First peek of The French from the lobby
Like many others before me (although not too many, as my visit was but a few short months after it’s long-anticipated re-opening), I fell head over heels in love on the day of my 26th birthday, staring whistfully at the plate I had shamelessly licked clean in full view of the 25 or so other diners that surrounded me. They didn’t mind. Perhaps because they were much too British and polite to make their tutting audible, perhaps because they averted their eyes in embarrassment on my behalf, but most likely it was because they understood. They too wished they had been so brash as to stick their fingers into the dish and lick them clean. Never before had I felt such a devastating loss for the Hogwarts letter I had never received, the magic I had never learned, the dragons I had never had to fight. For I would have fought them all, and memorised every textbook to boot, if it meant I could learn how to replicate this dish. It was not the work of a human, it was the work of a wizard. A wizard by the name of Simon Rogan, who had the power to transform the meat of the humble Ox into the best dish I have ever eaten. I write this review several weeks after my visit to The French, and still I daydream about this dish at least thrice a day.
It all started when one of my favourite bands announced they would be playing a gig in Manchester on the night of my birthday. I have little affinity for Manchester. My ex boyfriend lived there and I have had little reason to go back since. So it felt like quite a chore to travel all the way down just for the gig. Then at the turn of the new year, I heard a rumour. Simon Rogan was to restore the restaurant in The Midland Hotel to its former glory. Quite a task, but if anyone could do it… Hopes began to rise, a table was booked (for Lunch, annoyingly) and my mouth started to water. I had hoped to pay a visit to Roganic when we were still living in London, and L’Enclume has been on the places-we-will-visit-for-a-special-occasion list for as long as I can remember. So to finally try some of Rogan’s legendary food felt close to an honour.
When the day finally arrived, giddy with excitement, I all but bounced down the hotel stairs 15 minutes too early to snag our table and finally begin eating. We barely glanced at the menu, opting for the full blown 10 course extravaganza (I had previously read a review that stated this was not available at lunchtimes so actually did a little jig at the table when I discovered this to not be the case). A glass each of the fabulous English sparkling Nyetimber Classic Cuvée arrived as we were seated in the fantastic space. If is both fun and undeniably beautiful. Two enormous shimmering spherical chandeliers hang from the ceiling, the dappled light falling on to the tables below them (one of which we were fortunate enough to be seated at) creating an almost woodland ambiance. The carpet patterned to echo oak floorboards did not fail to elicit a giggle, and the Scandinavian style furniture blended the whacky, traditional and modern fantastically – preparing one nicely for the food to come.
I only remembered that the first course had something to do with beetroot, so when a radish appeared in front of me I was at first confused, and then, upon tasting it, delighted. The lovely waitress explained that there were a few appetisers to try before we began the menu, and, as Mr Bubble pointed out his bouche was well and truly amused even after we’d eaten only the radish with nutmeg mayo and toasted pearl barley. To follow, the pickled mussel served nestled on a pile of shiny black pebbles, with an edible shell and seaweed garnish transported me from land-locked Manchester directly to the windy beaches whence I come. I could feel the sea breeze in my nostrils. I was slightly apprehensive about the smoked eel and pork on parsnip crisp due to my intense dislike of eels. I had never felt the need to try them, so repulsed am I but the slithery creatures, but boy am I glad I did.
And then, with no superfluous theatre or fanfare the food begins to arrive. Course after course of flawless food is set down before us and devoured, the wines, matched to perfection, going down a treat, and the ever enthusiastic staff responding to our many, many questions and comments. The beetroot, goat’s cheese and salted hazelnut dish tastes just as stunning as it looks; the perfectly confit egg yolk in the razor clam dish has the right amount of ooze to lend itself to the clam foam but not so much as to detract from the flavours, or forget to be a valuable component to of the dish it it’s own right.
