Racine Kitchen, Knightsbridge

The way things normally work on this blog, more through neccessity than anthing else, is that I visit a restaurant once, then write it up. I'd love to be able to exhaustively work through a menu before making up my mind, or visit at different times of the week to assess the different service shifts, but as you can hopefully appreciate, I have neither the time nor the money to report on anything other than a single, initial visit. If you want expert analysis, try the New York Times.

Now you may think that's unfair, but I can honestly count on one hand the times, in over 8 years and 500 blog posts, that I've really wanted to drastically revise a score after a second visit. Tayyabs would get more than the 8/10 I settled on after somehow failing to order the tinda masala way back in 2007, and perhaps I was a bit easy on Ping Pong given the much better, and much cheaper, dim sum restaurants I've been lucky enough to eat at since. But generally it's surprising how little a repeat visit changes much.

So you'll just have to take my word that although I've stopped by at Racine semi-regularly over the last few years, and have had ample time to question and revise any snap judgments I may have made on the first visit, my opinion of the place has hardly altered since I first set through the door one cold winter's day back in (I think) 2009. Namely, it's a lovely little restaurant serving very nice food and I like it very much.

And here's why. Firstly, there's a menu of regional French dishes with phrases like "Deep fried snails & bacon" (above), "Calf's brain with capers", and "Pâté de foie de volaille" used with appealing confidence, it's enough to make you want to drape a string of onions round your neck, wear a beret and scoff the lot.

There's also that soft, dark room, white tablecloths and cozy bench seating in the traditional Parisian bistro style, and immaculately-appointed staff that glide about with surprising ease considering how closely packed some of the seating is.

But most of all, there is the grouse. Every year, as soon as the season starts, restaurants in London fall over themselves to be the first, the cheapest or make the most innovative use of this wonderful game bird. Gymkhana tandoori spice it, the Lockhart deep-fry it, the Ledbury hay-smoke it, more than one Modern British restaurant sous-vide and daintily joint it into geometric shapes and drizzle jus around it. And good luck to them all. But there's only one way to enjoy grouse as far as I'm concerned, and that's roasted, sat on toast spread with paté, and accompanied by chips, game and bread sauces. And there's nowhere does that better than Racine.

I feel the same way about people who don't like grouse as I do those who say they don't like pongy cheese or caviar. I'm not contemptuous, I do sympathise; I can completely understand where they're coming from - these are strong flavours, deep, funky, grown-up flavours that sail perilously close to tasting of things that you'd normally cross the street to avoid, never mind eat. But if you can get past that, there's something deeply rewarding about eating something that tastes of where it came from; of wet moorland, heather, summer berries and yes, of dead animal. This is not a sanitised, abstract lump of protein bred in a cage and carefully carved free of personality. Roast grouse forces you confront the realities of your dinner - it lived, it flew, it was shot, it died, and here we are.

Of course, there are always other reasons to eat at Racine, such as the aforementioned deep-fried snails and bacon, accompanied by poached duck egg and leeks. I also tried a bit of someone's light prawn and crab cocktail (very good) and even a fairly humdrum-sounding goat's cheese and tomato salad (above) was made more interesting by some very good tomatoes and sprigs of fresh basil. I have also, in the past, enjoyed some wonderful steaks (the current offering is a côte de boeuf for two with Béarnaise sauce for £52, which I happen to think is pretty good value) and I have a lot of time for their signature garlic and saffron mousse with mussels, something which sounds pretty odd on paper but always impresses.

I'll forgive them the 14.5% service charge which seems a bit cheeky in a city more used to 12.5%, and for their perhaps slightly underwhelming dessert offerings (somewhere this French should be doing tarte tatin, surely?) because they also do a £17.50 lunch special (hangar steak, Béarnaise, chips and a glass of wine - bargain) and said 14.5% service is admittedly excellent. But mainly, I'll keep going back to Racine for the grouse. Some things you just don't mess with.

8/10

Allens butchery class, Mayfair

If there's a better afternoon to be had anywhere than hacking apart a variety of top quality meat, then I'd like to know about it. Allens of Mayfair, at 117 Mount Street - that's just opposite the Connaught and a few doors down from Nicky Clarke hairdressers, to give you an idea of the area - run butchery classes at their stunning Victorian shop every Wednesday at 1pm and attract a remarkable variety of punters (50/50 male/female most surprisingly) keen to learn more about that mysterious journey between the fresh animal carcass and the neatly trimmed cuts on your plate. I was lucky enough to be invited to this fascinating place with a handful of other food bloggers to see how badly I could disgrace myself when let loose with a chainmail glove and a dangerously sharp knife.

The first animal to suffer at the hands of my knife skills was a plump, yellow corn-fed chicken. From this, we were shown how to separate the breast and the 'drumette' (the forebone closest to the breast) together into what I was surprised to learn was called a "supreme" - aren't these the ready meals you get from Tescos? And also, who knew all these years I'd been carelessly hacking through the part of the chicken Marco Pierre White cherished so much he would get through 40 or 50 chickens in an evening service just to separate this one part - the "oyster"? You live and learn.


