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Tuesday, December 21, 2004
what I ate last: herrings and pumpernickel, spit-roast belly pork with black pudding and baked quince Last night was my Christmas treat with my boyfriend (as if I hadn't been getting enough since I got back into town) at the Wolseley. Everyone knows that it's the best place opened in the last year or so, run by the guys who did the Ivy and the Caprice so well, perfect discreet service, perfect reliable food, the place to be seen, amazing huge old banking hall and Wolsely car showroom decorated with antique black and gold Chinoiserie, etc etc. All this and more: it is also extremely reasonably priced considering its cachet - one would pay similarly for a vastly inferior meal and experience in this town - and being bigger than the previous restaurants, it's also possible to get a table as one of hoi polloi. It's unshowy, sophisticated and glamourous in a perfectly discreet way, and does fabulous dry martinis. I generally have considered the food here to be immensely accomplished but not 'bowl-me-over' standard - a standard which is more than good enough given how fantastic the service and ambience is. Maybe (I would like to think) it is the effect of having one of my cousins now installed at some lowly position in the kitchen), but last night I was very surprised by the quality of what came out on our plates. Our starters were good, both dishes I'd had before and were exactly as I remembered, accomllished but nothing more, but the main courses were exceptional, both because of very small touches. Continuing on my theme of ordering every restaurant item with 'quince' on it in order to feel my superiority in the cooking of this sublime fruit, I ordered the belly pork dish named above. The pork was delicious, each thick-cut slice at the perfect point between meeting the bite and melting on the tongue, and topped with a slice of black pudding. So far, so it should be, but the quince for once astonished me. Not just one variety of quince was present on my plate, but two - a classic slice of 'baked quince', crispy round the edges, sweet-sour and grainy, but also a perfect spoonful of puree, cooked longer and made sweeter and richer in the process but still with a tart edge. The surprise of finding more on my plate than I had expected was perfection - the quince for once not overflavored by being cooked with other things, and balancing perfectly the pork. Finally, someone in a restaurant can cook a quince. The boy's Poulet de Landes a la forestiere contained a similar surprise. Filling his mouth with a forkful of the mushrooms that covered what he described as an 'amazing chicken', he also gave a look of surprise. Hiding in the wild mushrooms were some sweet chestnuts. To quote him, it was a 'masterstroke'. His only grumble was that the green salad wasn't as good as St John's. Well, maybe, but it was hardly anywhere near inadequate, and he's got a bit of weird taste in lettuces. All good stuff, and I got to feel grown-up and glamorous to boot. 0 comments permalink  
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