Corrigan's, Mayfair - a wet Wednesday night in January
I have to confess that I lurked outside the door of Corrigan's for several minutes feeling like a fourth-former waiting outside the head's office for a bollocking. Perhaps it was the carpet on the steps leading up to the restaurant (does someone actually hoover it?), or maybe it was just that the place looked generally too posh and intimidating for a nondescript female of slender means (but not personage).
I took courage from the fact that the night was young (just after 6.30 pm to be precise) and the place deserted, and that in the midst of a credit crunch, surely a few bob would be welcome even from the likes of Wurzel Gummidge. So I sidled in as unobtrusively as possible and requested "a table for one". (I always attempt to utter these words in a tone of ringing confidence, but they invariably seem to emerge in a craven whisper that suggests I am terribly sorry to put them out, and do feel free to sit me down next to the gents' toilet, and prop the door open with the bog brush whilst they are at it.)
The impossibly glamorous blonde girl with the pen and the Bob Cratchit ledger studied the latter gravely and then told me that as long as I was out by nine I could be accommodated. I sneaked a look round the cavernous interior, as yet entirely deserted, and assured her that by 9 p.m. I would be tucked up in bed watching the telly. She tried not to laugh and handed me over to another sublimely soigné individual, who seated me at a perfectly nice table nowhere near a toilet, but next to a lamp with ostrich legs and feathers but no head. I wondered if ostrich featured on the menu.
Numerous waiters wandered round looking supremely efficient and starched to the eyeballs. You only had to glance at the entire staff to know, with certainly, that there was not a single of flake of dandruff between the lot of them. A lovely young French lad made an appearance, all smiles, and I felt I would have been quite happy to adopt him or failing that, coat him in thyme and breadcrumbs and serve him pink.
Just as I began to think I had been transported to Stepford, a few reassuring little cracks appeared. Human beings did work here after all! I had ordered fish soup, and it arrived followed by a plate of undistinguished amuse bouches. When my bouche was already giddy with enjoyment. And when I had almost finished, bread, with some creamy, luscious unsalted butter. Heavenly bread, which was said to be soda bread by one of the Stepford brigade, but was totally unlike the putty-coloured doorstop dished up by my Aunt Julia in County Mayo. This was dark brown and speckled, moist, moreish and possibly more addictive than the stuff people pay good money to shove up their noses. But it should have come earlier. Much earlier.
The fish soup itself was quite simply the best I have ever had, better than the many bowlsful I have polished off in St Malo, Cancale, and various parts of the Brittany coast. It came in a plain white bowl, a rusty-coloured pool of fishy intensity with a depth of crustacean flavours, a crabby, shellfishy concoction to make one give thanks for living on an island. Every spoonful sang in the mouth. With it there was a bowl of garlic mayonnaise and a couple of perfectly golden, crisp slices of toasted French bread (three would have been better). I tried to make it last, I resisted the urge to lift the whole bowl up to mouth level and slurp it down, and I even managed to swallow the shrieks of delight that threatened to emerge after each spoonful. But I failed to curb the idiot grin that spread across my face, a grin that I was completely unaware of until the couple at the next table started to look at me nervously and mutter. In fact, if the Stepfords had carried in George Clooney reclining on a silver salver and clad only in a strategically-placed crouton, I am afraid I would have reached for the crouton and slathered on the last spoonful of mayonnaise.
At this point the man himself (Corrigan, not Clooney) emerged from the kitchen and sat down with a group of people at the table across the room, a picture of bonhomie. Here was the creator of this paragon of soups, a soup I would gladly eat every day of my life and never tire of. I briefly contemplated making an offer of marriage, discounted it immediately and then weighed up the possibility of kidnapping. With a smaller, lighter chef it might have been an option but this man clearly enjoyed his food - as who would not?
The smiling French lad appeared and enquired if everything was all right. I told him that should I ever be on Death Row, this would be my last order the night before the needle. He looked mystified, as well he might, not being aware that plans had almost been afoot to incarcerate his boss and force him to produce fish soup for all eternity to satisfy the appetites of a crazed Polyanna.
With reluctance I turned to my game suet pudding. Not because it was a disappointment but because the fish soup was now but a memory. The pudding was actually a thing of beauty in its own right, but compared with the soup it was like following Jane Austen with Bridget Jones. It was light, and the thin but plump little mound of suet pastry - full of tender morsels of game - sat in a bowl of rich brown gravy. Very nice. The buttered kale was fine. But the urge to sandbag the chef and drag him back to a hidden lair equipped with a fully-fitted kitchen (and an endless supply of conical sieves) was fading. And a good job too. If I had been able to afford the partridge, it might have been next stop Holloway.
