Daniel et Denise, Lyon

Much like pintxos is the Basque equivalent of tapas, the bouchon is the bistro which belongs to Lyon. Sure there is an emphasis on offal and meat in general, and the twenty or so officially listed as bouchons mark out their territory with red and white chequered tablecloths, but there happens to be no rules, no criteria to call your own restaurant one. We knew we wanted a bouchon experience, one that encapsulated it to full effect, and I turned to many articles and Twitter for help. One place stood out; Daniel et Denise, the micro-chain of bouchons by Joseph Viola. Viola has pedigree far beyond home style cooking; in 2004 he won the prestigious Meilleur Ouvrier de France – an award for Frances best craftsmen – and followed this up in 2009 by becoming World Champion at pastry.

We have that winning pastry dish as a starter, but not before we dredge shards of toasted bread through a soft cheese dip, and munch on some excellent bread with cornichons and tiny pickled onions. And a quick word on the wine; why aren’t there more places in the world like here? We take two carafes, served chilled in branded bottles and equivalent to two-thirds of a full bottle. One, a beaujolais from Brouilly, the other a Provencal rose. Both are ten euros each, a steal for the quality.

Now, back to that pastry, which if you have a Greggs steak bake as your standard bearer is going to be a shock to the system. A 2cm slice of heaven, the pastry being the structure on the plate that dissolves in the mouth. No soggy arse. The filling is an unashamedly decadent blend of foie gras and sweetbreads, protected by a dark jelly only achieved by cooking out the collagen in bones. It is the perfect slab of pate en croute that shows up many others over a long five days, needing only a quenelle of quince in a jam-like state and a well dressed salad to stop it careering over the edge. The other starter is eggs meurette, a classic in French country cooking. Two eggs are poached in red wine before the cooking liquor is reduced down with onions, button mushrooms, and bacon lardons. The eggs are then reintroduced with croutons and a parsley garnish. The mixture of runny yolk and slightly aromatic reduced wine is gloriously rich, the kind of dish that I could eat repeatedly if it were always this good.

I was only ever going to have the Bressé chicken for main, given that you hardly see them in the UK and when you do, it is at a price I simply can’t afford. The chicken is the only one to be protected by AOC, a control on appellations, with Bressé being one of only two meats to be awarded it. Having never eaten it before I was curious to see if it is worthy of the money. Short answer: massively. It tastes like the chicken that your nan claimed she used to eat, even though you know she is lying through those false teeth of hers. The breast meat flavour punches through the creamy mushroom sauce and morels, whilst the leg meat is dark and almost gamey. A joy, and one I felt lucky to eat. Across from me is a rolled veal shoulder, in a sauce of thickened cooking liquor and mushrooms. The knife has no part to play in this scene, the meat folding away like creased paper sheets. With these we get the chips of all chips. Thin, circular discs fried thrice in goose fat. I should also mention the sides of carrots, and macaroni gratin, but those chips! We genuinely fight over them. I win of course, because I am physically stronger.

Dessert course features both the meal highlight and lowlight. A clafoutis tart of sorts is nice enough, but, in a meal that stands out because of quality produce and care, the cherries don’t really taste of anything. But then there is the rhum baba, a favourite dessert of mine. The bastard hybrid of cake and bread is soaked in am aromatic syrup, split down the centre and drenched in rum. When done right, it is one of life’s great things. This is the best one I’ve tried; light and full of flavour. It is better than the revered Ducasse version.

So good was the meal here that we considered coming back the following day, before deciding we should probably try and see what the rest of Lyon was like. What we did agree on was that this is the kind of bistro cooking that totally evades us in the UK for some reason. That needs to change. Daniel et Denise is an oddity; a truly memorable restaurant experience that doesn’t break the bank. Our dinner, with three courses and a carafe of wine each, tips in at £115.00, though with a 33 euro set menu on offer you could easily shave a third from that. We loved it, because it’s honest and the team are passionate and friendly. I gather that Joseph Viola once came to Birmingham to cook in a park at a food festival. I’d give my right arm to have his little group open up in my city on a more permanent basis.

