Mrs Harden was not happy. Like her sister-in-law (also Mrs Harden) she knows by now that restaurant critics don’t just spend their lives checking out the latest Knightsbridge hotspots. But trekking to Brixton on a cold and windy night? Well, really.
The many clouds overhanging our visit darkened further when the restaurant didn’t seem to be at the appointed address. Mercifully it didn’t take too long to find the entry – on Branscome Road – even though it is only marked, speakeasy-style, by an Entryphone.
The buzzer whirred, and the door opened onto a winding staircase. Up we go to find a small bar, and then up again to a tiny dining room with a Lilliputian real fire. The room, surprisingly, has a view, of which the distant focal point is an illuminated building of some grandeur. ‘It looks like Parliament, but isn’t’, said the charming French waitress. Actually, it is.
The menu is Gallic, and, given the small scale of the operation, sensibly short: three choices per course, plus the odd ‘special’. Everything is simply but nicely presented. Overall, my good lady did better than I did. In fact her first two courses – scallops, followed by lamb with a carrot and swede mash – even persuaded her to have a pudding: a rare mark of approval. My meal – ballotine with brioche, then polenta with raclette and finally a chocolate mousse – blew a bit hot and cold, but was never less than competent. The bread rolls tasted as if they had been made on the premises, and the coffee was pretty good too.
So, can this brave and quintessentially downtown sort of restaurant last? The locals – lucky they – seem to be supporting it. One can’t help feeling, however, that if it’s a real success, uptown migration can’t be far away. (When they’ve got their geography sorted out, naturally.)
