STOCKTON HEATH, PAN Y VINO - Tapas Muster?

I’ve never really been one for tapas, having long since written it off as a miscellany of child-sized helpings foisted, en mass, on an invariably ill-sized table. It's not so much a meal as a collection of different things. It lacks order. It lacks cohesion. The very notion, in fact, fractures the linear narrative of starter-main-dessert (or, pour le glutton, starter-main-dessert-cheese-dessert wine-digestif-brew-petit fours &c). Any road, having heard relatively pleasant things about Pan Y Vino – and noted its heaving interior when ambling in the vicinity - I’d been meaning to give it a go. 

LOCK, STOCKTON HEATH AND BARREL

Now, it's probably fair to say that any rough old joint could likely make a mint just by landing in Stockton Heath. It’s that type of place – trendy, bustling, salubrious – a bit of a contrast to some of its quieter and, dare I say it, slightly less refined neighbours. 

ON TAPAS

First impressions of Pan Y Vino weren't exactly brilliant. Having booked for 8:15, we presented ourselves at the agreed time, more than ready to be spirited to a table. Rather, we were directed by a truculent waitress to a minuscule bar area (minus the chairs). ‘I’ll get someone to show you to your table’, she pledged, immediately prior to forgetting about us entirely. And so we waited, book-ended by other customers in the same predicament, and periodically jostled by flustered staff reaching across the bar to the till. It all felt rather disorganised. 

Granted, no-one else seemed particularly affronted at this abandonment; two perma-tanned ladies even crowed that ‘We don’t mind a bit of a wait, Fernando, love.’ Some of us, though – those who’d had barely a bite since lunchtime and who could, accordingly, have eaten a horse and chased the jockey – were starting to feel uneasy. One minute dissolved into twenty and, whilst in Fernando’s eye-line, I harrumphed loudly and made a big, theatrical gesture of glancing to my imaginary watch (peeling back a shirt sleeve and everything). A light came on in Fernando’s brain. This guy looks like a surly pain in the arse, he probably reasoned (correctly, at that). Best get him to his table. And so we were led upstairs without further delay. 

CAN YOU HEAR THE DRUMS, FERNANDO?

Following a grinding start, orders were taken with a surprising swiftness and the speedy arrival of a light-bodied Merlot served to quiet my torpor. Now, Pan Y Vino’s menu recommends ordering three tapas each if hungry, four if ravenous. Rather modestly, we opted for seven in total, in addition to bread and a ‘Mojo Rojo’ ‘fiery’ dip (which, contrary to its hyperbolic description, wasn’t particularly piquant). A platter of Serrano ham and Manchego cheese was the first to arrive. It was both generous and pleasing. But, having recently experienced the incomparable wonders of Dalmatian ham – in all its salty, jaw-achingly chewy glory – the Serrano couldn’t really hold a torch. The bread was, disappointingly, a bit ‘french sticky’; something you'd expect to have thrust upon you at Chez Jules (God help you). 

HAM-FISTED

A few minutes prior to the advent of the remaining dishes, I was notified that the venison chorizo – something I’d never previously sampled and was anticipating with vigour – was available no longer. As such, I was obliged to select a lesser alternative, at speed, with the waiter hovering. The substituted item turned out to be a beef dish that rather resembled pastrami. Again, it was nice, but not earth-shattering. 

BLACK VERY-GOODING

Of the remaining dishes, the highlight, by a country mile, was the rice-based black pudding with slivers of apple and a vivid, orange sauce. It was unutterably sublime. I could have had seven helpings of it and still have been as happy as a clam. It wasn't far off one of the finest black puddings of which I've partaken in recent times. Other dishes fared less well. A purported chicken croquette teemed with potato-like mush. Pan fried chorizo was good, but you can't really go wrong with that. A king prawn offering with chillies failed to leave much of an impression.  

CROQUETTISH

In hindsight, seven dishes probably wasn't sufficient to satiate a raging appetite. Orders were placed for dessert and, somewhat inevitably, another hefty wait kicked in. Some twenty-five minutes later a slab of dark chocolate torte was set down before me. It was very good, flavoursome but not too rich (as confection wrought of plain chocolate is wont to be). It had finesse about it, and proved one of the evening's highlights. 

PRAWN YESTERDAY

Before we were allowed to leave the premises, we were made to wait a further 25 minutes for the bill (two discrete requests having been issued for it some ten minutes apart). The tab, when it did arrive, amounted to £65 for the seven tapas, Merlot, bread and dip. In my hurry to flee, I inadvertently left a five pound tip. Not because I was impressed with the service - far from it, it was woeful - but I simply could not be arsed with another interminable wait for the change to be tendered. 