9/10

Brasserie de l’Est, Lyon

Lyon, ‘the gut’ of France, is a city built on food. Almost every street is lined with boulangeries and bouchons; the air rife with the pungent stink of andouille sausage, of yeast, and the sweet perfume of praline. The culture of gastronomy lies embedded in every shelf lined with foie de canard, or gooey St Marcelin cheese. The Lyonnais understand food because they live it. It all makes for remarkable viewing. No one embodied the ethics of this city more than Paul Bocuse, the sadly departed leader of Nouvelle cuisine whose footprint can be seen everywhere. His three star restaurant sits on the outskirts of the city, whilst in the centre you’ll find his face painted onto a wall near Les Halles Bocusse, as well as a handful of restaurants, brasseries, and comptoirs bearing his name. He built this city. He built this city on Coq and bread rolls.

We have dinner at one of those brasseries on Bastille Day, a move that was forced when the terrace at Christian Têtedoie cancelled our reservation at the last second when the clouds rumbled louder than my gut. We head to de l’Est, conveniently near our accommodation in a now defunct Metro station. The initial signs are great; the place is buzzing with an open kitchen showcasing the brigade at work with their tall hats skimming the ceiling. We order a bottle of Morgon 2013 for a very fair 49 euro from a front of house team running between tables. If there is one thing I love about Lyon more than any other it is the price of wine from it’s surrounding areas.

It would be unfair of me to criticise any element of the meal without pointing out the positives, which are the ingredients, for which obvious care has been taken in the sourcing of. Both of the starters have parts that shine; the dark and sweet jamon on the pasta, and the parmesan and lettuce on the Caesar salad, but they are ultimately dull renditions. The pasta on the former is slightly overdone and lacking any texture, the chicken on the latter bland in comparison to the brilliant poultry we ate otherwise. When both of these are a fraction under 15 Euros these become unacceptable errors.

With dishes sold out quicker than a Tory government NHS, I end up with a vegetable tart for main. It feels like an afterthought, and knowing the French attitude to dietary needs it probably is. The proportions are out; too much of the too thick courgette, not enough of the rest. The delicate flavours of vegetables strangled by a massive pesto. The other main is the pluma cut of Iberico pork. The meat is medium rare and a little under-rested, but the big problem lies with the risotto which is underdone. That pork dish is 30 Euros, a price I mention because there is not much to love. We have two desserts; an assault on chocolate which is too much to finish and a rum baba that we do. The baba is very good, though not as delicate as one we had two nights prior for half the price.

The bill comes in at over 150 Euros, a price that is a third more than our favourite meal in Lyon and probably double what it was worth. As an aside, Les Halles de Lyon Paul Bocuse is less than a kilometre away and where we found ourselves each morning. Here you will find the very best of the local produce; perfect cheese from Mère Richard, the best in bread, handmade chocolates and macaroons, wines of the Côtes du Rhone and Beaujolais, and tricolour of Bresse chicken. It is a culinary heaven. It is here that the true legacy of Monsieur Bocuse lives, not in a very average brasserie trading off his name.

5/10

Pictures by Nosh and Breks

Benoit, Paris

Let’s start with an admission; from the moment my dessert turned up, when the waiter plonked two bottles of Armagnac on to the table and told me to help myself, Benoit was on to a winner. Quickly I sank in to a haze of French Brandy where everything made sense. The wood panelled and mirrored walls became less cold. The waiters, with their matching shirts and aprons, found a sudden charm as they buzzed in-between the tightly packed tables. Alain Ducasse must have been sloshed when he purchased the most famous bistro in Paris. And who can blame him, it’s a great place for getting sloshed.

Apparently, little has changed at Benoit since it opened in 1912. They still serve the same classic bistro food to the well-heeled of Paris, though recent years has seen the addition of a Michelin star and the world’s most celebrated chef as owner. It makes for an interesting juxtaposition of styles typified by the starter of vichyssoise. Here the silky cold potato and leek soup is poured tableside into a bowl with finely julienned vegetables and croutons nestled at the bottom. It’s refreshing and elegant. Boldly seasoned to the point where some would say its salty. I say it’s delicious. There was more vegetable wizardry with cookpot – a signature dish of Ducasse – with accurately cooked ribbons of spring greens, olives and quails eggs producing a light yet substantial vegetarian main.

