It is a rare occasion when I have to clutch at straws for somewhere 'nice' to take anyone, but this was for my folks, for a special occasion. I of course can consult many a gourmands knowledge for recomendations within zones 1-2, but my dearly retired parents, whose out of town locale means that the nearest zone I'd get to fine dining would probably have meant following the hot tail of a catering truck on route to Gatwick International T1.
I despaired in my plight, only finding 4-5 star reviews for places like Cosmos and TGI Fridays, I'm incredibly dubious about reviews of this ilk. It meant I had to use my nous to find something in the nebula like nothingness, in the gastronomic jejune of London's southern part of zone 6 that could offer something salubrious, bearing in mind, my old darlings needing dodder-friendly nearby parking. A doddle it was not.
Bless them, I had filled their hearts with high expectations. I like to think I research to the T -Bone. I trusted my fellow reviewing community, not all Yelpers sadly and I got burned.
With mother dearest wearing her favourite neckerchief in a plume of her statement 'going out' perfume and the pops, in a cravat saying something about craving Shnails we set off for summing 'nice', poor dears were probably expecting Sutton's answer to The Savoy.
With smattering of Yelper's suggesting this place was 'Nice', I bit the al dente bullet and as the website suggested, booked in advance.
So the oldies being old school, have preconceptions that if it's French it's fancy. During my recent trip to Paris, I found quite of the opposite of French food. But if it was French they wanted to be festive, then French they would have.
To start with the welcome was less than warm, it was a quiet mid-week late lunch and on our arrival we were seated by a rather disinterested waitress. Cutlery was crustier than old crustaceans (which they didn't have, which were on the menu and our reason du jour for our visit), faux french decor and a stale ambience of a lonely diner where couples go to admit they're having an affair and throw divorce proceedings as well as cheap white wine over the table or it seemed like a place where old ladies who own lots of cats watch the 157 bus go by 14 times sat at the window, making a solo dinner outing and latte last hours. Then leave and not tip.
The worst part was that poor pops ended up wearing his snails as the rather distant waitress cack-handedly, considering the spacious setting, served them over his shoulder and slipped the slimy garlic butter down his lapels. He wanted to eat them not pet them. Going home with odoriferous dad, seeped in garlic snail juice, mother dear admitted she was less than enamoured with the poor Poulet dish too.
I wrote to Brasserie Vacherin about our experience and never got so much as thank you for my visit; my feedback futile. At the time I politely uttered it was just an accident (which could have been avoided). I'd have at least expected them to offer some empty promise of training their staff to a higher standard as well as an offer to reimburse for dry-cleaning dads cashmere dinner jacket. FYI- I paid the service charge as requested, the full 12.5 % added to our bill and dad even probably tipped the waitress extra.
I did not complain at the time, instead inside I secretly seethed at my failure to find nouveau cuisine nirvana as I smiled through pursed lips whilst my blood boiled like the boeuf bourguignon I was dissuaded to have.
I wished we have gone to that Cosmos now, we'd have all worn body armour which would have at least protected our clothes and they don't have serve staff to disappoint, just people who clear the plates behind riot police and hydro guns to keep the savages back. read more