Next, a whole oxtail, which satisfyingly and smoothly separated into a dozen or so equal widths, ready for braising - providing, that is, you managed to find the millimetre or so between the joints that your knife could slide between. Easier said than done, believe me.


Then, a whole back of lamb was painstakingly sawn, sliced and trimmed into a pretty 8-rack, the kind you'd see in any high-end butchers but here, we were slowly and deliberately told, they remove the bitter, tougher top layer of skin so as to leave only the soft white fat on the rack. It's how the top hotels like it, and who are we to argue? Having watched David, the head butcher, perform this task in a matter of a few seconds, it was therefore rather humiliating to still be sweating and swearing away at the 'sawing' stage well after most other people had bagged and tagged their pieces. Eventually David put me out of my misery and finished it off himself, in the manner of an impatient parent tying their child's shoelaces.


The sight of an enormous 3-rib rack of sirloin was enough to put the smile back on my face, however. Gorgeously marbled, and clearly of a very high quality, we were nevertheless trusted to remove the roasting joint from the bone and have a go tying it up with butcher's string. The first bit, I had no problem with; it was only when attempting to tie up the joint neatly into a shape that resembled something you'd be happy to put in your oven that I eventually had to ask for yet more help. The shoelace-tying analogy was even more appropriate this time around.


So despite my cack-handed attempts at various tasks, and my sore (or should that be saw?) arms, I left Allens grinning like an idiot. It was fascinating and hilarious fun. Also, I know £100 seems like a lot of money for an hour and a half's course but you get to take all the meat home with you(!), and an 8-rack of lamb, a whole jointed chicken, a whole oxtail and a massive roasting joint of beef (note: I believe usually there is something involving pork instead of the sirloins we were given) must be pretty close to being worth £100 even without the expert tuition and tour of the oldest butchers in London. The next day, after slicing that joint up into nice thick steaks, I roasted them on my trusty Weber BBQ over a fierce heat. They were absolutely stunning.


There was talk, towards the end of the afternoon, of the restaurants that Allens supplies, all prestigious establishments including Le Gavroche, Zuma and - my ears pricked up at this - Rules. In fact, when the season is right, Allens run game butchery classes, showing people how to pluck and gut my beloved grouse, as well as (for those with a strong stomach) the notoriously bloody and strongly scented hare. Sign me up.

I was invited to Allens butchers. Courses cost £100 and can be booked here. Many thanks to Hollow Legs for the pictures - it's remarkably difficult to operate an iPhone with a chainmail glove on.

Other reports of the afternoon can be found at:

Eat Like A Girl, Oliver Thring, Food Stories, and Hollow Legs

Rules, Covent Garden (revisited)

I don't often do this. I have done this of course, occasionally, for restaurants which on return visits have proved themselves to have significantly improved, or at least shown that the first was an unfortunate fluke. And I don't subscribe to the (largely American, or at least New York) view that in order to fairly assess a restaurant you have to visit multiple times - nobody (at least nobody normal) obsessively visits a place twenty times just to check if it really is as crap as they think it is. If it's not good they will never go again, and if it is, they'll tell their mates about it. Restaurants are only as good as their last service, and I quite like that control factor - it seems fair and squarely based on the habits of the average punter.


But you'd think with a score of 9/10 there wouldn't be much need to re-review Rules. 9 is as near as dammit, and why not leave it at that - I'm only opening myself to criticism if someone pays a visit on the back of my glowing write-up and then doesn't enjoy every bit of it as much as I did.

Well, two reasons.

Firstly, I wanted to give Rules 10/10 after my first visit but stupidly thought that with El Bulli looming the week after I may need some room to manoeuvre. But as much as I would like to think the scores I give are "absolute", the universe in which the scoring system operates is essentially, necessarily as fickle as my own fads and preferences. "What if I think this restaurant is perfect, and then El Bulli is more perfect?" went the reasoning. It was a mistake to think like this in the first place - there's no shame in flexibility. And anyway who cares, it's not like an angry mob is going to burn my house down if I get it a point or two wrong. Get over yourself, Pople.



Secondly, and most importantly, Rules really is that good. Everything I've ordered and eaten myself, or nicked off someone else's plate over the two visits (possibly around 12-14 dishes in total) have been consistently, giddily delicious. Last weekend I went with a few friends for a birthday meal and tried first the Crisp Wild Rabbit, boasting robust flavours and some fantastic texture contrasts; the Pheasant Pie, a seasonal speciality shot through with earthy morel mushrooms and a tangy white wine sauce; and the Rib of Beef for Two, cooked absolutely perfectly and served with a spectacular 6" high Yorkshire Pudding. And of course, I couldn't resist the opportunity to order the grouse again. I've gone on about this bird far too often already, so I'll just say this - it's probably the best thing I've ever eaten ever in my life. Let's leave it at that.