I passed on the desserts, fearing not just the calorie content but the possibility of a life of crime.
I drank a glass of Chablis with the soup and one of Minervois with the game pudding.
The bill came to fifty quid, which seemed quite a lot (but then I am a Yorkshirewoman).
Verdict: value for money - 8/10 service - 7/10 (marked down for the bizarre mix-up over the amuse bouches and the bread) quality of food - 9/10 overall (15/10 for the soup or up there with the angels)
Le Boudin Blanc, Shepherd Market - the following night
Busy, buzzing and much less formal than Corrigan's, this place was full to bursting by 7 pm on the Thursday night I ate there. They managed to squeeze me in and I ordered, guess what, fish soup, more to simply reassure myself that the sublime concoction of the previous night really had been that good.
This time the bread arrived smartly, and the soup followed without much of a delay. With it was some not very gutsy rouille, some rather bland gruyere and some croutons, and it was all perfectly OK. The soup was fine, exactly the same standard as I last had in Granville in a restaurant overlooking the harbour. But it did not make me want to jump on the table and do a song and dance routine.
The confit of duck with a chorizo cassoulet was also pretty good, the skin crispy, the duck meltingly tender. There was possibly a little too much of the cassoulet and the beans could have done with an extra half an hour of cooking, but overall it was a toothsome plateful. With a side order of spinach, and a couple of glasses of wine, I ended up with a bill of forty quid, which is probably good value for Mayfair. And the place itself was jolly, with bags of atmosphere and a buzz.
Verdict: value for money - 8/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 8/10
Friday, January 23, 2009
Friday, December 26, 2008
Christmas 2008
Roast at Borough Market
There were a lot of happy, smiling Christmas revellers at Roast on the day of my visit and it wasn't long before I was one of them. As a fully paid-up carnivore, there was nothing not to like about the place, and plenty of lovely meaty choices to go at. Though I did start with crabcakes and squid, and jolly nice they were too, the squid being very rapidly cooked in a crunchy, crispy coating so that it was perfectly tender. I hate the overcooked rings of inner tube normally dished up as squid but this was the real deal and the crabcakes were yummy little morsels too.
I am happy to say that the belly pork (yes, how predictable I am) was pretty much up to my own standard, tender, moist and rich, cooked so that the fat had melted away and the crackling was, well, cracking. I can also report that the partridges were perfectly cooked as colleague to the left of me ordered them and was somewhat overfaced by the two that appeared so I helped out. There is nothing quite like gnawing on a partridge leg to get one in a Christmassy mood, not a pear tree in sight and a bloody good job too.
Side dishes of veg were universally liked, the red cabbage being a particular favourite. When it came to puddings most of us were too stuffed to even contemplate the menu but I managed a few darkly degenerate spoonfuls of chocolate pot, again to help out a work colleague (I call it teambuilding myself - and now have the waistband to prove it) and it packed enough of a cocoa punch to satisfy even me.
I didn't pay or even see the bill so it would be unfair to give marks out of ten, but I will simply conclude by saying that if anyone out there is going to Roast and wants an extra body to make up the numbers, GET IN TOUCH NOW.
And the view from the windows, no matter where you sit, is great.
There were a lot of happy, smiling Christmas revellers at Roast on the day of my visit and it wasn't long before I was one of them. As a fully paid-up carnivore, there was nothing not to like about the place, and plenty of lovely meaty choices to go at. Though I did start with crabcakes and squid, and jolly nice they were too, the squid being very rapidly cooked in a crunchy, crispy coating so that it was perfectly tender. I hate the overcooked rings of inner tube normally dished up as squid but this was the real deal and the crabcakes were yummy little morsels too.
I am happy to say that the belly pork (yes, how predictable I am) was pretty much up to my own standard, tender, moist and rich, cooked so that the fat had melted away and the crackling was, well, cracking. I can also report that the partridges were perfectly cooked as colleague to the left of me ordered them and was somewhat overfaced by the two that appeared so I helped out. There is nothing quite like gnawing on a partridge leg to get one in a Christmassy mood, not a pear tree in sight and a bloody good job too.
Side dishes of veg were universally liked, the red cabbage being a particular favourite. When it came to puddings most of us were too stuffed to even contemplate the menu but I managed a few darkly degenerate spoonfuls of chocolate pot, again to help out a work colleague (I call it teambuilding myself - and now have the waistband to prove it) and it packed enough of a cocoa punch to satisfy even me.
