Meeting a friend at the library we were looking for somewhere new within walking distance. I’d read about Boulestin a while ago (when it had freshly revamped a classic restaurant brand) – some okay, some bad. On the whole I liked it.
First impressions were good. The room feels light, a nice change from the rather ‘masculine’ venues around these parts, and we were given a table with a view of the famous (amongst the guiding fraternity a least) courtyard which had once hosted the Texas Legation. High quality art work around the walls added to the air of sophistication.
The food was pretty. I’d ordered like a supermodel – artichoke soup (poured at the table over a bed of croutons and dinky mushrooms) followed by a good lump of turbot. Stuffed that in my face, yum. The clientèle around us was a mix of hedgies and loungeurs. Our waiter got tremendously excited when I ordered a Hungarian white – it was the first one he’d sold. Such enthusiasm was a good thing.
Coffee was delicious but then the bill. Oh ah ooh ooh ah, wahoo. Oh well. Slightly north of my usual lunch budget and definitely above what you’d pay in the kind of Parisian bistrot that Boulestin models itself on. But hell, the food was good and we were eating on one of the most expensive streets on earth so what did we expect?
#Food #London #French
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Blue Badge guide to London and academic specialising in early twentieth century history. Blogging on history, academia, and food and culture in the capital (and occasionally elsewhere).