Brasserie Chavot - review

Great news for the fans; I may not have to go and live in France. I realise this is a dramatic statement, and most of you weren’t even aware I was planning a move to the Hexagon, but it goes something like this.

I am in love with France. I have been since I was about 4. I love everything about it. I like people I meet purely based on whether or not they are French. Sometimes I dream in French. I’m suspicious of wine that is not French. I want to eat steak tartare every day. As a teenager, I used to buy Le Monde from our newsagent and pretend I understood it. I consciously try to practise my French at least once a week, in case it slips away from me and rusts. The one memory which embarrasses me so much that I still cringe when I think about it (and really, there is MUCH more embarrassing stuff I should worry about) is saying ‘non!’ in a rude voice and walking off when a little French girl on the beach asked me, in French, if I wanted to play a ball game with her. Why, aged 5, was I so obnoxious, you might ask. I was just worried she’d say something in French that I wouldn’t understand and I’d look stupid. If only my 5 year old self had known that she was going to spend most of her life looking stupid, she might have gone and had fun with the little French girl. She might even still be friends with the little French girl, who might just have had a really charming and intelligent French elder brother, who she would probably have married and then lived in Paris forever and ever, with occasional trips South for some sunshine and moules marinière (fig.1, below).

I digress. But basically, I should live in France.

Why, given the above, have I now decided that, ultimately, I won’t have to move there? Because London is suddenly FULL of French brasseries. So now I can go and sit in any number of places in my stripy top and have my steak tartare without having to travel. This is the ideal situation. My default life setting is ‘indolent’, all of my friends and family are here, and since they moved the Eurostar to St Pancras it has all just been a bit too much of a hassle.

So I’m thrilled by this benign invasion of red leather banquettes, awnings, black waistcoats, plastic cane chairs and snails, and I was even more thrilled -imagine a small, fleeting smile- when the latest one popped up on Conduit Street, which is close to where I do my Dolly Parton (as in working 9 to 5, not as in a tribute act in Soho).

Brasserie Chavot has those grand, heavy European curtains around its door, which I like a lot. Obviously I liked the whole thing a lot. If you show me something that looks French, I will almost always like it a lot. I nearly bought a fridge magnet the last time I was in Paris which was a perfect, miniature cheeseboard, cast in resin. I know. Unfortunately our fridge is one of those ones that’s built in with a wooden door, and I didn’t know anyone else who would appreciate the bizarrely intricate craftsmanship of the magnet, so I had to leave it in the shop.

I had a glass of white wine (Château Deville 2009 Entre-deux-mers) in the little bar with a beautiful tiled floor at the front of the room whilst I waited for my flatmate, who was late. I had ordered her a glass of wine too. It stood there, balefully, getting warmer and warmer until she turned up. We liked it so much that we had another glass each. This is INSANE. I don’t mean as in we drink too much (he who is without sin, etc), but rather that it is an economic madness to order 4 glasses, not a bottle. Terrible decisions like that are what makes restaurants expensive.

We shared the steak tartare (it actually says ‘tartar’ on the bill, which has caused me a brief moment of self doubt) and the snails bourguignon. Both of these were really clever. The tartare had a mustardy dressing mixed through it, which was different and an improvement; two adjectives which don’t always follow in restaurants (God, one of those isn't actually an adjective. What has happened to my brain?) and the snails were fantastic. If you didn’t think anything could top garlic butter, think again. Or just try these. A dark, sticky, beefy sauce, full of snails, with pomme purée on top, all served in a cute glass fishbowl. Loved it. The main courses were good and steady; a lamb chop on cous cous with a Moroccany vibe, and a ribeye and chips, which is not going to win prizes for adventurous ordering but was delicious.

Too full for pudding, or even cheese, we fortified ourselves with espressos and left to cause some mischief in Mayfair.