I didn't pay or even see the bill so it would be unfair to give marks out of ten, but I will simply conclude by saying that if anyone out there is going to Roast and wants an extra body to make up the numbers, GET IN TOUCH NOW.
And the view from the windows, no matter where you sit, is great.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Spa town blues
Oxford Street Brasserie, Harrogate
Apropos the last review, these were the very waiting staff. A young lad who was keen to please but seemed unsure of himself, and a women who gave the impression that she couldn't give a toss, quite frankly, are not the best combination for a restaurant with these prices. Suffice to say that a goat's cheese salad was supplied by a caprine so Lilliputian that one almost needed a microscope to find it on the plate. When it arrived (thankfully not on the table setting in front of me) we all had to resist the urge to burst into guffaws - and then tears. No wonder the miniscule bread rolls disappeared instantly (and were not replaced until asked for, repeatedly).
A ham hock terrine (£6.50) was not particularly hammy or in any way memorable (though at least there was more than one mouthful of it). The only starter that was clearly passing muster was a risotto with lobster or some such, and I vaguely remember that it was the most expensive one ordered. My slow-cooked belly pork was OK, but longer cooking still would have rendered out the remaining fat and made the pork more tender. In short, the stuff I cook at home is miles better. And it costs a fraction of the fourteen quid charged here.
The beef fillet at 25 quid was supposed to be served with truffles but they were of the shy and retiring variety, though the beef itself apparently was "tender". Ah, tenderness - we all need some of that. But doesn't a woman expect that bit more at the top end of the market? At 25 pounds for a portion I would have wanted mine to stride out of the sea like Daniel Craig and transport me with delight. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
I have lost the will to describe any more of this meal as it was a less than delightful experience and one that I am happy not to revisit (especially when the bill arrived and we spotted a charge of £5.50 for the initial tiny rolls with butter - which was taken off the bill after spluttering indignation).
As the place was almost empty I would have though a bit of cosseting of customers might have been the order of the day but the milk of human kindness is not the USP here. In fairness, part of the problem was that all four diners were accustomed to eating in France, where bread is offered freely (in every sense of the word) and not doled out as though there had been a massive run on the local bread-bank and only shareholders need apply.
Disappointing.
Verdict: value for money - 3/10 service - 4/10 quality of food - 6/10
Apropos the last review, these were the very waiting staff. A young lad who was keen to please but seemed unsure of himself, and a women who gave the impression that she couldn't give a toss, quite frankly, are not the best combination for a restaurant with these prices. Suffice to say that a goat's cheese salad was supplied by a caprine so Lilliputian that one almost needed a microscope to find it on the plate. When it arrived (thankfully not on the table setting in front of me) we all had to resist the urge to burst into guffaws - and then tears. No wonder the miniscule bread rolls disappeared instantly (and were not replaced until asked for, repeatedly).
A ham hock terrine (£6.50) was not particularly hammy or in any way memorable (though at least there was more than one mouthful of it). The only starter that was clearly passing muster was a risotto with lobster or some such, and I vaguely remember that it was the most expensive one ordered. My slow-cooked belly pork was OK, but longer cooking still would have rendered out the remaining fat and made the pork more tender. In short, the stuff I cook at home is miles better. And it costs a fraction of the fourteen quid charged here.
The beef fillet at 25 quid was supposed to be served with truffles but they were of the shy and retiring variety, though the beef itself apparently was "tender". Ah, tenderness - we all need some of that. But doesn't a woman expect that bit more at the top end of the market? At 25 pounds for a portion I would have wanted mine to stride out of the sea like Daniel Craig and transport me with delight. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
I have lost the will to describe any more of this meal as it was a less than delightful experience and one that I am happy not to revisit (especially when the bill arrived and we spotted a charge of £5.50 for the initial tiny rolls with butter - which was taken off the bill after spluttering indignation).
As the place was almost empty I would have though a bit of cosseting of customers might have been the order of the day but the milk of human kindness is not the USP here. In fairness, part of the problem was that all four diners were accustomed to eating in France, where bread is offered freely (in every sense of the word) and not doled out as though there had been a massive run on the local bread-bank and only shareholders need apply.
Disappointing.
