This morning my breakfast consisted of toast an artist could draw with, followed by tea that I spilt on my foot. It was close to midday when my telephone buzzed like a jar of angry crickets. An old friend was in town and she wanted to buy me lunch.
Outside the air was filled with sky-related water. I donned a raincoat as effective as a sieve, and left the cosy warmth of my flat to stroll down the hill to the restaurant. I had remembered to bring my umbrella but no sooner had I levered it open a passing truck hurtled through the torrent of water and drenched me from head to foot. A gust of wind then caught it like a sail, pulling it skywards with its handle still in my clenched fist. A fraction of a second later and I punched myself in the face. Full of rage and fury I launched it across the street and straight into a wheelie-bin. I was actually rather impressed with myself for that, but it did not entirely remove the potentially-explosive mood of the moment. I have to admit: I arrived at Côte Brasserie almost looking for a fight.
Naturally, I do not mean by this that I was looking to invite the waiter outside for a bout of fisticuffs. I was simply in a bit of a bad mood. I was looking forward to meeting my friend whom I had not seen in over a year, and knowing that she would calm me down in an instant anyway, I arrived at the restaurant and took a table without waiting to be offered such a thing. I had barely enough time to begin impatiently drumming my fingers on the table before a waiter appeared as if from nowhere, and greeted me with a warmth and courtesy that caught me a little by surprise. 'But this is a French restaurant?' I thought to myself. 'Why is he not snotty and rude?'
Accompanying my dining companion was her fourteen-month-old daughter and our waiter noted this and swiftly brought forth a chair from which she could not escape. In turn I took note that the service was well-thought through and attentive without being intrusive, the decor civilised, erring on the elegant, and the napkins of crisp white cloth as considerate as the sparkling cleanliness of the glasses and the cutlery. It was but a moment before we were presented with menus to browse as my friend and I caught-up on each others' news.
We decided to opt-out of a starter and hoik straight in with the main course. I knew that my grammar was not up to much, but that wasn't particularly important.
For her daughter my friend ordered from the children's menu, and with a young nephew and a niece of my own I have to admit that I was anticipating the arrival of some kind of mush. I was rather impressed that the chicken served with dauphinoise potatoes and green beans as crunchy as feet on gravel, was nothing like that. The beans were perhaps underdone by half a minute, but full of the flavour one expects with green beans, rather than those I had in a hospital recently with the colour of dirty snow and the flavour of snot. For a moment I thought about ordering the same... but I looked once more at the menu and decided: not. My friend opted for the salmon fishcakes served with a baby spinach salad, a wholegrain mustard sauce and something called dill, while I ordered the steak haché cheval, slightly hoping for a small axe-wielding cow to arrive on the back of a horse. It didn't. And I was slightly disappointed about that.
Intriguingly, the vibrant colour of the dish looked a little like the preparation of a still-life painting: the gold of the pommes frites against black tissue, some green healthy 'stuff', a perfectly char-grilled steak haché topped with an egg (rather than the axe-wielding cow), and a shot-glass of a cornichon and tomato relish the colour of a blended Martian. I looked across at my friend enjoying her food very much indeed, and determined to stop being silly and set about enjoying mine as well. It was then that my steak exploded on my plate.
It was the one single thing that let-down lunch, albeit just a bit: the flood of fat and miscellaneous cow gloop gushing from the steak the instant I touched it with the knife. Sure, I had requested 'medium rare', and yes it was disconcerting. But I was hungry and so I ate it anyway. And it tasted precisely as a lump of grilled cow with egg and blended Martian should.
Sadly, we had no time for dessert. My friend instead requested the bill and her reaction to it told me immediately that I would not have to offer to wash-up. Neither she nor I had looked too closely at the prices on the menu beforehand, but she was evidently pleased that she would not have to remortgage her house.
All in all, despite the explosion of cow gloop from my steak, Bath's Côte Brasserie is as good as not having a headache. Throughout our dining experience the service was without flaw, the food entertaining and as expensive as half a pair of shoes. Aside from the delight of seeing my friend again, the blended Martian alone was worth the visit. I shall return one day and have something else. read more
