Grace and Flavour: Balthazar

Observant Grace and Flavour readers may remember my flu-fever ramblings last week about wanting a table at Balthazar, the new, heavily hyped Keith McNally brasserie in Covent Garden. Duck shepherd’s pie, pumpkin agnolotti, escargots in garlic butter, côte de boeuf, Blue Point oysters, et beaucoup de other French loveliness — a mirror image of its New York sister — now on offer just off the main market square.

To my mind, following several attempts at booking, Balthazar had become akin to the hallowed city of Qarth in HBO’s Game of Thrones, where the inhabitants, who are no better than they ought to be, make a terrific fuss of telling everyone it’s ‘the greatest city that ever was or ever will be’ and then refusing entry. This just made me want Balthazar more.

In hindsight, this was perfect PR — keeping in mind that restaurant PRs rarely cajole me into doing anything, largely due to me having a face that even when relaxed resembles a disgruntled Mexican hill goat who suspects you’re here to pilfer its acorns. By last Saturday the only thing keeping me chipper about Balthazar was phoning my nemesis foodie Jay Rayner, saying, ‘Jay, you got a table down Balthazar yet?’ and when he said, ‘No, I bloody haven’t,’ punching the air and limboing round my kitchen to ‘I Like To Move It’ by Reel 2 Real featuring Mad Stuntman. I work from home, I make my own fun.

Then, the following Monday, I went ninja, upped my Balthazar ante and got a table. Now, previous to visiting, I had issues about whether Covent Garden can ever be truly chic. One is always going to be within sniffing distance of the jugglers, the busking BacoFoil robots and sulk-faced Belgian teenagers light-petting by the Lush soap boutique. That said, all good Londoners have a safe place they retreat to in their head while negotiating their way through Covent Garden. In mine, the piped Muzak is Beethoven’s 7th Symphony, 2nd movement, and I repeat the mantra, ‘You are a strong, confident Londoner, you will not let a minor concussion from a stranger’s 35kg backpack deter you.’

But when you enter Balthazar, touristville ebbs away and you’re whooshed into a sort of seductive Manhattan/Marseille hinterland with booths to snark in, elegant little tables to lunch at, an open seafood bar and those avuncular, highly professional bar stewards who make drinking a glass of champagne on a tall stool while awaiting one’s booth feel like a noble act. Damn them — after all the hype and trouble, this place is very good. Oh how convenient for this column would it have been if it was a big dull dud.

But as I’m writing this I’m imagining the perfect — teensy-tiny suggestion of al dente — lobster risotto with truffle, which I had as an hors d’oeuvre but when I return I’ll eat as an entrée. We ate a very good, peppery steak tartare, then the duck shepherd’s pie with a side of diced, garlicky pan-fried Brussels sprouts. We ordered a Balthazar bar steak, dripping with maître d’ butter, and a mountain of hot fries. Then we sat gasping for ten minutes as a bloody impressive rhubarb soufflé with a jug of crème anglaise was conjured up.

I liked Balthazar. I’d like to take up residence in one of booths on the far wall with my partner in writing crime Caitlin Moran and grow old disgracefully over many long lunches, in a series of increasingly ostentatious hairpieces. I’d possibly die mid-anecdote, face down, in a plate of fresh profiteroles. But what a way to go.