 

Duck, in my opinion, is a meat that is best served blushing pink like lamb, whereas here the length of breast was crimson red, with each knife entry yielding a little blood into the perfectly made bigarade sauce. It was rare in the way that I like my beef and the dish suffered for it. The accompanying gnocchi were a work of art; little pillows of airy mashed potato that almost made up for the undercooked protein.

 

And the aforementioned dessert? It was a savarin, the baba’s heavier sibling, with lashings of vanilla heavy chantilly and doused in the brandy. I asked which of the two Armagnac’s I should go for, the waiter said both. So both it was. It was a glorious thing that appealed to both my sweet tooth and alcoholic tendencies. My blood sugar levels raised, my liver winced and the rest of my body called out for more. There were some tarts as the other option. I recall them being fine, though hardly memorable.

 

All of this made for an interesting lunch, which I guess is the point to Benoit – they genuinely want you to eat, drink, and be merry. It’s an absorbing and indulgent experience that never takes itself too seriously. Both the service and portions are generous, which they should be, as neither the food nor wine comes cheap. Though as we sauntered off into the Parisian sunlight with a light head and heavy stomach, there was no doubt it was worth the money and inevitable headache the following morning.

 8/10

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Le Jules Verne, Paris

The build up to eating at Le Jules Verne is as important as the meal itself. The Eiffel Tower looms proudly over Paris, with the middle section, some 123 metres up, visible from every street corner. From the moment you wake up, to the time you enter through the metal detector, in to the private elevator, and up it to airy dining room with its angular lines, it’s there, as unavoidable and imposing as the army of servers that wait on the slightest of moves.

 

And what of the food itself? Does it really matter? The reality is that the three month waiting list to get a decent table here has very little to do with Alain Ducasse’s haute cuisine. The endless stream of camera phones snapping into the distance proves that they could serve the leftovers from a kebab shop here and folk would still pay a fortune for the view. That view though, it is very impressive.

 

And credit must go to the French for this for putting one of the most celebrated chefs of all time here and in turn, turning it in to a destination restaurant itself. Put this tower in London and watch them stick a Jamie’s Italian in to feed the hordes with the “most pucka asparagus eva”, whilst here, with no such bravado, was a “plate of vegetables” featuring asparagus steamed and also as a mousse, peas, and courgettes. The greens were off-set by a lemon puree and dehydrated orange slices can added just the right amount of acidity. In lesser hands this could have been instantly forgettable, though, here, it was a vibrant remainder of the bounty that late spring can offer.

 

There was more success with a pressed piece of veal shank, its meat dense and caramelised from an age in the oven. There was more perfectly judged acidity – this time from the sort of tomatoes we can only dream of in England. The previous starter of French onion soup saw a beef stock poured over a set onion mouse to create a starter equally comforting and elegant. Desserts of strawberry and lime vacherin and a chocolate/nut tower were every bit as decadent as you would expect from a Ducasse kitchen.  Both of these could easily have graced one of his three starred establishments.

 

Still, despite this, Le Jules Verne is far from the perfect dining destination. Artichoke barigoule failed at the reinterpretation that the onion soup had been so successful at by being under seasoned and a pre-starter of beef jelly with raw vegetables and carrot foam was every bit as bad as it sounds. And then there is the price, for which there is no really no ignoring. Our lunch, three courses with a bottle of Sancerre from the lower end of the list, came to nearly three hundred English pounds. Go for dinner and you’re looking at double that. Some may call it a rip-off and to those I would be inclined to agree, after all it is hard to justify the experience of paying ten euro for a bottle of Evian water. In hindsight we probably should have spent that money on lunch at a flawless three star with a view of the Eiffel, rather than a one star restaurant in a floorless tower overlooking the roof of one of the cities many three star restaurants. But hey, we’re tourists that just jumped the queue and for an hour or so it felt amazing. You can’t put a price on that, can you? If you can, you bet your bottom Euro it’s going to be a big one.

7/10

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