Casse-Croûte - restaurant review

Between the publication of Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell wrote his final essay in the Evening Standard in February 1946 describing his ideal imaginary London pub called The Moon Under Water. Stipulations for this hostelry included that it sell tobacco and cigarettes, aspirin and stamps, and let you use the phone. Suggested bar snacks were liver-sausage sandwiches, mussels, cheese and pickles and large biscuits with caraway seeds. Sounds good to me.

Nearly 70 years on, conjuring up the perfect little bistro of the sort you hope to come across in France and nowadays never ever do, it would be Casse-Croûte in Bermondsey Street. The excellent thing is that the restaurant actually opened for business a couple of weeks ago.

An impeccable pastiche with ready-ravaged signage, a poster for the Folies Bergère, gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper, red gingham tablecloths, dim photos of relatives, a serious bar backed with the sirops, apéritifs and digestifs the French cherish, a short daily-changing blackboard menu and enthusiastic, energetic staff; it is ’Allo ’Allo! without the Nazis — and after a professional course at Le Cordon Bleu.

My lunch date says he likes to arrive before me on the grounds that it is “solo espionage, soaking up the signals”. He is the canary down the mine, checking on how he is treated before I turn up — and probably get recognised. Since he is quite well known in the restaurant lark this is a dubious theory, but he says about Hervé Durochat (business partner of José Pizarro and general manager of tapas bar José opposite) that he made him feel like he’d been there before. “Quite the feat since I’d never met him or even heard of him.” I get there and Hervé says: “Hello, Fay.”

Head chef is Sylvain Soulard who used to cook at Michelin-starred Morgan M. Sommelier or, anyway, chap in charge of drinks and all-round bonhomie is Alexandre (Alex) Bonnefoy. So, that is three serious operators who are good friends, plus helpers, in charge of 25 covers if you include the bar stools, with prices that average £6.50 for first courses, £12 for main courses and £4.50 for desserts — with bottles of wine kicking off at £18. It is a not a business model that you would find in France — or probably anywhere else in Britain. But it is one more feather in the cap that is Bermondsey Street’s restauration. People will start to go on their holidays there.

After a while items in the various courses will get repeated, so even though my lunch and dinner will have been different from yours, it is worth eulogising the rusty soupe de poisson complete with croutons, rouille and grated Gruyère and the nubbly velvet of cold pea soup à la Française (with spring onions and lettuce); golden-hearted oeuf à la coque with mouillettes which turn out to be versions of “soldiers”, one being a stalk of asparagus wrapped in pancetta, another cheese on toast; preternaturally succulent lapin à la moutarde served on silken potato purée; a text-book Paris-Brest (originally created to commemorate a French bicycle race. Ha!).

Other assemblies are not quite so blameless. Although it is a counsel of perfection, celeriac for a remoulade is much better hand-cut and the sauce sporting potted shrimps (strange idea) needs pepperiness to boost it; supreme de volaille aux mousserons, although it has the pleasant surprise element of potato paillasson, is basically a dull breast of chicken undercooked; jaret de veau façon Marengo (a garnish allegedly created by Napoleon’s chef Dunand) would not have been up to celebrating victory against the Austrians; thinly sliced steak au poivre, although benefiting from bonny green peppercorns, is not flattered by sauté potatoes mixed with tomatoes. But so welcome and joyful is the experience that though my head says three stars, my heart says four wooed by the sheer ooh la la-ness of a fantasy made tangible.

The pleasure of the drinking also cannot be left out of the calculation. Pastis served comme il faut, a special brew of draught beer (en pression) made by Red Squirrel in Hampshire, a digestif of Genepi Grand Tetras (similar roots to absinthe) all occupy their rightful places in the meals. At lunch Poivre d’Ane Mas des Agrunelles 2010 from the Languedoc puts the dynamic in biodynamic — especially at £24. At dinner Alex suggests Arôme Sauvages Domaine de Viramel 2011 made from thick-skinned Alicante-Bouschet grapes, a rackety voyage of discovery at £35. For Casse-Croûte to thrive, punters must break bread from noon to night-time non-stop — but I can’t see why they wouldn’t.

129 Bermondsey Street, SE1 (020 7407 2140). Open daily 9am-10pm (5pm Sun). A meal for two with wine, about £72 excluding service.