I was going to start this post by talking about Chiswick and it's
well known foodie credentials (Franco Manca, Hedone) which would have been
boring. Thank god then for a rather obnoxious conversation I had about
Charlotte's Bistro with a much-more-important-than-me food writer. When I
mentioned that I’d been and loved it, he/she (I wouldn't want to be a tell
tale) pursed their cynical lips and said rather acidly "it was just
alright," As if being 'alright' was the most repugnant thing in the
culinary cosmos.
Because I respect this person's writing and because I am generally
willing to consider another's opinion no matter how it's wielded, I've revisited
the meal in my mind a few times over the past couple of weeks.
The decor was pleasant in a neighbourhood restaurant kind of way,
with a blond and glass-panelled front that opens onto the street (perfect for
those, like me, who want to sneak out for a well-timed cigarette when sitting
at the bar). As ever, I was more interested in the cocktails than the light
fixtures, which were excellent – particularly a classic summer cooler of
cucumber, gin and elderflower.
Despite the fact we were about to embark on four courses, our
attention was diverted by the lovingly described bar snacks. Explaining why we
were stuffing thin-sliced crisps of Jerusalem artichoke with curried salt in
our gobs faster than you could say ‘your table is ready’.
On arrival to the lofty dining room, we were met by a three parts
cheerful, charming and camp waiter (my favourite kind), bread-still-hot-from-the-oven
and creamy yellow butter - an excellent start.
Though perkily arranged, my barbequed ox tongue starter did not
win the prettiest starter award (that went to an alarmingly beautiful plate of
violet artichokes, semi dry tomatoes and deep fried burrata), but it was
generally agreed that it won on sex appeal. The soft, charred flesh sat on a
bed of peppery fennel, punctuated by glistening blobs of yazu and soy.
Other members of our dining quartet sang the praises of a warm
potato fondant with goats cheese and Kent asparagus; and the Cornish crab bon
bon with mango gazpacho and avocado. I managed to wangle a forkful of both and
duly concur their lack of being ‘alright’.
I went against my instincts on the main (never a good idea) and
spent the next 30 minutes starting resentfully at a stunning piece of Iberico
pork tenderloin. Not that there was anything wrong with my rump of lamb with
toasted quinoa and dry feta (one shouldn’t quibble over a genuinely pleasing
arrangement of classic flavours), it just didn’t have a crumb of dehydrated pig
surrounding it. Thank god my dining companion was willing to swap plates half
way so I can tell you just how porky that pork tasted (and how I would go back
for that dish alone).
Another non-‘average’ dish was the cod with pigs cheek - a
timeless but nonetheless clever quirk of the kitchen; as was the poached silver
mullet with fennel, kohlrabi and samphire.
Expectations on my pudding were high, having caused much pain in
choosing (the sweet end of the menu read like a sugar-laden lullaby). Almalfi
lemon curd, lavender meringue, shortbread and raspberry sorbet sprinted ahead
in the style stakes. It really was pretty as a picture, though my picture
hardly does it justice (the sun had gone down and I was two cocktails and half
a bottle of wine down by this point).
The buttermilk panna cotta arched proudly from a carpet of sun-dried strawberries and wibbled effortlessly into everyone’s good book.
The praline and caramel chocolate pot with tonka bean milk sorbet
fooled us all into thinking it was simple when it was anything but.
Full marks go to me though, for ordering the most-wicked and smile-inducing
pudding of the evening (why thank you). I only picked the warm almond and
cherry tartlet because it had salt caramel on the top. One bite and I realised
that being an idiot simpleton had done me proud. The case of feathercrisp
pastry baked blind then filled with a base of almond ‘cake’ (the chef used a
word other than cake but I forget), then topped with a cherry ‘jam’ (ditto
jam), vanilla parfait and finally the salt caramel.
It reminded me of the first time I ever tasted a home-baked jam
tart – and the feeling of pure amazement that some ingredients, a crafty pair
of hands and an oven could produce something of such wonder.
Taking my mind back over the meal via the medium of
putting-words-to-page has only served to reiterate what a bloody good meal we
had at Charlotte’s Bistro. Better than good in some cases, with some dishes up
there with favourite things I’ve ever put in my mouth. The clincher… three
courses cost a mere £29.95, which, for the quality of cooking, is asylum cheap.
Dear Mr Much-more-important-than-me-food-writer, I couldn’t agree
with you more. Charlotte’s Bistro is a bit of alright.
Charlotte’s Bistro
6 Turnham Green Terrace
Chiswick
W4 1QP