Verdict: value for money - 3/10 service - 4/10 quality of food - 6/10
More North of the Border
Two Fat Ladies, Glasgow
A friend who works in Glasgow booked us in here for the earlybird dinner and very glad I was that she did. At £16 for two courses it's not the cheapest offer in town but my grilled sardine fillets were succulent, tasty and fresh, and their pesto dressing was fragrant - though I could have done with a bit more, given the quality of the bread I used to mop it up. Scottish Spice's mushroom tart with goat's cheese was pronounced to be excellent, though I hardly noticed it as I was too interested in my own plate.
The roast breast of chicken in port jus was quite simply the best I have had since the Goods Shed in Canterbury. Tender, full of flavour, perfectly cooked and moist, is how I would have described it if I had not been so busy gobbling it down before shamelessly using my pudding spoon to slurp up all of the posh gravy (OK, jus) which was simply too good to leave on the plate. And the veg was tasty as well - the carrots actually tasted like carrots used to taste when I was a child back before the Black Death.
Scottish Spice was on a diet so did the sensible thing and missed out on a main course, and zoomed straight into pudding with what looked like a pretty tempting take on that weird Scottish staple, cranachan. I passed on the pudding, having wiped my plate with bread to mop up the last tiny drops of the jus/gravy. And very fine bread it was too, all the more toothsome for not receiving a credit on the bill.
Adding on the wine and a bottle of water brought our joint bill up to 47 quid but I was heartened to see that instead of simply charging us for a couple of two-course earlybirds, they had done the decent thing and charged the starter/pudding meal off the a la carte. Without being told to do so. Who says the Scots are mean?
Service was friendly, charming even, helpful and unobtrusive. Though at the time we were there, it was not exactly bustling. But then again I have known places just as quiet, with waiting staff so keen to avoid eye contact that I have almost had to bring them down with a rugby tackle.
When can I go to Glasgow again? It can't be soon enough.
Verdict: value for money - 8/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 9/10
A friend who works in Glasgow booked us in here for the earlybird dinner and very glad I was that she did. At £16 for two courses it's not the cheapest offer in town but my grilled sardine fillets were succulent, tasty and fresh, and their pesto dressing was fragrant - though I could have done with a bit more, given the quality of the bread I used to mop it up. Scottish Spice's mushroom tart with goat's cheese was pronounced to be excellent, though I hardly noticed it as I was too interested in my own plate.
The roast breast of chicken in port jus was quite simply the best I have had since the Goods Shed in Canterbury. Tender, full of flavour, perfectly cooked and moist, is how I would have described it if I had not been so busy gobbling it down before shamelessly using my pudding spoon to slurp up all of the posh gravy (OK, jus) which was simply too good to leave on the plate. And the veg was tasty as well - the carrots actually tasted like carrots used to taste when I was a child back before the Black Death.
Scottish Spice was on a diet so did the sensible thing and missed out on a main course, and zoomed straight into pudding with what looked like a pretty tempting take on that weird Scottish staple, cranachan. I passed on the pudding, having wiped my plate with bread to mop up the last tiny drops of the jus/gravy. And very fine bread it was too, all the more toothsome for not receiving a credit on the bill.
Adding on the wine and a bottle of water brought our joint bill up to 47 quid but I was heartened to see that instead of simply charging us for a couple of two-course earlybirds, they had done the decent thing and charged the starter/pudding meal off the a la carte. Without being told to do so. Who says the Scots are mean?
Service was friendly, charming even, helpful and unobtrusive. Though at the time we were there, it was not exactly bustling. But then again I have known places just as quiet, with waiting staff so keen to avoid eye contact that I have almost had to bring them down with a rugby tackle.
When can I go to Glasgow again? It can't be soon enough.
Verdict: value for money - 8/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 9/10
Sunday, November 23, 2008
French Leave
November 2008
Le Relais de la Poste, St Hilaire du Harcouët, Manche
The Wednesday market at St Hilaire is more subdued than usual, probably because the town recently hosted its annual St Martin fair, which is the second largest in Normandy and enough to exhaust the entire population, never mind the market traders. It still puts a typical English market to shame and despite the grey and grizzly weather, the stallholders are busy grilling sausages and chops over charcoal fires, so that by the time I have worked my way round to the main road again, my stomach is protesting its emptiness.
The Relais de la Poste is one of those bourgeois, comfortable and unpretentious hotels that are so much a feature of French life and yet apparently unknown in Britain. Monsieur le Patron has been bustling through the dining room ever since I have been going there, meeting and greeting and showing diners to their tables. Two serious youngsters in spotless white shirts serve the food, supervised by a waitress of even more serious mien who makes sure they do it exactly right.
