Dinner for four, £85.50, excluding drinks LAST YEAR, an artist calling himself Slinkachu graffitied the shells of a "rout of snails" and sent them out onto the streets of London as part of an urban art project.
I'm only mentioning this because, in these tough economic times, perhaps a new French restaurant, L'Escargot Bleu, could do the same thing – after all, why pay someone to wear a sandwich board when a slow-moving gastropod will do your marketing for f
ree?
Not that this eatery needs to spread the word by snail-mail. When the Soutar clan (Mater, Pater, Junior and me) visited this place, which has taken over the premises of the Ritchie Clock and Watch shop on Broughton Street, it was très busy and filled with the chattering of Francophiles. Upon taking our seats, we were immediately presented with a plateful of thinly sliced toasted baguette, which had been topped with a salmon mixture so garlicky it made your mouth burn.
We swiftly demolished these amuse-bouches, before maman decided on her starter – snails "à la Provençale" (£5.40) – while Junior, Dad and I decided to share a goat's cheese parcel (£4.70).
Stretching an entrée among three people is optimistic, so it was just as well that our portion turned out to be huge, featuring a filo-pastry parcel of fromage, set off by a salty smear of coal-black tapenade, a drizzle of sweet balsamic vinegar and a crown of curly endive.
We worked our way through this concoction enthusiastically, and mum was just as quick to guzzle her choice, which was like a rustic version of Heston Blumenthal's signature "snail porridge". This consisted of a bowl of comfortingly creamy, garlic-laden risotto dotted with white-wine spiked snails, all of whom had been pre-evicted from their portable houses.
Then it was onto the main event and Dad fancied the Buccleuch Estate ribeye steak (£16.90), Ma wanted braised rabbit (£14.90), Junior liked the look of panfried duck breast (£14.90) and I was craving the confit of pork shoulder (£14.60). Once these had been delivered, the speed at which Mum's choice (which featured a buttery Dijon mustard sauce, button mushrooms and a few boiled tatties) was reduced to a pile of clean, white bunny bones testified as to how delicious it was.
My Pater was also smitten by his blackened, medium-rare meat, bathed in a maroon-hued pool of red wine gravy and accompanied by a block of crispy-topped potato dauphinoise. My piggy portion, which had been lovingly and lengthily cooked in its own fat, was drenched in a rosemary jus and seated on a velvety chaise longue – aka a scarlet pile of mash made from the Highland Burgundy variety of potato.
And, finally, what about la petite soeur – did she enjoy her canard, which was moisturised by a not-too-tart cherry sauce?
"Mmm, it's duck-culent," was her punning verdict.
So far, so delicious, but it wasn't over yet – we still had pud to go. Mind you, Mum was stoically replete, as the bunny and gastropods seemed to have reconstituted themselves in her stomach in order to hop/glide around – as often happens when your yeux are too big for your stomach. My little sister and Pa, however, had specially reserved spaces for crème caramel (£4.70), and I imagined that I could squeeze in a delicate sliver of tart chocolat (£4.70).
We were given a few minutes' grace before our desserts arrived, with my dining partners' options being presented in glass preserving jars sitting upon lacy doilies.
According to them, these puds tasted délicieux, with an eggy custard forming a thick blanket over a burnt-sugar flavoured caramel sauce. I wasn't feeling too green-eyed, as my tart, which was full of a glossy chocolate ganache, featured a pastry so crisp that it made a "snap!" noise when attacked by my spoon.
Once we'd polished off this lot, we had time to look around at our surroundings and noticed that, despite the fact that a few of the tables in this place were too close together (we inadvertently duelled chairs with the covers behind us), the high-ceilings and huge sash windows gave the restaurant a spacious and airy feel.
Also, L'Escargot Bleu features all the ubiquitous French bistro paraphernalia – plastic gingham tablecloths, an Edith Piaf poster (in this case, advertising a 1951 play, La Petite Lili) and swags of garlic. Most of the staff are authentically Gallic, with our waitress asking my father; "So whaddyoo want meester?" each time she took his order. I think he quite liked that.
My only criticism of this place would be that we felt slightly rushed (with a member of staff checking to see if we were finished every five minutes), and, although every dish comes with potatoes, my elders don't think that one should have to pay for a side order of vegetables (£1.80). Apart from these little peccadilloes – je ne regrette rien.
The full article contains 852 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
