Right, so I’m totally drunk, sitting on the train from the arse end of nowhere home after work drinks so NATURALLY this is the best time to write a review. Tonight it’s the turn of Bouchon Fourchette on Mare Street.
I have eaten at Bouchon Fourchette twice now. Once with the boy, natch, and it was great. We had three courses, four glasses of wine and two coffees all for a very reasonable £80. It was awesome. Then I said I am totally taking my pain in the arse fucking family here for my Dad’s birthday, all five of us Gill twats who complain about everything and point our fingers at waiters and probably get all our food spat in (not me. I’ve worked in the service industry and I don’t point my finger at anyone with access to my food).
So I saved this review for after that monumental event, somewhat so I could double check the resto to avoid making the same mistake as Beard To Tail, and also because I took really fucking shit photos the first time around and was too ashamed to put them up (these ones are equally crap. Damn you, candlelight).
So the first time around, we had awesome service from this slightly camp waiter (is that rude?) who also served us the second time and he is a GOD, and a huge part of why we came back – waiter, you rock. Maybe he’s the manager and I’m doing him a total disservice, but yeh, what a dude.
So this next time the resto was all prepped to make this massive fuss of my Dad for his birthday, and we all trucked up slightly tipsy on a Thursday eve and ordered, like everything. A couple portions of snails to start, the pork pate, the pork crackling with compote, and my Dad ordered the roasted garlic bulb which French baguette – which was actually delicious and my favourite of everything. I didn’t take any pictures at this point until my family started shouting at me halfway through the meal to write a review. So, no starter pics.
I ate all the snails pretty much, like eight. No one else liked them, grossed out by idea of eating little slimy crawly things – because they are pussies. I picked up the slack. Juicy little plump buggers they were, dripping in garlic and butter and parsley. I would eat just about anything dripping in that shit because it tastes soooo good.
The pork scratching tasted exactly like posh pork scratchings you might get in a Gastro pub – from a bag basically, with this nommy chutney compote stuff, sweet and sticky and cloying to the crackling. The pate was packed full of meaty deliciousness, a slight resistance as you spread, with a real herby kick.
That roasted garlic bulb – fucking yes. A huge bastard, skin intact, yielding it’s juicy inners with a gentle squish, ripe for spreading on toasty warm baguette like melted butter. Such a simple thing, such a fucking delight. This is where the French get it right. The stand out starter.
There were a few mains ordered. My Mum got the steak for £12. Now I don’t want to slag off BF because I fucking love them, but you’re not going to get the best cut of steak for £12 are you. The boy said the same thing the first time round. It was cooked well and it was a decent size but there is only so much you can do with a cheaper cut. Great chips and béarnaise, though.
My Dad and my older brother both got the beef bourguignon. I thought it tasted amazing, rich and wholesome with tender chunks of beef bobbing in a sea of sauce and mashed potato, but it did look like a fucking dog’s dinner. And my Dad swears he does a better version at home (I’ve never had it). They could have made a bit more effort to make it look pretty – there’s rustic then there’s sloppy.
My middle brother had the steak tartare, saying ‘he trusted my choice in the restaurant’ which made me really fucking nervous. It tasted good, totally palatable with a soft bite – but the chunks were a little – well chunky, like thick cut mince. I’m not a raw meat aficionado – it tasted fine but I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it.
I had the fish stew. It was delicious but a little small. The fish tasted fresh and plump and juicy in a salty, tomato-y broth, big flaky chunks of white delicate meat and some nice plump mussels. But I could have easily eaten two portions. More please, BF.
Desserts were great the first time round I went with the boy – particularly the apple lattice thing, which isn’t on the online menu now and I can’t remember the name of (sorry). First time, it was a sugar icing delight with crispy pastry and soft poached apple deliciousness. The second time, it was the same but the pastry lattice was burnt which really affected the overall taste. I didn’t say anything to my family because I had bigged it up so much, but oh, they noticed.
My Dad had the chocolate sundae with candles and a sing-song when they brought it out. He devoured it entirely despite his supposed dairy allergy (yeh, right, Dad). He even made a hugely inappropriate joke to the waitress, the dirty bastard, and they all laughed it off good-naturedly. How French.
We drank a couple of bottles of wine and beer, plus coffee, and the whole meal came to something like £35 each for five people. Impeccable service, rustic wholesome food and a great atmosphere. I fucking love this place – eat here immediately, people.