TAKE FIVE

When we eventually emerged beneath a blackening sky it was knocking 11pm; a large proportion of the intervening hours having been spent waiting for one thing or another. On the whole, the food was pretty decent, a few niggles notwithstanding. Would it convert me to a tapas lover? Probably not. Would I go there again? Possibly. Having said that, the evening was indisputably marred by all the unnecessary bloody waiting and hanging about. 

The service at Pan Y Vino needs a severe boot up the backside. That said, the place possesses an army of loyal devotees in Stockton Heath that were flooding in throughout our meal. And that popularity alone gives it little reason to address what is, in all honesty, a serious shortcoming.

Food: ✓✓✓

Service: ✓

Ambiance: ✓✓✓✓

Value: ✓✓✓

Website: http://www.panyvino.co.uk
Phone number: 01925210121

Tip: Go when it's quiet

Follow @BobViveur

RUNCORN, THE PRESTON BROOK - Where's the Beef?

I'm arrived back from a week in Split, a Dalmatian city on the Adriatic coast whose snaking, Venetian streets radiate from the palace of the third-century Roman emperor who retired there. Upon arrival, I did the usual holiday things - donned skimpy attire I'd not usually be seen dead in; applied the SPFs with such fervour as to smell like an abused coconut; and regarded the tidal wave of pan-European youth in town for the Ultra 2014 dance music festival, with something approaching peeved opprobrium (their spry appearance and demeanor contrasting wildly with my increasingly aged and curmudgeonly outlook). 

SPLIT, DOWN THE MIDDLE

As is always the case with city-break style holidays, there was an untold plethora of places to eat. So many, in fact, that neither measure nor limit could be set upon them. That last statement may be a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the idea. 

ULTRA: VIOLET

Comparing Split's panoply of restaurants to the dwindling numbers in my own, quasi-rural Cheshire back yard - well, that's like night and day. In most British towns, the advent of a new eatery - and a chain one at that - would probably cause little more than a ripple of interest. But in Runcorn, an outsized, Soviet-style overspill that could probably have been designed by Stalin himself, this is a big occasion. 

IN SOVIET RUNCORN FOOD EATS YOU

There is a dearth of dining in Runcorn. It is, by and large, gastronomically moribund (save for a decent Italian and a perfectly serviceable curry house). Into this starved hinterland marches the Beefeater. Located in Preston Brook - the village in which the canal meets the Guinness factory meets the motorway - the eponymous pub-diner is, in fact, bolted onto the Premier Inn (and supplants the previous incarnation: the second-rate Table Table).

(PRESTON) BROOK NO ARGUMENT

We booked ahead prior to our introductory visit, and were glad to have done so. The place was chocker. The hoards had obviously heard about this new venture and were descending in vast numbers. The staff had to turn people away. Those of us with reservations, though, wafted through the melee and, oblivious to the apparent chaos about us, were seated and soon after sated by virtue of the arrival of a lustrous Pinot Grigio so dry it was near wizened.

LET'S CALL IT PATE

Now, I really must stop ordering pate as a starter. It’s becoming a recurring theme on here, and one that’s liable to induce chicken liver-based deju vu (not to mention tedium) in any readership (if indeed there is one). That said - this incarnation was pretty decent. It had the usual blandishments – a small jar of chutney on the side, a clutch of perfectly-symmetrical sour dough toasts. That’s pretty much all I can say.  

BEEF SEEING YOU

The staff were flogging knock-down rib-eye steaks for £11.99 as a manager’s special and, though I longed for something a bit more adventurous, I couldn’t pass up on reduced rib-eye. To have done so would have been wrong on so many levels. I may have mentioned previously that I like my steaks still alive and mooing. And, given the inability of a lot of venues to correctly cook a steak to order, I always ask for mine rare. What I invariably receive is a slab that’s more medium than bloody – not unpleasant, you understand, just not what I wanted.

THE FIRST CUT IS THE MEATIEST

Well, this rib-eye was as rare as hen’s teeth. As I dissected it, a bloody ooze encircled, moat-like, my chips and salad – the tide fusing with my béarnaise sauce to form a kaleidoscope of bleeding beige. My appreciation of this feat was relayed to the kitchen, at which point our waitress advised that the Beefeater’s steak-hands had, prior to its opening, been forced to attend a two-week beef boot camp (as incredible as that sounds, and I’m still not convinced she wasn’t having us on) in which they learnt to master, Jedi-like, the rendering of the perfect steak. Whatever next, ay?

