Calum Franklin, a renowned chef and pie connoisseur, took his culinary talents to the City of Lights, opening Public House in Paris’s 9th arrondissement. The restaurant promised to bring a taste of British comfort food to the French capital, with a focus on scotch eggs, sausage rolls, and glorious pastry creations. I was eager to witness the Parisian bourgeoisie, their Louboutin-heeled shoes clicking across the cobblestones, embrace the delights of British fare. I envisioned a scene of refined palates being tantalized by the gravy-slicked, flaky pies. Surely, Franklin, with his exceptional skill and love for pies, could win over even the most discerning French gourmand.
A Culinary Catastrophe
But alas, reality did not live up to my expectations. While Public House boasts a French staff and ownership, the food was far from the culinary masterpiece I anticipated. The experience was a disastrous symphony of lukewarm dishes and flawed execution. It seemed that even in the land of gastronomic excellence, culinary mishaps can occur. And, as fate would have it, Franklin was not present in the kitchen on the night of my visit, a fact that may have contributed to the evening’s shortcomings.
Fanta-Orange Walls and a Sourdough Slump
The restaurant itself was a curious blend of opulence and eccentricity. The décor featured a charming mix of polished brass, mirrored inlays, and faux tartan upholstery, but the first-floor dining room felt cramped and oddly lit, with walls the color of Fanta orange and faux-Scottish accents that felt out of place. The sourdough bread, which arrived in a basket, was dry and stale, a far cry from the heritage sourdough I had hoped for. The butter, which was requested twice, arrived late and in a quantity barely enough to spread on a single slice.
A Lobster Pie that Left Us Craving
The pig’s head croquettes, like the sourdough, were tepid and dense, hinting at their past glory. The scotch egg, with its black pudding casing, was similarly underwhelming, served cold and raw in parts, despite its breaded exterior. Even the whitebait, which was cooked to order, lacked the expected crunch. But it was the lobster pie, the centerpiece of the menu, that truly disappointed. The pie arrived in a golden shell of pastry, promising a decadent seafood treat. However, beneath the scorched crust lay a disappointing filling of raw vegetables and a meager amount of lobster.
A British Brasserie Without the Brass
Ultimately, Public House fell short of my expectations. The lack of fresh ingredients, the cold dishes, and the disappointing lobster pie were all signs of a culinary misstep. While I hope for improvement, I can’t help but feel a sense of disappointment, not just for myself, but for all those who were anticipating a true taste of British comfort food in Paris.
