The only thing standing between me and an impulsive Eurostar journey to Paris is the availability of a good Gallic ensemble of wine by the carafe, bread that doesn’t cost £7.50 and non-Harrods foie gras on British soil. All of these things are found in the borough of Southwark, and are just under £20.
Proudly taking the corner behind Monmouth, and conveniently eclipsing Vinoteca and Franco Manca, is Café François.
The ingenuity of the original branch, Maison François, lies in the fact that it is the only place in St James’s that happens to offer retail wine prices every Monday, ‘nightcap’ cocktails for £9 after 9pm, and some of the best value pre-theatre dining in London. Quite reasonably, I thought Café François simply couldn’t match this, especially in a place that is so prominent with TikTokers, tote bag warriors and people inexplicably queuing for Biscoff and Nutella doughnuts.
Often, a truly great restaurant is the kind of place which beckons you back the following week, with a different set of friends, eyeing that particular table in the corner. And all this before you’ve even tried their food.
The dining room at Café François is a peculiar yet charming collision of Wes Anderson aesthetics, poised to witness a Richard Curtis-directed romance to unfold, as well as a Woody Allen-style neurotic debate over who forgot to order the wine.
The arrival of most of the dishes at the neighbouring tables would make the whole dining room go quiet. And quite literally so. The Caesar salad was practically Chelsea Flower Show; a leafy ode featuring a romaine monolith of leaves on a plate smaller than a frisbee, descending onto a tiny table. Whilst the crunch, acidity and freshness were there, it somehow felt misplaced and left me feeling like a grazing giraffe – not least as it did not come with any chicken.
Steak tartare was good in that it was hand-chopped and fresh, but a bit of patience, time and gherkin would have done it more justice. The crispy, hot, oily frog legs with ravigote revived my taste buds, and perhaps will to live, too, after one too many bland béarnaise sauces elsewhere. I have never been one to avoid amphibians, but this would convince many to leave their chicken goujons aside and indulge in succulent, tender meat coming off the bone without too much indecency at the table.
Foie gras, bacon and egg muffin at Café François
Rôtisserie prime rib, escargots, bone marrow, frites, béarnaise
Paris-Brest
Even the quiche du jour (a big plus, knowing that availability of at least one quiche a day keeps a restaurant in business) was a reliable comfort done well, with velvety spinach and nutty gruyère, with nothing to prove or hide.
And of course, the real star of the show was their foie gras, bacon and egg muffin.
In vascular terms, this was a disaster. A towering English muffin – no, McMuffin that has gone and learned how to sabrage champagne – held an unethical proportion of pressed foie gras which was just beginning to melt. Sitting on a bed of bacon and with an oozing egg on top, this was really everything that I feared to love – a true breakfast of billionaires.
This, I say to my friend (as I reach for the corner of the lamb merguez flatbread, kissed by cumin and paprika and dribbling in chilli oil, dolloping more of the crème fraiche on top), is a total catastrophe. The pillowy flatbread alongside the pool of cream could have doubled as a spa treatment. In fact, it is so memorable, that it excuses that only 50% of the ‘snails’ came with actual inhabitants of the gastropod shells. It is absolutely okay if they bring you a Vinho Verde instead of a Bordeaux Blanc, especially because they really know their wine here – for goodness sake, they even have a Clairet (and not Claret) as one of their cheapest, chilled reds. I will even condone any thin crispbread that comes with steak tartare because the rest is just so damn good.
And of course, Paris-Brest, which surely is some of the finest in London, glazed and dense rather than a deflated, dry choux, is a mandatory order wherever available. Canelés, tanned and heavily caramelized (suggesting the use of a proper copper tin allowing for that Maillard reaction), with a custardy yet chewy heart, felt like a bite-sized paradox of textures, seducing you with the rum and vanilla notes.
Pain Suisse and croissants, which I had returned to the following morning (as this place impressively opens at 7 in the morning), will satisfy your pastry needs without schlepping to dreaded Knightsbridge, elbowing the Louis Vuitton mummies and their battalion of shopping bags just to fork over £11 to Cédric Grolet or Philippe Conticini. Café François has your pastry needs covered, minus the existential crisis.
What François O’Neill has managed to achieve is to amalgamate the best of Borough Market (think Camille for main courses, Oma for starters and sides, The Black Pig for sandwiches, and your favourite stall in the market for any cake or pastry imaginable) – all very competitively priced.
I may have walked into this establishment as polished as Macron, looking forward to a night of restrained elegance, but I left as Gérard Depardieu, following unhinged debauchery, minus the Air France carpet incident. And for the sake of keeping it très français, I offer no apologies.
14-16 Stoney Street
London
SE1 9AD
November 2024
