Last week I had to stand up in front of a bunch of people and describe myself. Blah Blah Madonna, Blah Blah Australian, Blah Blah f**king Rockstar, the usual suspects all lined up as I presented a profile similar to that which one might include when starting a page for online dating, to a bunch of people who don’t think I am anywhere near as funny as I think I am (a recurring theme in my life). I also included in the hobbies section, loves writing like A A Gill.
AA is one of my favourite writers, journalists and columnists for myriad reasons; most notably he is named after an institution that weans you off alcohol. Writing this blog, I refer to myself as MM, although inspired by him, it is nowhere near as funny or clever as AA being as it is only a shortened version of my name or if you prefer, MegaMouth. But I guess that is how it is with AA and I, he, leaps ahead, employing words no one has scribed on paper since Will Shakespeare shut up shop in the 1500’s, me always lagging behind with my excessively oestrogenic Helen Fielding-esque complaints about men and darkened singledom in the City of Lights. I first fell in love with the man behind the pen for his flagitious commentary early in his career as a restaurant critic; Gordon Ramsay is a ‘second-rate human being’. One of the better examples, so inflamed the delicate sensibilities of Vanity Fair’s American readership (evidently all dyed-in-the-wool loyalist diners at l’Ami Louis), that the letters of complaint published in the following issue far outnumbered the letters to the editor regarding the feature cover-page article.
Ergo, in the post-break-up-new-haircut-renewed-self spirit of trying out new things and in homage to AA, here is my first ever restaurant review.
Le Miroir is fast becoming my own personal dining room. Even though it is 2 blocks up the road, in an average week, I often eat there more often than I do in my own Ramsay inspired effing kitchen.
Lunch for one; Tuna Tartare, Glass of Sancerre and an iPad
Owned by two very gourmandy-foody* types, Sebastien the chef from Orleans does not burn virgin witches but does have a dab hand for charring flesh, and the Matthieu the sommelier with the rather serendipitous surname of Buffet, hailing from the more pork and bacon corner of France that is the Savoy. Realising soon after they opened that the 40 seats they have to offer were simply not enough, they turned the bottle shop they own across the road into a sort of Enoteca where one can taste the wine before purchasing, drink it by the glass(es) before dinner across the road and also sample some of Sebastien’s smaller offerings. A sample plate of blood red sliced Iberica ham, fresh radishes with salted Isigny butter and a baked to order olive fougasses all grease the appetite before the formula 1 intestinal onslaught begins in the restaurant across the road.
Walking in, you are drawn to the enormous mirrors on the wall, providing the inspiration for the name, although they’ve told me the name was drawn from the reflected restaurant and bottle shop straddling the rue de Martyrs. The interior is reminiscent of the best Parisian bistros before they went all Designer Italian infra-red taps in the bathroom and stainless steel walls, floors, chairs, tables, flatware and waitstaff. There is an enveloping sense of warmth when you enter, evoked not only by the lingering aroma of roasting grasse de canard^. There is a central bar stocked full of Matthieu’s carefully selected French wines (he likes and is very well educated about our Southern stuff but claims it is too expensive to serve in a restaurant) and banquette seating clings to the walls with red leather arms embracing you as you enter the deceptively small space. I am still trying to work out where, and thus how, they cook?
The menu changes everyday, following the seasons but always sticking close to the French country-style origins of Sebastien who picked up a penchant for the waddling bird in the South West and Matthieu’s baconaphilia. You won’t find chilli or lemongrass on the menu but you will be tempted to see what he can do with a Beef Cheek, a Pig Foot or some other extremity of a beast as yet unexplored.
Foie Gras and Rabbit Terrine, Quince Jam and homemade bread...YUM
Entrées usually involve some kind of seafood, petrified, stuffed or smoked duck and an array of charcuterie from the south and the Alps. The starring role goes to the Iberica Jamon, the leg of which is given pride of place on the bar, pointing it’s cloven hoofed way to the back of the restaurant. I enjoy staring at the hams of others rather than obsessing over the two I drag across the surface of this earth every single wobbly day, so I have been monitoring and it would appear that they shave a ham a week making for ever-fresh slices no matter when you choose to dine.
The main courses carry on the ‘bits of meat you don’t usually eat’ theme, but always fresh, always the best and like Pageant Queens, glossed and trussed to their award winning potential with seasonal baby vegetables and a just made in the pan slick of a sauce that doesn’t hide the excellent quality of the meat.
I recently ate a lamb chop so juicy and delicate that it may just convert me to eating babies again. Once a pescatarian, I’ve since compromised by only eating red-blooded beasts that have at least attained Nintendo and acne puberty and are therefore annoying enough not to worry about carving a steak out of. For the littl’uns, lambs, calves etc, I still can’t bring myself to enjoy their garlicky, fatty goodness without imagining Fisher Price toys and nappies.
Lamb, Wine and that bread again...and yes, I always take a date for lunch.
It is safe to say that you could throw just about any cut, from any beast of any age at Sebastien and he would be able to highlight it’s succulence and glam up it’s brownness with a sauce that will take it from Made in China Primark across the road to luxurious Selfridges in just a demi-glazed jiffy.
I can’t talk about the dessert because as an enthusiastic formagophile, I’ve never ordered it. I could however write an ode to the cheese selection that would challenge Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner in number of stanzas and passionate retelling of story of interest only to the teller.
And so I’ll spare you the details, but here is a photo, and every single morsel, including the green stuff on the side and the homemade just sour enough quince jam is exceptional.
Cheese, or substitute for Husband and Family; perfection however you look at it
As for AA, I just need to find my own ‘Blonde’ so I can brave the table-for-one dining alone doors of a restaurant with staff I don’t know …..and start my new career.
Bon Appetit!
*AA reanimates words no one has heard for centuries, I prefer to emulate JK Rowling and just make them up. She is a mazillionaire so that makes it OK.
^Duck Fat sounds so much classier and infinitely skinnier in French
