Last week, and for most of the week, there was a tube strike. A more lazy, and let's face it, less greedy me would have probably cancelled any dinner plans until things were back to normal, but reservations at Josephine Bouchon are hard enough to come by at the best of times and I didn't want to let an old friend down that I hadn't seen in years. So, I came up with a plan. I was going to walk the route of the 19 bus all the way from the office in Holborn to the King's Road, and if I ever saw an opportunity to get on a bus I'd take it.
Londoners will know where this story is going. Of course, every bus stop had dozens of people waiting for a tiny handful of spaces on the few buses that did creep around central London at a glacial pace, and I soon realised the chances of getting on any of them was nil. I saw near fist-fights between commuters attempting to skip the queues and jump on the back doors as people got off, I saw drivers screaming at people to keep the entry area clear so they could close the doors and get moving, and I nearly got knocked over by a bus myself as I hopped on and off the pavement on Shaftesbury Avenue trying to avoid the heaving crowds. All of which accompanied by a chorus of constant honks and yells from the members of the non bus-lanes that don't have a great deal of patience even when things are going well.
But once I'd cleared Hyde Park corner and I'd decided to finally completely abandon any hope of getting on a bus, I was able to pick a route through the more serene streets of SW London and it all became rather lovely. The stately old Georgian squares of Belgravia, leafy and autumnal, gave way to the grand Victorian townhouses of Sloane Street, and then the beautiful streets around the back of Fulham Road and before I knew it I was sat at a rather cozy table in Josephine Bouchon nibbling on home made pork scratchings and lovely buttered baguette and I knew the journey would be absolutely worth it.
The menu is unapologetically, unmistakeably, ludicrously French, and all the better for it. French onion soup was a great big bubbling pile of melted cheese and caramelised onions, shot through with glossy, thick beef stock, and is about as good a version as you can get anywhere - including France. I made a complete fool of myself attempting to control the long strings of melted Gruyère as they landed variously on the table, my clothes and my face, and it was so blisteringly hot it took a good 20 minutes before I could comfortably polish it off, but I wouldn't have changed any of it for the world.
Mains were equally French, and equally brilliant. A single veal sweetbread arrived topped with morels soaked in veal jus, before being doused in one of those thick, creamy mushroom sauces that takes about 3 days to make. I couldn't decide which was better (and still can't), the giant sweetbread with a fantastic contrast between the slightly crisp bite of the outside and soft, rich interior, or that incredible sauce with such a depth of flavour and so much going on - in a good, not confused way - that it seemed to morph into something ever more exciting with every taste.
I'm afraid I don't have pictures of the other starter (salade Lyonnaise) or main (côte de veau) and didn't ask for a taste because there's only so bloggery I wanted to act in front of someone I'd not seen for a while, but they looked superb. So there's every chance they were - particularly the veal which was huge and bronzed and nicely pink inside.
With the mains we had ordered dauphinois potatoes, and though they were beautifully done I'm not 100% sure they were worth £18 - the picture makes them look more substantial than they were because this was an awfully shallow dish with only about 2 or 3 layers of potato to it. Still, as I said it tasted great and we had no regrets.
The "problem", such as it is, with French food when it's done this well is that you want to order everything but are soon defeated by the richness of the sauces and the intensity of the ingredients. I had every intention of trying the rum baba or the lemon tart when I first scanned through the menu but by the time the last mouthful of creamy dauphinois potato had disappeared, and the above wonderful thing had been gifted from the kitchen (lamb shoulder, glossy and gamey and on a bed of perfect glazed veg) I'm afraid I had to admit defeat. The bill came to just over £100 per head with plenty of house wine, which probably is a bit unfair on the average because we had ordered two of the most expensive mains. They do a 3 course menu for £30 (at lunch and dinner) so it's possible to not go completely mad.
But the thing is, restaurants like this - and the best of French regional cuisine in general - are at their best when you do order to excess, when you gorge yourself on sweetbreads and lobster and lapin à la moutarde and truffle and desserts and Armagnac and then roll bleary-eyed into a cab wondering if you'll see the morning. Like its sister-restaurant-in-attitude Bouchon Racine, or Otto's in Holborn, sure you can have a portion of smoked salmon with soda bread and a glass of water then go home, but that's not really what they're for.
So if I'm duty bound to take a point off for the prices, I still want to recommend as many people as possible (apart from vegetarians or those with a dairy allergy, that is - this is French food after all) head to Josephine Bouchon. There are very few restaurants even in France doing this kind of thing at this level, and for Londoners to have it on their doorstep should be a source of extreme pride. This little slice of Lyon in SW10 is everything I needed it to be.
9/10
My dining companion was spotted and we were gifted that lamb dish, but otherwise we paid full price. Sorry about the terrible photos - in all the madness of the tube strike I forgot my Big Camera.
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