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Category: Modern European

Bob Bob Ricard: Where dining dreams go to die

Bob Bob Ricard: Where dining dreams go to die

Recent events in the world of politics seem to suggest that people can’t be trusted with crucial decisions. So, learning absolutely nothing from this, I thought it would be fun to let other people choose my next restaurant. I’m terrible at making decisions for myself, so why not leave it in the hands of the internet…? What could possibly go wrong? I even drew up the shortlist myself, so there was no chance of being sent off to a Harvester in Croydon or an Angus Steakhouse in Piccadilly. The options were Bob Bob Ricard, Fifteen or Rules, all of which sounded perfectly civilised on paper. I watched, excitedly, as the votes poured in and Bob Bob Ricard romped home. This restaurant had been on my radar forever. It sounded glamorous and decadent – I mean, it has a “press for champagne” button for heaven’s sake. Well, as it turned out, that’s about all it’s got going for it.

Bob Bob Ricard is not cheap. The menu is a hodge podge of European and Russian cuisine, with mains starting from £19. If you’re feeling particularly oligarch-esque, you can knock back some vodka shots and caviar by way of a sharpener. The interior was designed by David Collins and is eye-wateringly blingy, an extravagance to match the prices. There’s a dress code (“elegant”). Small children aren’t permitted. You get the impression that this restaurant is very much aimed at a certain section of London émigré society. Having said that, Bob Bob Ricard was full of Americans when we visited, although perhaps that’s not so unexpected given current international relations…

Now, I don’t have an oligarch’s budget so this was never going to be a big blow-out dinner. My companion and I decided to have a main course and then share a dessert between us. I made the “strategic” choice of lobster mac and cheese – it would be filling and I wouldn’t need to order one of the extortionately priced sides. My friend ordered the panko-crusted sole. This wasn’t a strategic choice; it was a foolish one. She was presented with a giant plate, in the middle of which was a small bright green puddle of pea puree, reminiscent of the algae-bloomed waterways of central London but not quite as deep. Perched in its midst, like a couple of shopping trollies, were two of the tiniest fillets of sole I have ever seen, the artful arrangement of which was almost destroyed by the giant quenelle of tartare sauce that had been dumped on top. There was absolutely nothing offensive about the flavour, but there wasn’t anything gobsmackingly brilliant about it either. The most striking thing about this dish was that it cost £25.50 and disappeared in six bites.

My lobster mac and cheese was slightly more substantial, despite tricking me into thinking that it came with a great slab of lobster meat as a garnish. In fact, it was just an empty shell, serving no purpose other than to fox unsuspecting diners. Like the sole, it tasted fine. Inoffensive. Ok. And that’s the problem that I have with Bob Bob Ricard. At these prices (my mac and cheese also cost £25.50), I want the food to blow me away. It may “only” be mac and cheese but I want it to be the best mac and cheese I’ve ever eaten in my life, dammit! I want to be rhapsodising about that mac and cheese for the next 10 years ! When I pay £7 for a side dish of spring greens (yes, we ended up going there after all), I expect a bit more than a teacup of steamed cabbage.  When you charge premium prices, you need to have a premium product to back them up. Otherwise you’re just ripping people off.

We did share a dessert, because clearly we were still hungry, and this actually was quite sweet (no pun intended). It was the Eton Mess En Perle, which was all the fruity gubbins of an Eton Mess neatly encased inside a meringue sphere. The waitress then poured a creamy pink concoction over the top, like a sadder version of all the melty chocolate spheres that haunt Instagram these days. Because, obviously, cold cream doesn’t actually melt meringue, it just sits there. We did, however, have the immense satisfaction of bashing the meringue open with our spoons. It was one of the better versions of an Eton Mess that I’ve eaten, but then it is probably one of the more basic desserts out there. Fair play to Bob Bob Ricard for trying to inject a bit of wow factor.

“Stop whining on about the crappy food”, I hear you all crying. “Tell us about the ‘press for champagne’ button!!!” Reader, I pressed it. And it felt good. It’s the restaurant equivalent of the call button on an aeroplane. You push the button and a light associated with your table goes on somewhere. A member of staff swiftly appears, takes your champagne order and you then push the button again to indicate that you’ve been seen to. It’s all jolly good fun and was one of the very first restaurant gimmicks in a city that’s now overwhelmed with them. But does it make up for the average food? No chance.