I have the fish soup, which I have had many times before, from a menu priced at just over 18 euros. For a little over 14 euros I could have started with the avocado and prawns, which is always a whole, perfectly ripe avocado, sliced across the plate and amply guarded by an array of small pink prawns, with a couple of larger, whiskery ones still in their shells, and lashings of mayonnaise. The menu du jour starts with warm goat's cheese salad, which looks great as well when my neighbours order it. But as I ate a variation of it the day before I go for the fish soup, with grated gruyere and crispy croutons, and a pot of creme fraiche because this is Normandy and the place is groaning with cream. There is a mini tureen of this soup all for me, with a ladle to spoon it into my bowl and I can't resist having two large helpings. It is a russet brown, satisfyingly fishy and with more than a hint of crabby depth and density.
Also on the menu du jour is pot au feu and this too is popular, great slices of beef with carrots and potatoes served with little pots of sauces to add some piquancy. But on my menu there is fillet of porc with sauce Normande, a creamy, cidery pond in which the slices of perfectly cooked pork jostle each other for room, flanked by slices of caramelised apple. Saute potatoes and a heap of tiny courgette cubes cooked with tomato and red peppers mean that by the end of the plateful I am regretfully having to turn down my favourite pudding, the white and dark chocolate mousse. I have eaten a hell of a lot of chocolate mouse and I think my own is pretty good but this one takes some beating. So does the Tarte Tatin, but there is no way that can be accommodated now. As I only have a kir to start with and no wine, I feel pretty virtuous, and clock up a bill in the mid-twenties.
Verdict: value for money - 9/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 9/10
The Lion d'Or, Fougerolles du Plessis, Mayenne
At 11 euros for a four-course lunch this has to be the best value anywhere given that the menu has a good choice and the price includes red wine or cider. The first course is a self-service buffet and there is an impressive array of salads, pate and cold meat, and fishy offerings. The trick here is not to over-eat, however tempting it might be to have just one more prawn with a dollop of mayonnaise.
There is usually a good selection of meat dishes with one fish and a pasta, weirdly all served with either chips, green salad or flageolet beans (in the winter. like now) or haricots (in the summer). I say weirdly because watching someone tuck into a dish of lasagne with flageolets on the side looks quite bizarre.
On Thursday the choice was roast pork, salmon fillet, pork chop, lamb chop, lasagne, andouillettes or confit de canard for a small supplement. So no need to dither there, then, as I am a sucker for duck (try saying that ten times after glugging down most of a bottle of cidre bouche and you will soon come unstuck and possibly bleeped out). The confit was rich, tender and dropping off the bone and I was unable to stop myself picking up the latter and nibbling every last vestige off with my teeth, no doubt looking like a mediaeval peasant whilst doing so.
The cheeseboard is left on the table for you to help yourself from half a dozen different cheeses, before you heave up your considerably increased bulk to totter across to the chiller cabinet full of puddings. The chocolate mousse here is a winner as well but today there was none, though there was plenty of other stuff instead, including some rather toothsome coffee profiteroles.
By 12.30 the dining room was full and people had spilled over into the bar. The entire room - and it is a large one - was nimbly served by a couple of waitresses who skipped around the place looking incredibly competent and never getting an order wrong.
Verdict: value for money - 10/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 8/10
Le Relais de la Poste, St Hilaire du Harcouët, Manche
The Wednesday market at St Hilaire is more subdued than usual, probably because the town recently hosted its annual St Martin fair, which is the second largest in Normandy and enough to exhaust the entire population, never mind the market traders. It still puts a typical English market to shame and despite the grey and grizzly weather, the stallholders are busy grilling sausages and chops over charcoal fires, so that by the time I have worked my way round to the main road again, my stomach is protesting its emptiness.
The Relais de la Poste is one of those bourgeois, comfortable and unpretentious hotels that are so much a feature of French life and yet apparently unknown in Britain. Monsieur le Patron has been bustling through the dining room ever since I have been going there, meeting and greeting and showing diners to their tables. Two serious youngsters in spotless white shirts serve the food, supervised by a waitress of even more serious mien who makes sure they do it exactly right.
