Gosh!
Gosh my writing has been a bit crap and dreary lately!.. Lets try and resume normality and struggle through. I've been getting complaints you know?
Enough, On with the blog!
Andrew Edmunds
I am assuming Andrew Edmuds is the owner, or perhaps the chef that has lent his name to this establishment in Lexington Street in Soho.
The beautiful Slinx had organised a Wednesday night treat for me. It was full of thought and kindness as she wished to take me out to somewhere new that both of us had not been to before. Now, this isn't an unusual occurrence as Slinx is very much the independent type and likes, where she can to dip her manicured hand into her varied collection of purses.
If you take the time to read the reviews that the link points you to, you will note that most patrons mention that they felt the establishment is quaintly 'cosy'. Cramped to the extreme would be a more accurate description. It reminded me of a small submarine that had been bedecked in the style of a French Bistro. I also noted that there was almost more room behind the spacious bar/ waitresses counter than there was in the dining area. I now realise that they need a decent retreat to escape the swinging punches of suffocated and angry patrons.
This, by the way was my impression of the 'upstairs' which is actually at street level. There is a rumour that there exists a downstairs which alas I did not spy, but I have to assume, judging from the upstairs, bares more than a passing resemblance to a dolls house coal hole
The restaurant was mostly empty when we arrived and the waitress checked our reservation and motioned us to a postage stamp side table nestling, in corridor style next to another postage stamp sized table occupied by two of Soho's finest, camp, chain smoking media types who were already in loud full consumption. We asked politely whether there was another table? With a nod of the head we motioned toward one in the window or one near the back. All were booked. We sat down and viewed the menu with a small measure of British humour. At least our neighbours were very thin.
On the face of it the menu had promise. Here was a restaurant that wanted to serve proper, mostly French influenced food in season. Slinx plumped for the smoked salmon followed by the shoulder of lamb. I tried the mushroom bruchetta with a poached egg and the special of the day, the braised haunch of hare with Swede mash and cabbage.
A note about the service here. Our waitress had asked us if we would like an aperitif, that of course is expected. I do wish however that she could have kept the disappointment from her face when we smiled and insisted that some still water would be fine. It was a little early really for anything else, even for me, as Slinx had been informed on booking (the only available slot) that we would have to be prompt at 7 and vacate by 9.
Voila, the food arrived. The smoked salmon appeared smoked but looked a mite limped, and my poached egg had been rushed. It ran clear as well as yellow. Now, you might not know this but I'm very partial to a poached egg and in truth, in your own kitchen on a hung-over Sunday morning the timing can be a bit tricky. it shouldn’t however be remotely tricky to Mr Edmunds or his namesake. And, if you don’t mind me ranting, my bruschetta was soggy. The mushrooms were ok though. Just as I like them. Overcooked.
Perhaps there was a rush on downstairs? As I said I hadn't seen it, there could have been a party of 20 demanding dwarves down there creating havoc with an impromptu game of skittles and I would have been none the wiser.
A slightly mis-timed starter can be forgiven. It would be cruel of me to dwell on a review so long if that were all. Oh, if only that were all..
Slinx and I soldiered on. By this time we were leaning across the table to kissing distance. Sadly this was not as we overcome by romance but to try and hear, as the Christmas party of five was seated next to us.
What with the camp brothers on one side and the loud but very dull departmental bash on the other it was like a high pitch, incessant cacophony.
Dunkirk spirit kept us going. Now dear reader I know that you can't hold a restaurant to trial for the behaviour of its patrons, especially if that behaviour is displayed in its glory in the festive season, but in my humble opinion you can make your floor space deal with the problem. In short either lose a table or two or price it out and improve the food so that if you are forcing your customers to taste each others perfume, at least their the kind of neighbours you might enjoy getting to know.
The main courses had arrived by now. When we had ordered Slinx was warned her lamb would be served pink. "Good" she'd said dreaming of some proper blood to eat. It was pink, but barely, oh.. and grey.
It tasted ok though.
I on the other hand had ordered the 'special' The waitress had said to me when I'd ordered it and commented that I'd not had hare before. "It has a game taste, very gamey in fact" Id been a bit worried about this as some game can be very gamey indeed. Often even crawling and I didn't fancy that. I needn’t have worried. The waitress had declined to mention that what little game it had left had been well beaten out of it. This may have been because the poor hare had been braised to well beyond an inch of its death and was as tough as old boots. When I did manage to cut into it, a not insignificant effort, I found what was left inside to be as dry as old Mother Hubbard’s shoes. The chef also showed his sense of humour at this point. He served the hare in a large bowl on top of a foundation of Swede mash and cabbage with sauce. This of course meant that you couldn’t hold it steady as you attempted to break through the leather exterior to expose the dainty wood pulp beneath.
We smiled allot. Well we couldn’t hear so we had to. Slinx was mortified, I was happy and truly very grateful. I'd finally found motivation to review somewhere again.
The false smiley voiced waitress tried to tempt us with desserts. I think we'd had enough. The camp boys had left and were replaced by a Russian billionaire with his escort. We went and had a quick glass of champagne at Kettners and shot off home.
A vodka and tonic on the sofa was a lovely, quiet end to the evening.
Footnote: Incidentally, there was a table on its own by the window. It stayed empty all the time we were there. That ones obviously the venus fly trap table to lure you in. If you really want a decent French restaurant then go to Mon Plaisir in Monmouth Street, Covent Garden.