I had high hopes for Public House, a new restaurant in Paris by Calum Franklin, the renowned pie king. The concept was bold: bringing the best of British comfort food to the French capital. I imagined Parisian sophisticates swooning over flaky pastries and rich gravy, their culinary horizons expanded by the brilliance of Franklin’s creations. But, alas, reality did not meet expectations.
A Whimsical Setting, a Dismal Reality
The restaurant’s design was intriguing: a vibrant blend of colors, textures, and playful references to Scottish traditions. However, the execution felt haphazard, and the overall effect was jarring rather than charming. The space felt cramped, and the faux Scottish elements felt out of place, creating a sense of unease.
Even the bread basket, a culinary cornerstone of any good restaurant, was a disappointment. The sourdough was dry and stale, suggesting it had been sliced long before our arrival. Our request for butter was met with indifferent service, and the butter we eventually received was minuscule.
A Series of Culinary Misses
The food was a series of culinary blunders. The pig’s head croquettes, though seemingly promising, were tepid and rubbery, like forgotten appetizers. The scotch egg, a classic British dish, was equally underwhelming. The casing, made with boudin noir, was cold and raw, and the egg yolk was runny and unappetizing.
Our attempt to order whitebait was met with confusion and miscommunication. The waiter, without a notebook, seemed lost in translation and brought us white bean soup instead. The whitebait, when they finally arrived, were hot but lacked the expected crunch. The accompanying anchovy hollandaise sauce was meager, and the portion size left us wanting more.
A Lobster Pie Fiasco
My hopes were pinned on the lobster pie, the centerpiece of the menu. The golden puff pastry crust looked promising, but beneath it lay a disappointing reality. Instead of succulent lobster meat, we found raw fennel, undercooked potatoes, and a meager amount of seafood. The pastry itself was raw and heavy, a far cry from the flaky, buttery crusts I had come to expect from Franklin.
It was later revealed that Franklin was not in the kitchen that evening. Perhaps his presence would have ensured hot croquettes and a properly cooked scotch egg. Maybe the bread would have been fresh, and the lobster pie would have been a masterpiece. However, even if these flaws had been rectified, the raw fennel and heavy pastry would have remained a glaring disappointment.
A Disappointing Conclusion
Public House was a far cry from the culinary triumph I had envisioned. The setting was eccentric but uncomfortable, and the food was a series of missteps. The lobster pie, a dish I had anticipated with great excitement, was a culinary disaster. The restaurant’s failure to meet even basic standards was a letdown not only for me, but for anyone who admires Franklin’s culinary prowess. I can only hope that the restaurant will improve with time, but for now, I’m left feeling disappointed and bewildered.
