One Last Time - Le Forchette
By Raymond Rodgers
Disclaimer - The restaurant in question and this review are entirely a work of fiction. They are excerpts from my novel called The Curse of Gluttony , an inter-generational battle between the old and new world of restaurant critics.
The word legacy is wafted around indiscriminately these days. When Theo and Louis Snr rocked up in the swinging sixties, they created an institution. They created a conveyor built of international culinary talent through their doors, enriching the London restaurant scene forever. They single handedly dragged us out of our post-war malaise.
We stand owing them a huge debt for their contribution. The restaurant may fall silent in the months ahead, but it will never be forgotten.
As I cross the threshold of the townhouse with my dear partner, I immediately feel at home. The first thing that captures my attention is the luminance of the white tablecloth. Why has this become so elusive in recent years.
We start of course with a gin martini. London Dry Gin and vermouth in equal measures. Icy cold, two olives and an elegant twist of lemon. Served in the only acceptable vessel, a coupe.
Haute cuisine has fallen out of fashion with the young these days. At its heart is the careful cooking of the best possible ingredients, by the best chefs in the world, commissioned by those who can afford it. It is how the well-off like to eat.
Now I dare say that the woke brigade will have something to say about it, but I started with a large slab of perfectly seared foie gras. Rich, buttery and utterly divine. I know how it is produced, but I tend not to dream of inhumanity when I am eating something so delicious.
My dear partner only had eyes for the souffle, a staple for the generations. A great souffle should come out puffed up like a chefs toque. She cuts it open to reveal it’s velvety insides. Bechamel and cream, with Gruyere sauce. A look of quiet ecstasy and a flash of decadent wickedness takes over her features. She allows me just the smallest of bites, enough to deliver fully on the rapture scale.
Dinner continues at just the right pace, fuelled by a very nice bottle of Chateau Margaux.
I opt for the roast veal loin which is as tender as a lone tear running down a lovers cheek. It is served with a pea, pearl onion, and green salad, perfect for cutting through the unctuous richness. My lady opts for the turbot. The king of all fish. Roasted on the bone for maximum flavour served with a hollandaise sauce, that has been made by the hand of an angel.
The current chef patron Monsieur Bernard is not present, but in his absence, I can report back that his brigade is in top form.
We let them bring the cheese trolley out for a look. More than anything I need the sensory pleasure of seeing my cheese being wheeled out, one last time. We decide to pass, as after all it is a school night, and we need to show a modicum of restraint.
In today’s fast-paced world it is a joy to be transported back in time, in one of the true great London institutions. To think of the great and the good that have made their way here to this epicentre of London sophistication. But who sadly are no longer with us.
Farewell dear friend, you have served us well.
Raymond Rodgers