EATEN MASS

I was moved to ecstasy by all this, and saw fit, in my reverie, to order a dessert that I didn’t really want and couldn’t really manage (two of a possible four trouser buttons were already undone by the time I made my selection of Eton Mess). What arrived was adequate, but had a rather bought-in feel about it. I may be wrong on that score, but my senses were, by this stage, dulled by a vast intake of Pinot. 

A RUNCORN-WIDNES BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER

The bill amounted to around £70, which wasn't bad considering two prime steaks were involved. By the time we left the throngs were still pouring in, crowding the exit in their eagerness to see what the fuss was about. The advent of a Beefeater is is a big deal for Runcorn. Long may it beef continued. 

Food: ✓✓✓

Service: ✓✓✓

Ambiance: ✓✓✓✓

Value: ✓✓✓

Website: http://www.beefeater.co.uk/
Phone number: 01928 716829

Tip: Hi Life Diner's Card accepted Mon-Fri
Follow @BobViveur

WARRINGTON, THE CHETWODE ARMS - Hot Rock and Roll

Despite being located but a stone’s throw from my abode, I’d only ever been to the Chetwode Arms once. I found it to be expensive - astronomically so – and could still recollect with alarming clarity the palpitations, chest pains and shortness of breath that accompanied the arrival of the bill. On a positive note, Pete Waterman was there that evening. Apparently it’s his local, and he’s mighty attached to it. He would never, by all accounts, give it up, let it down, run around or desert it (to quote Waterman protégé Rick Astley, Newton-le-Willows’ most notorious musical exponent). 

LIKE A DUCK TO WATERMAN

This is as picturesque a country pub as you could ever hope to encounter. Located just off the A49 – a road so appealing to tractors that they feel the need to converge on it in vast numbers during rush hour – it sits roughly equidistant between Warrington and Northwich. The proprietors are South African and, whilst this influence doesn’t predominate in terms of the menu’s composition, it certainly informs it a smidgen. The specialty here is hot rocks – cook-it-yourself dinners comprising hunks of hissing meat on a molten slab. The pub’s interior is labyrinthine. It is riddled with nooks and crannies in which can be found hot rock-endowed diners browning meat with a captivated zeal. 

TRACTOR OF FACT

Upon being seated, we ordered a house white at £17.50 from the rather pricey wine list. It was decent, actually, and as dry as could be – ideal for quaffing in the not-unpleasantly smoky atmosphere. I went for the duck pate starter, which arrived in its own porcelain vessel, and was capped by offerings of fruit and chutney, alongside a heap of salad. I’ve never had blackberries dipped in pate before. It felt gluttonous. It felt wrong. But I couldn’t help shovelling them all down - whole, in the main. The pate itself was a touch on the runny side, but – thankfully – fiercely rich. Accompanying toasted brioche lent an almost sickly sweetness I hadn’t expected, contrasting nicely to the hearty pate. 

WHAT A DIFFERENCE PATE MAKES

My hot rock main arrived a short time later. One can choose from a dizzying array of game meats which, by and large, once roamed the grasslands of Southern Africa – Wildebeest, Springbok, Eland, and Impala. Surely David Attenborough would approve. On this occasion they had a selection of ‘guest’ meats on special – Argentinian horse being one example (a ridiculously cute equine quadruped), Alpaca another. 

ALPACA YOUR BAGS

I’ve never been that mad on the prospect of tucking into members of the camel family. They just don’t look that appetising. You’d think they’d be all sinewy, what with all the roaming across endless expanses of emptiness and the like. The alpaca’s no real exception. Our Lass owns a teddy bear made from Alpaca fiber. It is a soft as you like, and exudes a distinct, if rather questionable aroma. It’s had a stint of rotten luck in the shape of a feline nemesis that's rather partial to throttling the thing whilst simultaneously applying rapid, disembowelling strokes to its lower quarters. 

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HOT PLATE

On this occasion, I decided to stick to more familiar territory. It was going to be the so called ‘Forrest Gump’ for me i.e. wild boar and fillet steak. (How this relates to the eponymous book/film is unclear.) The boar was akin to pork but gamier and, as I determined in the early hours of the next morning when gripped with gut-wrenching cramp, could probably have used some more cooking than the thirty-seconds-on-each-side that I allowed it. Accompanying fillet steak was exemplary, as thick as your wrist and exquisitely tender. Needless to say, it was barely shown to the hot rock. Brown on the outside, cold in the middle – that is what it’s all about. I’d probably have eaten it raw, if truth be known. 

