Frenchie: The golden Gallic touch

Fay Maschler finds much to love on all three visits to Grégory Marchand's new venture
Back in the capital: chef Greg Marchand
Matt Writtle
Fay Maschler31 January 2018

Frenchie is the nickname Jamie Oliver gave to chef Grégory Marchand when Grégory headed the kitchen of Fifteen in Shoreditch. In 2009 he used it as the name for his own Paris restaurant and wine bar, then also a traiteur and wine shop, in Rue du Nil. In London it is spelled out clearly in black-and-white mosaic tiles on the doorstep of the otherwise slightly shy and retiring entrance to Frenchie in Covent Garden. It is, maybe, the Frenchiest thing about the enterprise.

After leaving cooking school, Marchand — who is originally from Nantes — travelled abroad with only his knives for company, says the Paris website somewhat mordantly. He worked in London, Spain, Hong Kong and New York, and although it may pain the compilers of La Liste — the French-heavy top 1,000 restaurants sanctioned by France’s Foreign Ministry — his current style would not look out of place on the menu of New York’s Gramercy Tavern, where he spent time.

La cuisine is these days, as the French might say, déracinée and sometimes, as here, all the better for it. Ironically, or perhaps inevitably, the previous owner of the site is Richard, Earl of Bradford, who specialised in traditional British food such as sausages, toad-in-the-hole, braised faggots and steamed syrup sponge.

I ate three times at Frenchie last week, figuring that repeat visits in the soft opening period — 50 per cent off food prices, which is palatable and very welcome — must equal at least one (quite hefty) full-price visit. At lunch the menu is divided into starters, main courses and desserts, with three choices in each section, and although there is some waffle from the waiter about sharing we don’t do that. We are so over sharing. The price is fixed —£22/28 for two/three courses (last week it was half that).

Juicy and muscular: 100-days-old chicken with salsify and kumquat Matt Writtle
Matt Writtle

Immediately we register the savvy name-checking. Rare-breed pork from Richard Vaughan’s Huntsham Farm in Herefordshire for terrine (surely there are not more giant pandas in the world than Middle White pigs, as the publicity says); Shetland pollock; 100-days-old chicken from The Ginger Pig; Keen’s Cheddar in the gnocchi; Maldon sea salt in caramel; new-season Yorkshire rhubarb. Looking at this and also the heavy investment in the lease and stylish sheeny fit-out, we wonder who could be an investor. Jamie O?

My chum starts with roasted carrots and I try the pork terrine reminiscing about recipes from Elizabeth David’s French Country Cooking. The carrots of different hues and presumably good breeding (heritage) are flavoured with vadouvan, an allium and Indian spice mixture where turmeric is used as Van Gogh might have done. Medjool dates and barley add their particularities. Innately sweet but now piquant and crusty with spices, these roots can no longer be considered a common or garden vegetable. They are delicious.

The terrine is too demure and finely milled to fulfil my rustic fantasies, and although it is wholly decent of a Frenchman to essay an accompaniment of piccalilli it needs more cornflour to mitigate the vinegar and impart a shine.

A wholehearted recommendation: Clarence Court egg mimosa topped with shredded black truffle; smoked anchovies laid out neatly on toast buttered with Neal’s Yard salted Matt Writtle
Matt Writtle

Pollock seems to have upped its game recently. Robust and glistening shards of fish are accompanied — “lucidly” observes my companion — with two sorts of mushroom, one being shitake, and a vigorous shaking of Meyer lemon dust. Marchand proves keen on using citrus sneakily and cannily. It is another work of art and not only in terms of an eye for colour.

Chicken, so often prosaic, is juicy and muscular. Its life of 100 days seems to have been an active one. A teaspoon of mash, the teeniest of sprouts — some commis has been doing a lot of peeling — batons of salsifis and a rich jus surround the zealously seasoned dark meat that has been cut into wide strips. We share bittersweet chocolate tart served with bacon ice cream. The counterpoints of sweet, lush and salt are harmonious; the pastry base perfect — Frenchie proves to have an extremely strong patisserie section. After I explain to my guest the Coco Chanel principle of getting dressed and ready and then taking off at least one thing before you go out, he remarks that the bacon bits on the ice cream could go as well as the dill on the carrots and the shamrock (microherbs) on the pollock.

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The evening à la carte — confusingly laid out as Bites, Savoury and Cheeses & Desserts — offers the above dishes and much more. Impressively, it changes (slightly) over the two evenings I see it. The sharing idea really only works for two people — the smaller dishes being too bijou to divvy up for more. Items I wholeheartedly recommend are Clarence Court egg mimosa topped with shredded black truffle; smoked anchovies laid out neatly on toast buttered with Neal’s Yard salted; pressed duck foie gras with smoked eel, beets and grated frozen horseradish (sublime); ricotta tortelli with Lapsang Souchong and lemon caviar; pink Yorkshire rhubarb.

Staff work hard to dispel any myths about snooty French service, none more so than the young sommelier whose help with the briskly priced wine list focusing on small, artisanal producers is invaluable. Can we soon expect a wine shop?

Tues-Sat, noon-2.30pm and 6pm-10.30pm. Daily service to follow. Set-price lunch £22/28 for two/three courses. “Carte Blanche” dinner five courses £55pp. With wine pairing £100. A la carte, a meal for two with wine, about £130 including 12.5 per cent service.

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