I have the fish soup, which I have had many times before, from a menu priced at just over 18 euros. For a little over 14 euros I could have started with the avocado and prawns, which is always a whole, perfectly ripe avocado, sliced across the plate and amply guarded by an array of small pink prawns, with a couple of larger, whiskery ones still in their shells, and lashings of mayonnaise. The menu du jour starts with warm goat's cheese salad, which looks great as well when my neighbours order it. But as I ate a variation of it the day before I go for the fish soup, with grated gruyere and crispy croutons, and a pot of creme fraiche because this is Normandy and the place is groaning with cream. There is a mini tureen of this soup all for me, with a ladle to spoon it into my bowl and I can't resist having two large helpings. It is a russet brown, satisfyingly fishy and with more than a hint of crabby depth and density.
Also on the menu du jour is pot au feu and this too is popular, great slices of beef with carrots and potatoes served with little pots of sauces to add some piquancy. But on my menu there is fillet of porc with sauce Normande, a creamy, cidery pond in which the slices of perfectly cooked pork jostle each other for room, flanked by slices of caramelised apple. Saute potatoes and a heap of tiny courgette cubes cooked with tomato and red peppers mean that by the end of the plateful I am regretfully having to turn down my favourite pudding, the white and dark chocolate mousse. I have eaten a hell of a lot of chocolate mouse and I think my own is pretty good but this one takes some beating. So does the Tarte Tatin, but there is no way that can be accommodated now. As I only have a kir to start with and no wine, I feel pretty virtuous, and clock up a bill in the mid-twenties.
Verdict: value for money - 9/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 9/10
The Lion d'Or, Fougerolles du Plessis, Mayenne
At 11 euros for a four-course lunch this has to be the best value anywhere given that the menu has a good choice and the price includes red wine or cider. The first course is a self-service buffet and there is an impressive array of salads, pate and cold meat, and fishy offerings. The trick here is not to over-eat, however tempting it might be to have just one more prawn with a dollop of mayonnaise.
There is usually a good selection of meat dishes with one fish and a pasta, weirdly all served with either chips, green salad or flageolet beans (in the winter. like now) or haricots (in the summer). I say weirdly because watching someone tuck into a dish of lasagne with flageolets on the side looks quite bizarre.
On Thursday the choice was roast pork, salmon fillet, pork chop, lamb chop, lasagne, andouillettes or confit de canard for a small supplement. So no need to dither there, then, as I am a sucker for duck (try saying that ten times after glugging down most of a bottle of cidre bouche and you will soon come unstuck and possibly bleeped out). The confit was rich, tender and dropping off the bone and I was unable to stop myself picking up the latter and nibbling every last vestige off with my teeth, no doubt looking like a mediaeval peasant whilst doing so.
The cheeseboard is left on the table for you to help yourself from half a dozen different cheeses, before you heave up your considerably increased bulk to totter across to the chiller cabinet full of puddings. The chocolate mousse here is a winner as well but today there was none, though there was plenty of other stuff instead, including some rather toothsome coffee profiteroles.
By 12.30 the dining room was full and people had spilled over into the bar. The entire room - and it is a large one - was nimbly served by a couple of waitresses who skipped around the place looking incredibly competent and never getting an order wrong.
Verdict: value for money - 10/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 8/10
Monday, September 29, 2008
Who put the lights out?
Glasgow Malmaison Hotel
It’s that time of year again for standing in the Scottish Exhibition Centre and imagining the varicose veins forming in each leg. At least at the end of the day one can head back into town and a bit of R and R. The Malmaison in Glasgow fancies itself as a posh hotel but the position it occupies on a bus route, for a service that seem to operate for most of the night, leaves something to be desired. And the double glazing does not do its job.
Nevertheless the food is better than most hotel grub and so it should be at the prices they charge. The first night I ate from the local set menu priced at around 13 quid for two courses (no point trying to check on their website as the link to the .pdf never works) and was pleasantly surprised. The warm crusty bread, butter and tapenade were too tempting not to gobble up and by the time the cream of white onion soup arrived, it was all gone and more had to be ordered. The soup was perfectly smooth and comforting but the parmesan crouton was light on the latter – do be a bit more generous when wielding the grater, chef, or you may as well not bother at all.
The main course portion of slow-cooked shoulder of lamb, seemed to me to be on the stingy side but that could have been because the slice that arrived was so delicious in its soft, sweet succulence that it was simply not enough. The Puy lentils were fine, though not necessarily the best pairing possible, but the sauce was so yummy that the last of the bread was employed to sop it up. A bottle of Australian Shizaz was daylight robbery at 28 quid, but went down very nicely nonetheless.