A FRIGHTFUL BOAR

Various accouterments were served up with the meats: mushrooms, onions, some rather greasy home-fried chips, as well as the world’s most colossal onion ring, the latter surmounting the towering fillet that loomed from the hot rock as a monolith – as a trawler through fog, if we’re going to get all poetic about it. Our Lass went for a home-made pasta dish which she extolled as wondrous beyond belief. It featured in its midst several shell-on king prawns whose exoskeletons were swiftly and mercilessly pulverised by nimble, adroit digits. But, at £19, that dish was relatively steep. It might well be the most expensive pasta in living memory. 

TO THE MANNER PRAWN

Suffice to say, I was stuffed after putting all that away. I had, mid-course, deftly unfastened a trouser button so as to release the fleshy subsidence that near threatened to spill from my jeans. It was all getting too much. My eyelids started to grow heavy. I was feeling weary. It was time for a lie down, surely. And, as delicious as several of the desserts sounded, no way was I having one. 

Most pleasingly, I didn’t suffer the onset of a coronary embolism upon becoming acquainted with the tab. It stacked up to roughly £70 all in and, although some of the dishes were on the expensive side, the amount of scran that was forthcoming probably justified the brass I coughed up. Besides, if it’s good enough for Pete Waterman, who am I to argue? I’m sure some folk would consider themselves exceedingly lucky, lucky, lucky to find a quirky hostelry such as the Chetwode Arms on their doorsteps - in their imagination, there’d be no complication – they’d be chowing down there all the time.

Food: ✓✓✓✓

Service: ✓✓✓

Ambiance: ✓✓✓

Value: ✓✓

Website: http://www.chetwode-arms.co.uk
Phone number: 01925 730203

Tip: Hi Life Diner's Card accepted Mon-Thurs

Follow @BobViveur

FRODSHAM, HELTER SKELTER - A Crying Frod-shame

Apparently it's a real effort to fill an upstairs restaurant. For starters, folk can't have a shufty or a nose when they're ambling past on other affairs. Out of sight, out of mind. No such bother at this joint. Helter Skelter (formerly Oswald's) is Frodsham's self-proclaimed 'gem of a first floor restaurant', a loftily-positioned stalwart that proves location need not be an impediment to success. This is one severely popular place, operated by the same lot in charge of the busy boozer beneath, whose denizens you weave through en route to the upstairs eatery. 

The restaurant's decor lends a new definition to the term 'hotch-potch'. Mismatched would be an understatement. Can't-make-its-mind-up might be another. And, as you settle yourself beneath the manifold wall art straight off the shelves of B&M Bargains, you do kind of wonder what they were thinking. Not that there is anything wrong with the wares of B&M Bargains. I'm often down there amassing armfuls of ridiculously cheap pasta sauce. And the stuff they have for the garden is ace. Rakes, spades, hoes, trellises - all at a fraction of the cost of the better-known outlets. 

WALL ART: OWL-FUL?

They are, in fact, moving into Chester Forum, set to occupy the long-vacated TJ Hughes unit. Should breathe a bit of life into that dilapidated quarter whose endless empty shops are rather redolent of a mouth missing most of its teeth. 

We landed at Helter Skelter one Thursday evening, wrung out from the rigours of a riotously stressful week. It was alarmingly heaving for a week night; full of business-types partaking of solitary sustenance with noggins buried in books and in phones. We eschewed the steak-and-wine offers and plumped for the A la carte, which changes fairly frequently but always incorporates dependable staples of the ilk of pork belly, rump of lamb and fillet of seabass. Now, I've had a few scrans at this establishment over the last couple of years. The fayre has generally been of a decent standard, and the value spot on. A three course meal for two replete with zesty Sauvignon sets you back around £65. Can't really argue, generally speaking. But, wallet-pleasing prices aside, there was something generally lacking on this visit in terms of food quality. 

BLAND PUDDING AND POT-HATEFUL-CAKE

A starter of Bury black pudding proved one of the most uninspiring, tasteless offerings I've had in a fair while. The menu effusively detailed its accompanying blandishments - crispy potato cake, rich Stilton sauce - but it was thoroughly bland. Quite how they managed to wring every ounce of flavour from that Bury delicacy blows the mind. Accompanying potato cake constituted a rather soggy mush entirely inundated by a moat of sauce that seemingly lacked its eponymous component. Moreover, the colour of the dish - a rather swarthy hue - did little to enhance its appeal. 

