It is a truth universally acknowledged (or it might well have been if i had not just made it up) that there is no such thing in Britain as a truly convincing French brasserie. Even the best of them find a way to get it wrong. Whether it is an ersatz decor that equates nicotine-yellow walls and cheap repro globe lanterns with the real thing, a wildly overpriced wine list, an overcomplicated menu, or cooking that is far too gutless and prissy, there is always something that stands between them and the sensation that you could be eating on the Left Bank of the Seine.
At Luc s in Leadenhall Market, a charmingly Dickensian shopping arena close to the heart of London s financial district, the failure is purely with the service. The office had assured me that the waiters there were beleived to be among the rudest in the country. So it was primarily in the hope of savouring some proper Gallic superciliousness that a friend and I rolled up one recent Friday lunchtime to take our chances with a bunch of pre-weekend celebrants from what snobs used to call the barrow-boy end of city life.
I knew it was all going wrong while being shown to the table by a very smiley woman, and confirmation was swift to arrive. What charming staff, observed my friend. After what you told me I was braced for a fight, but they could not be more delightful. I did vaguely suggest that we left at once and made do with the Pizza Express next door. But he was already settled in with a drink and some good bread rolls, so we stayed... and I am very glad we did, because Luc s proved itself a little gem.
Even though the paintings on the maroon-and-cream walls are of the market in its Victorian early days, the mirrors and the blackboards combine with the bustle and noise, not to mention a vast wine rack cunningly arranged around a staircase, to imbue it with a convincingly Parisian feel. So, too, does the speed of service apparently geared for people who want to get back to the futures markets before sharp realignments in the price of jute cause anyone to catch a cold.
The starters arrived within five minutes, and excellent they both were. Admittedly, as my friend put it, it is very hard to spoil grilled goats cheese, and they have not, but it is less easy to serve such a generous portion of £5.50 with crunchy walnut toast and a good endive salad. My grilled king prawns came in the sort of potent, faintly lemony, garlic butter that morally obliges you to soak up every last drop with a bread roll and spend the next six weeks in an isolation chamber.
We were well into a delicious Chassagne-Montrachet by now, so it was perhaps inevitable that my thoughts should turn to goading a waiter into living up to the pre-fight billing. I did make a casual effort to trip one up as he scuttled past. However, he kept his balance with ease, and -is it ever possible, do you think, for a visitor to become too assimilated to British life? - apologised.
Within another few minutes he and his gleaming white apron were back with two sparkling main courses. My pan-fried fillet of black bream came with peas a la francaise, and floating on a superb, creamy dijon mustard sauce. It was glorious. My friends confit of duck, accompanied by a piquant cassoulet of Tarbais beans and a sauce of red wine and sage, was so magnificent - seductively crispy on the outside and very juicy within - that he said he had eaten nothing to match ot during the summer weeks he spent in Gascony.
How you can produce such cooking so quickly was a mystery to us both, and frankly it was a relief when this bubble of perfection was burst by the pud we shared, a vanilla creme brulee that looked gorgeous but tasted slightly stale.
that apart, the only serious complaint remained with the service and, driven by the usual sense of professionalism, I made a last quest for satisfaction by attempting to settle the bill with an out-of-date AA membership card. When this was returnd with an indulgent grin and a depressingly courteous request for some more conventional for of payment, we knew the game was up.
As the re-elected leader of the free world would be the first to say, trust the French to let you down.
Sunday Telegraph Magazine 21 November 2004
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Matthew Norman s review on Luc s Brasserie London EC3.
Sunday Telegraph Magazine 21 November 2004.
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Article on The Close, the Organs and Bells of Winchester Cathedral
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