The following night we went for the a la carte and I started with a salad of pan fried duck, with orange and fennel. If the fennel was present it was in hiding, and the orange only put its hand up at the end, but the salad still went down very well. I suspect the duck to have been cooked quite rare, which was not a problem to me, and the skin was of the requisite crispiness that it could be eaten with pleasure. More squeamish diners could have peered at it in vain, as the light in the basement restaurant is so low that Burke and Hare could be prowling round the outer edges waiting to bag an exiting diner, and no-one would spot them. I usually feel it obligatory to eat steak in Scotland just to see what all the fuss is about, and the medium rare rump tasted as though it was just that (though if I could have verified this by sight I would have felt, inexplicably, more pleasure still). The ‘frites’ were advertised as ‘hand cut’ and were crispy enough for one to shoot off the plate and off into the outer darkness a foot away – probably bringing down Burke or Hare or both. The béarnaise sauce was excellent in taste and consistency, with a real flavour of tarragon, but could have done with being slightly warmer – all right, we don’t want scrambled eggs but it was almost stone cold.
Service both at dinner and at breakfast (you would not believe it but 159 quid does not buy you as much as a bacon butty) was a bit hit and miss. The first night it was particularly slow and Colleague was given lamb rather than risotto (someone had “pressed the wrong button”) so I had almost wolfed mine down before hers finally arrived. The first morning at breakfast we almost had to rugby-tackle a waiter to get an order of toast, whilst the next day it arrived almost immediately but was burnt.
Verdict: value for money - 7/10 service - 6/10 quality of food - 8/10
It’s that time of year again for standing in the Scottish Exhibition Centre and imagining the varicose veins forming in each leg. At least at the end of the day one can head back into town and a bit of R and R. The Malmaison in Glasgow fancies itself as a posh hotel but the position it occupies on a bus route, for a service that seem to operate for most of the night, leaves something to be desired. And the double glazing does not do its job.
Nevertheless the food is better than most hotel grub and so it should be at the prices they charge. The first night I ate from the local set menu priced at around 13 quid for two courses (no point trying to check on their website as the link to the .pdf never works) and was pleasantly surprised. The warm crusty bread, butter and tapenade were too tempting not to gobble up and by the time the cream of white onion soup arrived, it was all gone and more had to be ordered. The soup was perfectly smooth and comforting but the parmesan crouton was light on the latter – do be a bit more generous when wielding the grater, chef, or you may as well not bother at all.
The main course portion of slow-cooked shoulder of lamb, seemed to me to be on the stingy side but that could have been because the slice that arrived was so delicious in its soft, sweet succulence that it was simply not enough. The Puy lentils were fine, though not necessarily the best pairing possible, but the sauce was so yummy that the last of the bread was employed to sop it up. A bottle of Australian Shizaz was daylight robbery at 28 quid, but went down very nicely nonetheless.
The following night we went for the a la carte and I started with a salad of pan fried duck, with orange and fennel. If the fennel was present it was in hiding, and the orange only put its hand up at the end, but the salad still went down very well. I suspect the duck to have been cooked quite rare, which was not a problem to me, and the skin was of the requisite crispiness that it could be eaten with pleasure. More squeamish diners could have peered at it in vain, as the light in the basement restaurant is so low that Burke and Hare could be prowling round the outer edges waiting to bag an exiting diner, and no-one would spot them. I usually feel it obligatory to eat steak in Scotland just to see what all the fuss is about, and the medium rare rump tasted as though it was just that (though if I could have verified this by sight I would have felt, inexplicably, more pleasure still). The ‘frites’ were advertised as ‘hand cut’ and were crispy enough for one to shoot off the plate and off into the outer darkness a foot away – probably bringing down Burke or Hare or both. The béarnaise sauce was excellent in taste and consistency, with a real flavour of tarragon, but could have done with being slightly warmer – all right, we don’t want scrambled eggs but it was almost stone cold.
Service both at dinner and at breakfast (you would not believe it but 159 quid does not buy you as much as a bacon butty) was a bit hit and miss. The first night it was particularly slow and Colleague was given lamb rather than risotto (someone had “pressed the wrong button”) so I had almost wolfed mine down before hers finally arrived. The first morning at breakfast we almost had to rugby-tackle a waiter to get an order of toast, whilst the next day it arrived almost immediately but was burnt.
Verdict: value for money - 7/10 service - 6/10 quality of food - 8/10
More of the Great North Road
Aagrah, Doncaster
This branch of the well-known chain is still run by an extended family based in and around Shipley, and has a reputation for consistency. The staff are unfailingly charming and easy on the eye, and the whole place has an air of comfort, confidence and high staff morale that is a winning combination. Not to mention the food, which is pretty damn good. As it has to be for this place to survive, tucked away up the old Great North Road well out of town - and possibly none the worse for that, given that Doncaster centre after dark can resemble a painting by Hieronymus Bosch but with fatter protagonists.
