This was my first visit to Rouen and I was blown away by the medieval buildings - and the wonderful little alleyways and doorways like this one. Though true to form, most of the most impressive buildings seemed to be swathed in scaffolding and in the process of renovation. Or shut. They obviously knew I was due to arrive, possibly acting on information from Tourist Information in Rome, where we were told the Coliseum was not due to re-open until the day we had left. (Sneakily, they opened it the day before. But I had staked it out, having got the measure of the disdainful Romans and this, combined with the Lawn Ranger’s eagle eye - “there’s people in there!” he cried - ensured we were amongst the barbarian hordes invading the place yet again. But this time armed with nothing more warlike than a Roma Pass.)
La Petite Auberge initially looked unpromising, one in a row of restaurants that had a distinct feel of the tourist trap about them. But we only just managed to get a table as they were almost fully booked, and almost every other diner turned out to be a local, or French, at any rate The exception was a very nice American family sitting at the next table, who were completely bewildered by the menu. I translated and saw their looks of horror and incredulity at some of the dishes on offer (salad of duck giblets? Seriously?). Their youngest son only ate chips, or rather, French fries, to the equal incredulity of the staff. But they gave him his plate of French fries without demur.
The exterior was all ancient timbers, painted in shades of ochre and rust, and the interior was typically French, with dark beams, old wooden tables crowded together and spotless white cloths and napkins. Service was relaxed, and we had plenty of time to pore over the menu over a couple of kirs. I decided on the 20 euro offering whilst the Ex went for the 24. Both offered four courses and plenty of choice, even for the faint of heart.
My bowl of fish soup was good - OK it was probably bought in, but so what? The tiny bowl of aioli packed a garlicky punch; whatever might go wrong with the rest of the night, I wouldn’t be worrying about vampires. Croutons and grated gruyere completed the traditional ‘garniture’ and it is one that always feels deeply satisfying when it is done properly. As it was here.
On the other side, a huge plate of crevettes flambees didn’t arrive in flames and they didn’t set me on fire either – they may have been recently flambéed but they had been already cooked beforehand, and the effect was to toughen them. The shells appeared to have been stuck on with superglue, (that second cooking again) and it would have been much better to have served a smaller portion but cooked them fresh. Having said that, the sauce they were swimming in was perhaps a little over-salty, but it was satisfyingly prawny and the base of shellfish and tomato really shone through. The Ex was struggling to peel them, as his fingernails were not up to the job. This reminded me of an occasion some years before when he had been wounded by a lagoustine; the blood had spurted alarmingly out of his pierced finger in front of a dining room full of French families. None of whom seemed off-put in the slightest.
A confit of duck was full-flavoured and falling off the bone, which again, was as it should be. Pommes Sarladaise were lying limply in a visible pool of duck fat, which was not. The other side of the table had ordered entrecote grille, which was pretty ordinary and slightly tough, despite having been belted soundly with a meat tenderiser. It came with frites and a pixie-sized mound of what looked like cooked chopped tomatoes. French restaurants seem to have an antipathy to vegetables other than green salad, though every market is a cornucopia of the most wonderful fruit and veg imaginable. Where do they all go? The five-a-day thing is ignored completely and a vegan would starve, if he or she had not been stoned to death first, and put out of their misery by the carnivorous locals.
The Beaujolais Villages was slipping down nicely, and there was still a glass each left when cheese time arrived. The French habit of serving the cheese before the dessert is such a sensible idea for that very reason. The cheeseboard was excellent, with all the usual suspects available and in perfect condition. A very smelly Camembert was deliciously oozy, for example. A well-dressed green salad came as well, and then dessert was offered.
Feeling like Mr Creosote, I watched as the Ex scoffed down a gateau de riz (I always think rice pudding cake is a very odd idea but this one was said to be perfectly acceptable). I passed on coffee but had an Armagnac. The bill came in at 74 euros which was pretty staggering considering what had been consumed, and the fact that this was a restaurant in a big tourist destination, on the main drag. Not a faultless meal by any means, but a very creditable one in terms of value.
