Brasserie Blanc, Threadneedle Street, London, UK.
Review by Paul Oswell
Raymond Blanc was probably my first ever exposure to the abstract idea of French cuisine (it wasn’t around much in the small Northern town I grew up in, outside of chocolate éclairs).
I have this – until now – latent memory of him in an advert for British Gas in the 1980s. He is, for some reason, cooking for the family of a Yorkshire miner. While he’s drumming up some Gallic fodder, the man of the house keeps asking him questions along the lines of “What der yer think t’ new cooker, Raymond?” Raymond is suitably impressed wit’ t’ new cooker and serves up some haute cuisine to the waiting family. Yorkshire miner tries it gingerly, then smiles and delivers the immortal pay-off with full Sheffield accent, “Très bon, Raymond!”
This weirdly comes back to me as I wander through The City with an old friend after a day essentially dossing around on the Thames, through the crowds of be-suited financiers and brash trading floor buggers and into the newly-refurbed Brasserie Blanc, a small corner of France in the Square Mile (you can tell this as it has a bicycle in the window).
What will we think t’ new restaurant?
There are six Brasserie Blancs in London and thirteen nationwide, so it’s a sizeable enterprise, and in this Threadneedle Street location, it brings a noticeably down-home attitude to the otherwise formal city surroundings.
There’s that bike in the window. The specials are on a big blackboard. Casual-looking ceramics are used instead of posh crockery, that kind of thing. Blanc is apparently aiming to bring the feeling of his family kitchen table to the masses, which could be a tall order given the likelihood of braying city boys boasting about their yachts in the bar, but the subdued surrounds probably repel the worst offenders around these parts.
It’s quite tranquil as we sit down, and an array of casual servers bring us our orders, waters and breads (there seems to be a squad of waiters who each specialise in one thing). We plough through an impressive selection of tapenade, tearing bread apart and sloshing them on to feel as rural as we can.
The menu is set around “simple, hearty French dishes” and it’s an accordion-backed waltz through the classics. Sorry, Les Classiques. I hadn’t even thought about beef bourguignon since, I’m going to say that British Gas advert, yet here I was ordering it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My friend goes old school with a steak and we throw caution to the wind and let our waiter choose the wine.
Our fellow diners (and it’s pretty early in the evening) are more mature city workers, chatting quietly about their weekend breaks, which is much more enticing than the imagined scrum of Teddy and Jamie and their shiny-suited mates, screaming about their bonuses over overpriced champagne. The place has a more subtle, relaxed feel to it.
We’ve also squeezed in some charcuterie action and a fish soup and, spurred on by the familial shtick that Blanc is admirably working, Maman Blanc’s Salad (she likes radish and crème fraiche, for the record).
It’s all reassuringly simple and well-presented and fresh and not pretentious, even appealing – one assumes – to the family of a Yorkshire miner. Chick pea and coriander cake for a main might be as intimidating as it gets. There’s an assurance about the place and the prices aren’t going to offend anyone, especially given the locale.
Non-banker punters will probably prefer the Charlotte Street or Covent Garden locations, the former of which has a nice secluded level called The Clubhouse, all soft furnishings and plush informality.
As for us, we’re draining our wine glasses and splitting some sorbet and heading back out into the growing melee of workers shuffling to their commutes. Meanwhile, we wander river-wards to walk off a simple but satisfying French feast.
(In full Lancashire accent:) Très bon, Raymond.
MORE RESTAURANT AND BAR REVIEWS
I have this – until now – latent memory of him in an advert for British Gas in the 1980s. He is, for some reason, cooking for the family of a Yorkshire miner. While he’s drumming up some Gallic fodder, the man of the house keeps asking him questions along the lines of “What der yer think t’ new cooker, Raymond?” Raymond is suitably impressed wit’ t’ new cooker and serves up some haute cuisine to the waiting family. Yorkshire miner tries it gingerly, then smiles and delivers the immortal pay-off with full Sheffield accent, “Très bon, Raymond!”
This weirdly comes back to me as I wander through The City with an old friend after a day essentially dossing around on the Thames, through the crowds of be-suited financiers and brash trading floor buggers and into the newly-refurbed Brasserie Blanc, a small corner of France in the Square Mile (you can tell this as it has a bicycle in the window).
What will we think t’ new restaurant?
There are six Brasserie Blancs in London and thirteen nationwide, so it’s a sizeable enterprise, and in this Threadneedle Street location, it brings a noticeably down-home attitude to the otherwise formal city surroundings.
There’s that bike in the window. The specials are on a big blackboard. Casual-looking ceramics are used instead of posh crockery, that kind of thing. Blanc is apparently aiming to bring the feeling of his family kitchen table to the masses, which could be a tall order given the likelihood of braying city boys boasting about their yachts in the bar, but the subdued surrounds probably repel the worst offenders around these parts.
It’s quite tranquil as we sit down, and an array of casual servers bring us our orders, waters and breads (there seems to be a squad of waiters who each specialise in one thing). We plough through an impressive selection of tapenade, tearing bread apart and sloshing them on to feel as rural as we can.
The menu is set around “simple, hearty French dishes” and it’s an accordion-backed waltz through the classics. Sorry, Les Classiques. I hadn’t even thought about beef bourguignon since, I’m going to say that British Gas advert, yet here I was ordering it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My friend goes old school with a steak and we throw caution to the wind and let our waiter choose the wine.
Our fellow diners (and it’s pretty early in the evening) are more mature city workers, chatting quietly about their weekend breaks, which is much more enticing than the imagined scrum of Teddy and Jamie and their shiny-suited mates, screaming about their bonuses over overpriced champagne. The place has a more subtle, relaxed feel to it.
We’ve also squeezed in some charcuterie action and a fish soup and, spurred on by the familial shtick that Blanc is admirably working, Maman Blanc’s Salad (she likes radish and crème fraiche, for the record).
It’s all reassuringly simple and well-presented and fresh and not pretentious, even appealing – one assumes – to the family of a Yorkshire miner. Chick pea and coriander cake for a main might be as intimidating as it gets. There’s an assurance about the place and the prices aren’t going to offend anyone, especially given the locale.
Non-banker punters will probably prefer the Charlotte Street or Covent Garden locations, the former of which has a nice secluded level called The Clubhouse, all soft furnishings and plush informality.
As for us, we’re draining our wine glasses and splitting some sorbet and heading back out into the growing melee of workers shuffling to their commutes. Meanwhile, we wander river-wards to walk off a simple but satisfying French feast.
(In full Lancashire accent:) Très bon, Raymond.
MORE RESTAURANT AND BAR REVIEWS