On this autumnal Sunday I was so hungry that I had to go for the buffet (served from 4.30 p.m. only on Sundays - the usual menu is available from 6). At £11.95 there might be cheaper alternatives around but this has to be the best deal in town because of the quality of the spicing and ingredients, not to mention the choice of what is on offer.
Vegetarians might feel themselves short-charged but there is still an option available at every course and plenty of non-meat or fish dishes on the main menu.
The starter choice was onion bhajis (generous semi-circles of crisp onion slices rather than the usual doughy ball), pieces of boneless chicken thigh in a tangy marinade, shami kebabs and fish. As Dervla Kirwan sultrily announces, "This is not just food..." well, this is Aagrah food, and the kebabs are utterly devoid of a hint of grease or gristle, and everything is so gloriously moreish than it is impossible to resist another slightly blackened char-grilled morsel of chicken. The trick here is to arrive right at the start of the buffet so that the food has not been steaming inside covered dishes and the stuff that should be crisp, still is.
Salads are excellent too, in large bowls with yoghurt dressings and chutneys on the side.
Moving on to mains I pass on the Chicken Korma though it is one of the best around and totally unlike the sugary, sickly preparation that passes for the same in most other 'Indian' restaurants. A Lamb Achar is meltingly tender and has enough of the underlying taste of pickle to cut through the richness of the meat. A Chilli Chicken dish is hot without being fiery, and the chicken itself retains some moistness. A rather nondescript dal comes off second-best to a mushroom aloo which packs a punch and has the most delicious waxy new potatoes. Perfectly cooked basmati rice is offered along with slices of pillowy naan bread so of course I help myself to both.
Puddings look tempting but by now I am forced to remind myself of the fate of Mr Creosote so regretfully waddle to the bar to get the bill and complement the lads on their new uniforms (very fetching and a tighter fit than the old ones).
Verdict: value for money - 10/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 9/10
This branch of the well-known chain is still run by an extended family based in and around Shipley, and has a reputation for consistency. The staff are unfailingly charming and easy on the eye, and the whole place has an air of comfort, confidence and high staff morale that is a winning combination. Not to mention the food, which is pretty damn good. As it has to be for this place to survive, tucked away up the old Great North Road well out of town - and possibly none the worse for that, given that Doncaster centre after dark can resemble a painting by Hieronymus Bosch but with fatter protagonists.
On this autumnal Sunday I was so hungry that I had to go for the buffet (served from 4.30 p.m. only on Sundays - the usual menu is available from 6). At £11.95 there might be cheaper alternatives around but this has to be the best deal in town because of the quality of the spicing and ingredients, not to mention the choice of what is on offer.
Vegetarians might feel themselves short-charged but there is still an option available at every course and plenty of non-meat or fish dishes on the main menu.
The starter choice was onion bhajis (generous semi-circles of crisp onion slices rather than the usual doughy ball), pieces of boneless chicken thigh in a tangy marinade, shami kebabs and fish. As Dervla Kirwan sultrily announces, "This is not just food..." well, this is Aagrah food, and the kebabs are utterly devoid of a hint of grease or gristle, and everything is so gloriously moreish than it is impossible to resist another slightly blackened char-grilled morsel of chicken. The trick here is to arrive right at the start of the buffet so that the food has not been steaming inside covered dishes and the stuff that should be crisp, still is.
Salads are excellent too, in large bowls with yoghurt dressings and chutneys on the side.
Moving on to mains I pass on the Chicken Korma though it is one of the best around and totally unlike the sugary, sickly preparation that passes for the same in most other 'Indian' restaurants. A Lamb Achar is meltingly tender and has enough of the underlying taste of pickle to cut through the richness of the meat. A Chilli Chicken dish is hot without being fiery, and the chicken itself retains some moistness. A rather nondescript dal comes off second-best to a mushroom aloo which packs a punch and has the most delicious waxy new potatoes. Perfectly cooked basmati rice is offered along with slices of pillowy naan bread so of course I help myself to both.
Puddings look tempting but by now I am forced to remind myself of the fate of Mr Creosote so regretfully waddle to the bar to get the bill and complement the lads on their new uniforms (very fetching and a tighter fit than the old ones).
Verdict: value for money - 10/10 service - 9/10 quality of food - 9/10
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