Verdict: value for money 8/10 service 8/10 quality of food 7/10
Le Cabestan, 70 Rue du Port, Granville
The day was glorious, more like May than November; it was Sunday on a bank holiday weekend, and a trip to the seaside was irresistible. In Britain, the seafront would be lined with what in Yorkshire are called ‘tat’ shops, ice cream parlours and amusement arcades, with people trailing around them like lemmings looking for a cliff. But this was France, and the restaurants down by the Granville quayside were patrolled by anxious, hungry French of all ages and sizes, all walking up and down from one to another trying to read the menus and cartes displayed outside.
There was an air of controlled panic: if we each found the one, the menu offering the perfect combination of entrée and main course, would we have left it too late and discovered that everyone else on the same mission had got there first and filled the place?
Only when safely seated at the table, stake claimed and occupied, could we all relax. Le Cabeston was chosen simply on the basis that it was the only one offering fresh mackerel as a special and that seemed particularly appealing on this particular day. This restaurant, like most on the seafront in France, survives mainly on its fishy offerings. Unlike most of the others on the same frontage, it is unashamedly modern in décor and style. But the menu was traditional. There were oysters, mussels, both brown crab and spider crab, fish and shellfish of all descriptions and huge plateaux de fruits de mer.
So of course I chose the fish soup. After all, it was a full two days since I had last eaten any and withdrawal symptoms were well developed. (In fact, I knew that I would not be back in France again for some time and needed to get my full fish soup fix.) I also wanted the mackerel and this meant ordering from the carte, rather than a fixed menu, not something I do much in France as the latter usually offers much better value for money.
The fish soup came with the usual grated cheese, croutons and a version of rouille/aioli that was less garlicky than the Rouen version but just as good. The soup itself was even better, with a definite bisque-like quality and even greater depth of flavour. (Possibly the best fish soup I have ever eaten was at Corrigan’s in Mayfair when it had only been open for a week. I went back two months later and ordered it again, only to be disappointed, as it seemed to have been watered-down. The portions on both occasions were tiny. But I digress.)
The Ex had chosen an odd-sounding starter of baked eggs with smoked fish. After talking in a saintly manner about eating lightly, the dish arrived and it was huge, with two baked eggs and a combination of smoked salmon and smoked haddock. He ate the lot, and wiped the plate with bread. I didn’t try any as I am an eggophobe, or whatever the word is. But as eggs go, it certainly went.
We had both ordered the mackerel with mustard sauce.
A whole small fish arrived, well-cooked, meaty and fresh. The mustard sauce was a little sharp and the whole was perhaps very slightly over-salted (I minimise my use of salt and accordingly am very sensitive to it). The plate was garnished with a perfectly cooked, turned saffron potato, and a little timbale of carrot topped with shredded leek, which was flavoured with a hint of curry spices. Vegetables! But not as we know them. Possibly better than we know them, if a little over-seasoned.
All the way through, service had been impeccable. A slim, energetic dark-haired waitress zipped about the room, full of cheerful energy, taking orders, serving food, checking that everyone was happy. She clearly loved her job and the whole room felt the benefit. We were in the hands of professionals who enjoyed their work.
The desserts on offer were a bit of an afterthought, being mainly ice creams, a dessert du maison and a patisserie du jour – tarte Tatin. I ordered the latter and the Ex the speciality of the house. It turned out that I had been pipped to the last slice of the tarte so was proffered a charlotte au chocolate as the booby prize. This was delicious, the rich, dark chocolate mousse encased in a sponge both moist and light at the same time. It was the work of a moment to make it disappear without trace. I was a very happy booby.
The house speciality dessert was warm caramelised fruit in a caramel sauce, served with Chantilly cream and a scoop of coffee ice cream. It met with a somewhat unenthusiastic response, though every scrap disappeared from the plate. The desserts did rather let the whole lunch down, being a bit pedestrian in terns of choice.
Two tiny coffees, aromatic and string, completed a good lunch and one that came in at around 75 euros – the set menus were better value and offered three and four courses for 20 and 24 euros, if I remember rightly.
Le Cabestan, rue du Port, Granville (no website)
Verdict: value for money 7/10 service 9/10 quality of food 7/10
Le Broche D’Argent, Ouistreham, Caen
I have eaten here before, but there were indications that it was under new ownership.
I had hopes: they were dashed. Especially when my Bearnaise sauce arrived in a little pot so frigid that it numbed my fingers. When I complained, it was borne away with an expression of distaste, microwaved and brought back without a hint of an apology. A place to avoid. Car ferry terminals generally are, but the fault of eternal optimism will prevail.
