As you step closer however, you find that ‘they’ were wrong. Again.
Apparently good service is hard to find these days. The hobbit they employ at reception certainly swayed me further toward that notion, for she appeared both dumb and deaf. I informed her of my reservation. She blinked. I then asked what the soup of the day was. She blinked. Thoroughly annoyed I enquired awkwardly as to ‘the composition of the ‘rosemaratero et le mouloughroux vin’. Her expression was comical, and I would have laughed, were I not too busy gagging.
That complication dealt with (eventually), I was shown to my seat and began to peruse over the menu. I was not impressed. Amongst the starters was a dish annotated: ‘mluskles, sea shell variety’ and there was one beverage suspiciously labelled ‘cocknag’. Oh dear.
I am no expert on human rights, nor do I pretend to be, but what they served me must surely constitute some form of breach. To save myself the difficulty of reading the menu, I ordered the first starter on the list. A fairly safe choice I thought. Surely even they couldn’t balls up tomato soup. But no. Somehow, incredibly, they found a way. How? Why by serving it avec le Heinz can of course, and charging £3.95 to boot.
As for my "fisherman's pie in a creamy cheese sauce, topped with crushed potato"… well, it was a disgrace. The allegedly wild salmon had the flabby texture of the cheap, farmed variety (I blame overcooking), and was taking its final desultory swim in a vapid sauce that resembled either a split hollandaise or school custard; and where were the contrasting tastes of smoked haddock, cod, or prawns? Bizarrely, it would seem they failed to smoke (or include) these particular morsels, but succeeded somehow in smoking the potato, creating a disagreeable gluey texture. When you find yourself in this situation, drooling enviously as the cat eats its Whiskas®, you know you're sitting over a whole bowl full of wrong. Or possibly something stronger.
It has to be said, following the past two, ahem, ‘incidents’ my hopes preceding the desert, banoffi pie, were not high. It would take a miracle to save the situation, and there is nothing here with the scope to feed 50 000. They would give it back.
Predictably Juillé de Feux failed to deliver. Literally. I was made to wait so long that I was forced to abandon the notion of pudding. On the way out I was tempted to offer them a tip of the verbal variety, but resisted. I doubt that anyone would have understood anyway.
As you may know, I normally conclude this column with a number of conclusive recommendations. Today I give you only one. Should you ever be tempted to sample the local cuisine here at Clapham, don’t. By all means come to the beautiful village, but then stop. Take a look, absorb the view, then do a u-turn and, at the same time do yourself a massive favour. Go to McDonalds.