When I told one of my colleagues how disappointed I was with Bob Bob Ricard, she was genuinely shocked. “But I was reading about it the other day”, she squealed, “Kate Moss and Kylie Minogue say it’s one of their favourite restaurants!” And I’m not surprised. With the size of those portions, they can dine out safe in the knowledge that they won’t put on any weight whatsoever. As for me, I had to stop off at McDonald’s for a double cheeseburger on my way home. The will of the people? I remain unconvinced it’s a good thing.

Bob Bob Ricard, 1 Upper James Street, W1F 9DF
£194 for two people, including drinks and service

Medlar: Disappointing dining in Chelsea

Medlar: Disappointing dining in Chelsea

I’m often asked why I started a food blog. There are actually several reasons ranging beyond simply “I like to eat”, and one of these was motivation. Motivation to get off my sofa and experience London’s wonderful food scene. So one of the main “objectives” behind this blog was to work my way through the Time Out Top 100 restaurants list. Clearly I had ambitions way beyond my budget because, before I realised it, a brand new Top 100 had been published and I’d ticked perhaps one restaurant off the list… I’m still trying to hit them all but these days I use the list more as a guide than a goal.  And that is how I found myself at Medlar.

Medlar is one of those restaurants that the critics love. And I get that. It’s a smart, clean affair at the (marginally) less salubrious end of Kings Road. There is nothing remotely offensive about it – pastel decor, a lengthy menu, no crazy music, queues or gimmicks. It’s the kind of place you would take your mum for Mother’s Day. The clientele seem to be standard old school Chelsea. Predominantly upper middle age/elderly, elegant, tweedy, proper. It’s not the type of place I tend to frequent, not least because of the fact that Chelsea is painfully dull, but I’m easily lured by the promise of great food and a Time Out Top 100 spot (of course).

Considering its location, Medlar is very reasonably priced. They only have a set menu which offers three courses for £35, two for £30 and one for £25. You’d be a bit daft to order just one course, but then it is Chelsea…  Obviously we went for the full three. I’d scoped out the menu before arriving and had my eye on the starter of duck egg tart with red wine sauce. This was for two reasons . Firstly, duck egg. Say no more. Secondly, it came with the promise of sauteéd duck heart and I’m not ashamed to admit that I am a slavering carnivore. The reality, however, turned out to be unexpectedly odd. The “tart” turned out to be a fried duck egg layered over a slice of flaky pastry, that was then perched on an entire field’s worth of wilted spinach. The poor little duck heart was tough and its flavour was obliterated by a cloying turnip puree. Oh and not forgetting the red wine sauce and lardons. Way too many big flavours jostling for position in one little dish.

I really struggled selecting a main course which, as there were eight options to choose from, did not bode well. I settled on the breast and leg of coquelet with crepes parmentier, celeriac puree, red onion jam and zhoug. I did have to Google at least two things on that list before ordering…  As per the starter, the dish suffered from an over-abundance of, well, everything. It was the gastronomic equivalent of Supermarket Sweep, with the chef grabbing everything on the shelves and chucking it in his trolley. The leg meat of the chicken had been taken off the bone, rolled and stuffed with an eggy, over-set chicken mousse. This failed nod towards fine dining just seemed pointlessly fussy. Likewise, the crepes parmentier added nothing. Just give me some nice potatoes.  You can even tart them up a bit, that’s fine, but there’s no need to over-complicate them. None of the flavours gelled, especially the spicy zhoug, which didn’t belong on the plate at all.

I’d heard that the puds at Medlar were particularly good but – surprise – I was disappointed once again. I ordered the spiced parkin with poached quince and honey and stem ginger ice cream. Parkin is a gingerbread cake from northern England, made with oatmeal and black treacle. It’s the stuff of comfort food dreams. I hadn’t eaten parkin since my uni days, when my housemate used to bring us her mum’s homemade version, so I was particularly excited to see this on the menu. It was ok, although a little dry which is pretty unforgivable for a cake made with treacle. And, yet again, nothing went together!  It was just a plate of cake, fruit and ice cream like some sad children’s birthday party.

Nothing about Medlar excited or inspired me. My visit here only served to remind me why I don’t eat out in Chelsea. The food was as bloated and bland as the neighbourhood. I guess it just goes to show that, sometimes, that wonderful food scene lets you down.

Medlar, 438 King’s Road, SW10 0LJ
£35 for three courses, not including drinks