The Lawn Bistro - review

 
Temptation: Ollie Couillaud’s food is reason enough for Andy Murray to move to Wimbledon and practise until he wins
14 November 2012

Enquiring as to who is the owner of The Lawn Bistro in Wimbledon I am told that he is from Uzbekistan and living in Surbiton. Here is a story of our times. I haven't been able to find out much more about the said Akbar Ashurov - information on the web is mostly in Russian - but chef Ollie Couillaud and I go back quite a long way in restaurant terms.

If CVs were typed in different font sizes, I dare say it would be tiny, ant-sized for Couillaud's stint at The Dorchester Grill and maybe a bit bigger for the relatively short-lived battily named Bord'eaux at Grosvenor House (now JW Steakhouse), while his time as head chef at Nigel Platts-Martin and Bruce Poole's La Trompette would be leapingly legible. As for his stint at Tom's Kitchen, my feeling is that it ought to be portrayed very modestly.

From a family of restaurateurs who owned the Hotel du Cheval Blanc et Clovis in the Poitou-Charentes region, Couillaud has been working in London since leaving France at the age of 18. Obviously his upbringing has influenced his cooking, but he cites as mentors Englishmen Poole of Chez Bruce and Philip Howard of The Square.

At The Lawn Bistro, which replaces an allegedly unloved establishment called Lydon's, he implements fixed price menus just as is done at Chez Bruce. Three courses at a little over £10 a course at dinner for thoughtful, complex cooking is potentially a pretty good deal. A simpler menu at lunchtime with main courses like bavette and croque monsieur works out at just over £7 a course for food alone. Of course, it seldom is just food alone.

Wimbledon clanks with chains like Marley's ghost. To find an independent venture offering dishes like sweetbreads with sauce ravigotte, grilled calf's kidney with wild mushrooms and braised ox cheeks a la Bourguignonne is reason to rejoice - and for Andy Murray to move there and practise until he wins.

Bare tables, minimal cutlery and low-key decoration suggest an aim to be reasonably casual that is immediately undermined by a waitress wearing a white shirt with a brown tie fussing around with tongs and a basket of bread which is dispensed like Holy Communion. I take the one and only piece of stale baguette. There are also slices of brown bread and focaccia. Just put it on the table, I want to shout, but I don't.

My friend Caroline chooses to start with beetroot and goat's cheese salad with truffle honey and toasted walnuts. Like the old song about love and marriage it seems now that with beetroot and goat's cheese you can't have the one without the other.

Every gastropub sanctifies the union but usually with fairly drab results. This assembly is something else; leaves glistening, the beetroot almost profound in its earthiness, the scoops of cheese crunchily deep-fried in golden crumbs. The sweetness and a note of citrus in the dressing are just right.

Cream of white onion and cider soup served in a white lion-head porcelain bowl with crossed cheese straws rampant is despatched quickly and with pleasure. Cornish mackerel tartare is served as a disc of the chopped raw fish spread with cream of avocado and topped with Avruga caviar. It is quite nice. Brininess from a bit more Avruga would have sexed it up.

Roasted partridge is presented as an architectural construct. "Zaha Hadid would appreciate this," says Caroline. A long crouton spread with the bird's liver makes a bridge across two pieces of upstanding partridge with a lawn of Savoy cabbage below and Madeira sauce to water it. It also tastes very fine.

Grilled calf's kidney is not a dish you often find on menus these days. It is perfectly cooked, served in tender slices with a blush of pink at the heart - even though there's more gristle than muscle in a kidney. Wild mushrooms, fondant baby potatoes, green beans and anchovy butter combine with juices to make the dish a triumphant whole.

For dessert, my companions shared baked Alaska served for two flamed at the table.

The sight of meringue piled high on a brioche base brought out my inner Wendy Deng and I had to sit on my hands while they divvied it up. There was no fruit content, just ice cream. Very stylish and eminently throwable once the flames had died down.

Another temptation is caramelised apple millefeuille with Calvados and cinnamon ice cream.

Last Monday night the joint was, if not jumping, impressively busy. Wimbledon and its surrounds must be thrilled to have a restaurant as ambitious and well grounded as The Lawn Bistro even though the cost once wine is factored in - from a list with some interesting byways - is not what most people would spend regularly.

Ollie Couillaud must be happy too to be back somewhere more comparable with La Trompette. He's just got to get the bread right.

The Lawn Bistro
67 High Street, Wimbledon, SW19

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