My birthday was yesterday and, whilst I managed to put on a brave face, I was not particularly looking forward to it. As my sister kindly informed me recently, my ‘life’ isn’t really up to much apart from the new flat and great job (which were dismissed as ‘overpriced’ and ‘irrelevant because you don’t have a boyfriend’ respectively). More importantly, I’m now officially in a new age bracket on all forms and surveys. I wonder when you’re too old to spend weekends sleeping mainly on floors?
Anyway, I woke up on the morning of the big day and found a new wrinkle, I got dressed in my normal clothes and went to work before the post arrived, so had no cards. Several friends appeared to have forgotten it was my birthday at all, which I find particularly extraordinary given the huge amount of self-promotion and aggressive viral marketing that I engage in every year in the week or so before the event. I basically felt sorry for myself all morning.
Pretty much the only thing that can alleviate such a chronic case of the black dog is a half day off work and some classic French food. There is something so…timeless about the slightly heavy, bourgeois food that one associates with, particularly, mid and Northern France. This was the not the time for the hot Mediterranean influences of the Riviera, the gentle herby flavours of Provence or the sparklingly fresh seafood of the Atlantic coast. This was a time for meat and cheese (although, to be frank, when is it not?). So, it was lucky that my sometimes lovely father had booked Chabrot – Bistrot des Amis, for lunch. After a bracing 10 minute stroll around several backstreets (the place is difficult to find, even with a map, a working knowledge of the area, a smart phone and a friendly taxi driver), I walked into the restaurant and found myself in the French bistro of your dreams. Seriously, it looked like Disneyland – perfectly, hyperbolically French.
After a glass of champagne and some conversation with the charming and helpful waiters, my father arrived. He was in ebullient good humour and we settled into the starters. We shared a carpaccio of beef with truffle cream, cut thick, and a warm duck liver pate, enlivened by the addition of cheese gougeres instead of toast. If anyone can think of an English word that is the equivalent of gougeres, then please let me know. I’ve tried several but they all sound horrible and don’t do justice to what was an absolutely delicious starter. We accompanied this with a carafe of white Burgundy.
Moving not so swiftly on to the main courses, Dad had the bavette with shallots, green beans and perfect frites (again, ‘chips’ doesn’t seem to do them justice) and I had the choux farci. This was the outer shell of a cabbage with the inner leaves and heart removed (hooray) and replaced with a veal, foie gras, chestnut and herb stuffing. It was absolutely delicious. Just brilliant. And a very lovely Pinot Noir (possibly) was the perfect light accompaniment. Obviously, there was not much room left at this point, but we somehow managed to fit in some cheese – nothing particularly standout, but all perfectly affiné and generously portioned – desert wine and Armagnac. We left at 4pm, drowsy and happy. An absolutely superlative lunch.
Price: would have been rude to ask
