French leave – or is that leftovers?

The Marquis de Tomberlaine, Champeaux

I have eaten here before, with friends, and enjoyed the food though we had been disappointed that the mist had spoiled the wonderful view of the bay of Mont St Michel. So on a beautifully sunny Sunday lunchtime it seemed the perfect weather to have a meal overlooking the bay. But as a friend of mine is fond of remarking, that was another frog kissed. Or another Frog kissed, given the location.

The restaurant was packed, which is usually a good sign. No-one had any food, which was not. Especially as it was 1 p.m. Normally I find the service in France to be efficient but we sat for ten minutes without the offer of a drink or being given a menu. (We should have left then whilst we were winning.) Finally I managed to bring down a passing waitress with a tackle and we got a couple of kirs. Then we managed to get a menu by much the same means. At the table next to us on my right were a pair of formidable French ladies of a certain age who did not have a menu and had been there longer than us. There was much tutting from mesdames, which sounds a lot more condemnatory when done in French, which had the desired effect of making menus appear.

The windows were wide open to let in some fresh air and the deafening noise and fumes from many passing motorbikes thundering by on the coast road outside. Mont St Michel was invisible behind a haze of what appeared to be smog. The lovely old dining room had been redecorated so as to strip out any vestige of its history apart from the massive fireplace, which looked to be holding up the end wall and had been grudgingly retained.

There was a lot of flitting around of waitresses in an ineffectual way, up and down the packed tables. They brought cutlery of different kinds, then changed plates and place settings, and generally looked very active and stressed whilst not achieving very much. Finally we managed to get one to take the order. After a good twenty minutes, a starter appeared on the other side of the table from me which looked OK (but which was so unmemorable that I can’t remember it) but made me feel glad that I had chosen the fish soup. Which did not arrive. Eventually a large lady in very tight trousers emerged from the direction of the kitchen, breathing heavily and bearing a large copper pan with a ladle sticking out of it. She stopped at my side and grabbed the handle of the ladle purposefully, then looked at my place setting. No bowl. There was another barrage of tutting from my right and mesdames and I exchanged shakes of the head. They still had no food.

Finally I had fish soup. It was good, but not great, and barely hot. The rouille was fine, but unremarkable, as was the gruyere. What a palaver for not very much. Next door’s food had arrived but it was tasted and then tutted at. We all gobbled up our starters and tried to fill up on bread, which was a good thing as it was nearly an hour before any of us got any more food.

My main course was lamb cooked two ways – which turned out to mean, both badly. A couple of tiny cutlets were flanked by some messy bits of leg steak, thrown onto the plate anyhow. It looked like roadkill but roadkill would have been a lot cheaper and probably not as salty. Though come to think of it, winter roadkill would have grit salt on it. Maybe it was roadkill after all. At any rate, some of it was completely raw in the middle and bloody, and other bits were grey and overcooked. It was greasy and pretty much inedible. Served with it, and with all the main courses, was a horrible concoction of mashed potatoes wrapped in overcooked courgette slices. This looked and tasted like leftovers that someone had made a valiant attempt to disguise.

Mesdames had ordered the same main course as me. This time the tutting reached a crescendo and the waitress was called. The ladies gesticulated at their plates, where the roadkill was congealing slowly. This was not restaurant food, they would never serve such bad food at home, it was a disgrace, far too salty, badly cooked. They spoke sadly, with shaking heads, taking it in turns – one would explain the horridness of the food whilst the other would tut. The waitress stood miserably in front of them, muttering apologies. I left almost all of my plateful and told the waitress that it was inedible and oversalted. Mesdames tutted in agreement. The large lady in the tight trousers could be seen to glance nervously at our little corner as she puffed about the room.

Mesdames had chocolate mousse for pudding, and cleared the plate with a minimum of tutting. I had ice cream, based on the assumption that it would be bought in and therefore edible.

It was almost 4 pm when we left and we passed on coffee, having neglected to bring any pyjamas. I paid the bill with my Marks and Spencer credit card to get a few points on it and at least make myself feel that the experience was not entirely negative – at the equivalent of over 80 quid, I might be able to buy some French knickers to remind me never to go there again. There was no apology or offer of discount.

Verdict: value for money - 0/10; service - 0/10; quality of food - 1/10.