In the light of the recent "disclosure" controversies, and just to reassure anyone who doubts my own integrity (HA!), you can be sure this isn't any kind of PR-led fluff piece or freebie-fuelled reciprocation, because Rules doesn't employ a PR agency. It doesn't need one. It ticks over very nicely thank you very much, all year, without having to do anything other than carry on doing what they've been doing for the last 200+ years. The reason for Rules' astonishing success and longevity is hardly rocket science - the very best British ingredients, sensitively cooked with a respectful nod to history (it would be too much of a disservice to call the food at Rules "simple", as anyone who has ever tried to roast a grouse themselves and not have it end up inedibly tough will tell you) and with a superb bar upstairs manned by a handful of the best drinks makers in London. The perfect restaurant? As near as dammit.

10/10

Rules, Covent Garden

Looking back now, to those bleak, monochrome days before I ate the Rules grouse, I suppose I wasn't quite sure what to expect. I had high hopes, of course, mainly thanks to Simon Majumdar and his giddy tour of the kitchens a few weeks back, and was also looking forward to trying the cocktails in the (still relatively new) Rules Bar upstairs. But it seemed like an odd venue - I was worried that, sitting on the reputation as London's Oldest Restaurant and therefore able to suck in enough heritage-starved American tourists and blousy Old Boys to keep the profits ticking over through good times and bad, that Rules didn't actually need to be any good at all. And, it goes without saying, very few of the places that don't need to be good actually, well, are. I was worried it would be staid, overpriced, stuffy, stifling and stressful. In the end, it was none of those things, and in fact turned out to the most wonderful evening I've enjoyed in a very long time.


Events began in the dark-panelled, carpeted luxury of the upstairs bar, and with the creation of a drink called the Golden Negroni. Like all good cocktails, there was that balance of familiar comforting flavours and just a hint of the mysterious. Apparently lurking in it somewhere was a touch of Poire William. It was remarkably easy to drink. While waiting for various members of our party to arrive, I was invited to sit at the bar itself and watch the mixing of my next order up close. Called the Edge, it contained fresh grated horseradish and tasted of cosy evenings in front of a log fire. Perhaps not very seasonal, but delicious nonetheless.


After an hour or so of blissful contentment which passed as if it was five minutes, it was time to move downstairs and take our seats for dinner. With its high ceilings and walls covered in memorabilia and paraphernalia, Rules feels every one of its 211 years old. How nice, though, to be in a restaurant that has gathered its mementos and photographs honestly and gradually over many years, instead of buying them all at once in a bid to invent an illustrious past like so many gastropubs. This is a place with real history, and a confidence in its own reputation as a London dining destination. And we were about to find out why.


My starter was Morecambe Bay potted shrimps, one of my favourite comfort foods at the best of times, but here, thanks to Rules' use of lobster butter to bind the sweet crustaceans together, it took on a new, luxurious identity. I will admit that my knowledge of potted shrimp was previously limited to the little plastic pots you can buy at foodie markets, but even so, these were lovely. And although my dish came on the back of a recommendation from His Maj, the standards of the other starters on our table were equally high - in particularly a gorgeous dressed crab with a perfectly balanced brown meat mix.


And then the grouse. It will give you an idea of how very reasonable the prices are in this restaurant when I tell you that this labour-intensive, hand caught game bird was at only £27.50 the most expensive item on the Rules menu last night. But in this blogger's humble opinion, the experience it delivered was close to priceless. Served with crispy bacon, some duck liver paté on toast and the traditional game chips, the only slightly unusual element was a few sprigs of highland heather protruding from the back of the bird. And yet almost before the first bite of the gorgeously pink, moist meat had reached my lips, I knew this was going to be something special. The smell - oh, lordy, the smell - it was of open countryside, highland moors and healthy living. It was an aroma that did more than simply get the taste buds going, it assaulted my emotions directly, whisking me back to childhood trips to Cumbria and of long walks on hot summer's days. And it was no less affecting in the mouth - to call the flavour "gamey" is to not even touch the surface of how extraordinarily, wonderfully powerful the flavour of this little bird was - a deep, rich flavour like no other animal I've ever tasted. I ate in stunned, intense silence, methodically pulling every bit of the carcass apart and savouring every last morsel of offal from inside and out. Later in the evening I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror; I had grouse blood splattered down the front of my white shirt and looked like Sweeney Todd after a particularly busy day. I was so overwhelmed I hadn't even noticed at the time.


After dinner, we moved back upstairs once again and allowed Brian Silva, the head barman, to gently bring us down from our game-fuelled high with a plate of Colton Basset stilton and Pedro Ximines dessert sherry. We chatted happily across the bar and drank wonderful cocktails until we were the last people in the room. It was a magical evening, one of those nights where every element of every bite and slurp brings joy and each moment slides blissfully into the next. But it was the grouse that was the star of an evening not short of highlights. That I recommend Rules as a restaurant should by now be obvious - you absolutely, positively have to go, and soon, before the season is over. It's just too good to miss.




9/10