The sole is boiled, I am told as the next dish is placed in front of me and a rich onion broth is poured around it. The dainty alliums add a bit of fun and colour to the dish, with the broth so shiny it reflects and amplifies the dancing flowers. Another case of the dish’s appearance reflecting its flavour – the broth was so intense yet somehow light at the same time. A selection of breads is provided with the soup, and although I don’t feel like dunking as I would with Heinz tomato, we enjoy trying the different rolls, only a little worried we will find ourselves over-full later in the meal.
And then the Ox. The fantastical Ox in coal oil, with pumpkin seed emulsion, little balls of kohlrabi, sunflower shoots and toasted pumpkin seeds adding just a little crunch. A tartare, that your tastebuds swear has somehow been barbecued – except without the cooking – and the little balls of kohlrabi almost indistinguishable from the dots of pumpkin seed emulsion giving you a surprise with every mouthful. As you well know, I licked the plate. And I’d do it again and again.
Then comes the one dish I did not like. On the other hand, Mr Bubble absolutely adored it, and there was nothing wrong with the execution whatsoever. In Russia we have a proverb “На вкус и цвет това́рищей нет”, which roughly translates as “There are no friends in tastes and colours”.
Sometimes you just don’t like something, and that’s ok. It is fresh crabmeat with cabbage, horseradish and crispy chicken skin. Theoretically, I love all those things (although at that point in my life I was yet to be convinced by crab, ), but somehow it didn’t work for me. Mr Bubble eats both his and mine, with a smile that might make you think it was his birthday, not mine, and I am perfectly content with my wine.
My tastebuds are once again reignited by the Spring Offerings – a salad fit for a god, no doubt garnished with ambrosia, although the waitress assures me it is lovage salt. Hake fillet with buckwheat almost makes me cry with happiness, so perfectly cooked is the fish. Buckwheat, being a stable of my communist upbringing, still amuses me in a fine dining setting, and yet worked perfectly.
Spring Offerings in the dappled light of the chandelier. It really felt like being on a woodland picnic.
Somehow, still not full (further cementing my theory that there is sorcery afoot at The French) I savour every mouthful of my Duck. Mr Rogan might be upset by me saying this, but as glorious as the duck is, the star of the dish is that potato. Look at it. So unassuming. Looks like a normal boiled potato, doesn’t it? Well it’s not. It is the most wondrous, remarkable potato you will ever eat. It is the joys of the world packed into a potato. If you had to encapsulate the laughter of your firstborn into a taste, this would be it.
Who would have thought – hundreds of pounds spent on a meal, fanfare, flamboyance and foam, and the solitary potato steals the show. But what a potato.
Pudding is yet another joy. Rhubarb being a firm favourite regardless of presentation comes three ways of awesome and although with toasted oats and creamy ice cream there is a slight breakfasty hint to the dish, I see no fault with it. And finally the Pear, meadowsweet and rye with a buttermilk ice cream, sprinkled with linseeds. Or so I thought. 
The French throws one last surprise at us in the form of “Sass ‘n’ Soda”, a shot of home brewed sarsaparilla soda, poured at the table, with a little ice-cream sandwich to accompany. It is divine. We enjoy coffee and petit-fours (or in my case a nice single malt), and I want to come back again for dinner.
The dining experience, however exceptional, is so very easily influenced by the front of house staff, and The French is no exception. The service is impeccable – not too formal, not too relaxed, perfectly gauging each guest and reacting appropriately. We left well informed, well looked after and with smiles on our faces.
So while I didn’t do many of these things, it doesn’t pay to dwell on them. Instead I should remind myself that after a nice breakfast at the kitchen table with Mr Bubble, we took Loki for her weekend megawalk. We bundled up warm – hats and scarves are compulsory this time of year – and with specks of what I can only describe as frozen rain battering our faces we braved the Meadows. Several laps and an exhausted puppy later, we staggered against the wind to the relative calm of our flat and I immediately ran a hot bubble bath. While Mr Bubble pottered around the kitchen, I soaked away the week’s stress and we chatted about everything and nothing. A perfect Saturday, you might agree.
Life & Cakes 