Conran's bit of French fancy

This article was published in January 2002

Nobody with the remotest interest in food can remain entirely immune to Sir Terence Conran. Love him or loathe him, the man has undeniably got a finger on the old zeitgeist, dining-wise.

My own relationship with him has been like a classic romance: initially, I admired him from afar, dreaming wistfully of cool, metropolitan eateries; then I consummated the affair, languishing like a secret lover on stolen afternoons in Le Pont De La Tour or the Blueprint Cafe; finally I chucked him, disenchanted, dissatisfied and slightly ashamed of my previous rabid admiration.

The scales fell from my eyes at the Butler's Wharf Chop House when a starter described as 'dressed crab' costing £10 - and, my dears, this was in the days when £10 was not just steep but an insane, laughable amount - arrived as a disc of crab the size of a communion wafer. Talk about feeling used and exploited. Since then, I've never darkened the door of a Conran establishment - until now.

The Almeida, his new restaurant in Islington, proves he still knows the score. In unsettling times we crave comfort - and that's what The Almeida is all about. In look, it's almost like he's been plundering his own scrapbook: early Habitat-ish bentwood and bergëre seating; the wine list comes in an aluminium Filofax; there's a pudding trolley and a vastly intriguing terrine trolley. Apart from an irritating Kelly Hoppen-style strip of linen in the middle of the tables, you could be in the early 1980s.

The menu provides comfort in spades: it's entirely French - old-school, brasserie French. You'll find onion soup, langoustines with mayonnaise, carr» d'agneau, frogs' legs, pig's trotter, confit de canard. Utterly familiar and utterly soothing; but the moment I sat down I felt a strange unease - it was as though I'd arranged a Friendsreunited date with an old flame only to discover I'd aged 20 years and he'd remained exactly the same.

The much-anticipated terrine trolley amplified my unhappiness: rather than an orgy of meats, I was served with slivers of chicken parfait, terrine de campagne with pistachios and jambon persille so minuscule they were almost transparent. The waiter appeared to be manicuring the somewhat bland selection rather than slicing. The promised saucisson didn't volunteer itself; we had to ask for it.

But the tiny link sausages, savoury and garlicky --sourced from Biarritz - which accessorised some spankingly fresh oysters had me falling in love all over again. I wanted to take them home with me.

From then on I was lost: from a perfect, creamy gratin dauphinoise to a heroic slab of peppered beef fillet of real character, everything was exemplary. Sauces were flawless: the hollandaise that came with my vast slabs of pearly turbot was sinfully good; the bearnaise from the next table's còte de boeuf - they offered me a taste, tables are very close together - the best I've eaten.

A green salad was an exercise in delicious simplicity. But then the chef and the manager both hail from Conran's only Michelin-starred restaurant, the Orrery.

Portion control is odd, though. Our main courses were Trencherman-sized, but the cheeseparing of the charcuterie and, appropriately, the cheese, rankled with its stinginess, especially at £10.50 and £5.50 respectively. More of one and less of the other would lead to a greater level of satisfaction. Still, despite misgivings, Conran can still set my heart fluttering just like the good old days.

Almeida
31Almeida Street, Islington, London, N1 1DA