A Calum Franklin restaurant, owned by French people, in Paris? This was my plan, a whimsical trip across the Channel to see how the city of lights reacted to the delights of British pastry. I envisioned a scene of sophistication – Parisian fashionistas, captivated by flaky, golden pies and gravy-drenched perfection, finally understanding the beauty of British cuisine. “Donney-moi une autre pie,” I imagined them saying, their accents thick with admiration. I was ready to witness a culinary revolution, a symphony of flavors orchestrated by the “Pie King” himself, Calum Franklin.
Public House: A Symphony of Mishaps
Alas, reality had other plans. This wasn’t a British restaurant, not in the way I envisioned. It was French owned, French staffed, with a British chef – a culinary mismatch that would not end well. The restaurant was designed with an eye-catching aesthetic, but once inside, the charm evaporated. The bright orange walls, the imitation tartan upholstery, and the uncomfortable seating created a strange and overwhelming atmosphere. It wasn’t a pub, not even close. It was a loud, jarring fusion of clashing styles.
Bread, Croquettes, and Cold Disappointments
The first course was a stark reminder that things were not going to plan. The sourdough bread, described as “heritage” but actually stale and dry, arrived after a 20-minute wait. We were served a minuscule pat of butter, a gesture that seemed to annoy the waiter. Perhaps this was a reflection of the Parisian “cultural tradition” of service. Not exactly what I was hoping for, after the “warm hospitality” I had envisioned.
The pig’s head croquettes, like the bread, were tepid and bland. It felt like they had been cooked hours ago and left to lose their warmth and freshness. The scotch egg, a quintessential British delicacy, was even worse. The exterior, encased in black pudding, was cold and uncooked. It felt like an unsuccessful culinary experiment, a betrayal of the British food tradition.
A Lobster Pie That Missed the Mark
The lobster pie, the centerpiece of my meal, was a disaster of epic proportions. It arrived under a golden blanket of puff pastry, promising a symphony of textures and flavors. What we found instead was a hodgepodge of raw vegetables, minimal lobster, and a heavy, undercooked pastry. It was a culinary crime, a disservice to both the lobster and the art of pastry-making.
Franklin was not in the kitchen that night, a fact that might explain some of the shortcomings. But even with a masterful chef, I suspect this lobster pie would have been a disappointment. The waitresses, though, were gracious enough to acknowledge the shortcomings, hinting at a new menu in the works.
A Taste of Hope, a Plea for Improvement
There were glimpses of hope: a homemade ice cream sundae, a satisfying sticky toffee pudding, and a wine list featuring a variety of bottles, most of them French.
I may be disappointed, even heartbroken, but to remain silent would be a betrayal of my love for good food. This was a missed opportunity, a restaurant that had the potential to be great but fell short. I can only hope that the new menu will be a redemption, a celebration of British cuisine that lives up to the standards of Calum Franklin.
