stew in Devon.

This weekend mum bought a brace of pigeons from a good game butcher in Sevenoaks. We stewed them in the oven and ate them with bitter cranberry sauce, nutty mushrooms sautéed in butter and swede mash.

Not wanting to throw the bones out, I made a rich pigeon stock with some chopped celery, carrot and onion, two tomato halves and a half tub of tomato passata as well as chopped fresh parsley. The result was a thick, rich, very meaty stock and I wasn't sure what to do next with it.

Enter Elizabeth David, doyenne of British cooking and absolute Expert (note the capital E) on French cuisine. I whipped out her bible of french provincial cooking and, since I had a pack of fresh beetroot in the fridge and had always wanted to cook it from fresh, I looked beetroot up in the book.

Beetroot consommé using a thick game broth. Perfect! My prayers answered!

I diced up three beetroot into small chunks and added them to the simmering pigeon broth for 30 minutes, before skimming the fat from the top of the broth, straining the broth to remove the beetroot and ending with a clear, ruby red, pungeant consommé with just a few beads of golden fat glistening on the top.

Served topped with a few chives, or some parsley and a dollop of crème fraiche and voilà!

Magnifique!