PALADIN PORKER

Still, you can't go wrong with a main course of pork belly. Pork's the new beef. It's enjoyed a singular resurgence of late. A porcine revival. Fair dues to the pig in its unswerving ability to produce innumerable pink and salty delights on which to feast the eyes and sate the hunger. What would we do without it? But this pork belly was a tad under par. It was burnt a touch. Not carbonised, but a bit blacker in places than it ought to have been. The lumpy sauce which engulfed it - purportedly sage and chorizo - tasted of neither. 

In fact, there was something of the school dinner about the whole. You could be forgiven for thinking that each constituent element - pork, fat chips, green beans, carrots - had been splattered onto the plate by means of a ladle, as dispensed by a beefy sourpuss in a hairnet. The only saving grace was the £13 price tag but, for the sake of being stung for an extra couple of quid, I'd rather have had something decent. To stave off further disappointment, I didn't bother with a dessert. 

NOT BELLY GOOD

You can't help but think that Helter Skelter seems to be resting on its laurels. And, in a way, I can almost understand that. There isn't a great deal of competition, locally, for the position of pre-eminent small-town bistro (save perhaps for the more formal Old Hall on the high street). And, as such, Helter Skelter has something of a monopoly. It exists in a microcosmic part of the world that's criminally starved of mid- to high-end eateries. But there's no denying the place has a rapt audience. It's always abuzz. People like it. They know what to expect. It won't be changing anything soon, that's for sure. In the past, though, its offering has been pretty reliable. It's just a shame that, on this occasion, it fell so short of its former standards. I'd probably give it another shot. One day. But that day may be a long time coming.

Food: ✓✓

Service: ✓✓✓

Ambiance: ✓✓

Value: ✓✓✓

Website: http://www.helter-skelter.co.uk
Phone number: 01928 713883

Tip: Tastecard & Hi Life Diner's Card accepted Sun-Thurs

Follow @BobViveur

CHESTER, LA CANTINA - Lambing It Up

It was one of those muggy, sodden afternoons as can so often write off a Saturday, that I alighted at Chester's terminally unprepossessing railway station. Having taken the long route into town on foot, my senses were unexpectedly arrested by the spectacle of a naked drunkard fulminating outside a Brook Street alehouse. The tavern's proprietress was, to her credit, gamely encouraging the stark-bollock bruiser to reacquaint himself with his kit, but her entreaties fell on deaf, sozzled ears. Now that's really not something you expect to see every day. Not on a rainy Saturday in Brook Street. Not anywhere in Chester. At the very least, our unclothed antagonist could have caught his death of cold. And so, it was that event, coupled with the maddening it's-raining-and-yet-it's-uncomfortably-warm weather, that near threatened to set the tone for the rest of the day. Thankfully, all ill omen was pretty soon vanquished by dint of a very hearty, very rustic meal at Chester's most singular Italian venue.

BROOK STREET: INIQUITOUS

My inaugural visit to La Cantina was racked with hesitancy. I'd heard praise heaped upon it, quite lavishly, in fact. But the lack of a menu on the website put me off a touch. You can't really be rocking up at a joint not knowing what's on offer, can you? Similarly off-putting, the overly waspish (not to mention tediously protracted) management responses to Trip Advisor feedback. Pretty much along the lines of 'Thanks for the feedback, but we really don't what your sort here.' Cripes! A bit full on, is that. You couldn't help but cultivate the notion that they weren't too keen on criticism over at La Cantina. 

My concerns, however, dissolved entirely once I'd actually visited the place. I ate heartily, supped with vigour, and tendered my cherished 20% off voucher from Onion Ring. All was, for a short time, right with the universe. And so, months passed, and a repeat visit seemed inevitable. This time I was compelled by a Tweet advertising a free bottle of vino with your grub. Can't pass up on free wine when it's offered. A crime against nature, that would be.

The restaurant's ambiance is best characterised as elegant-yet-restrained. You kind of feel cocooned from the rather insalubrious end of town in which it's nestled. But despite an incongruous location, La Cantina was busy at the time of our advent. Not packed to the rafters, but pleasantly abuzz. It's an intimate little place. Not exactly formal, but not too relaxed, either. The menu, presented on stapled A4 sheets, comprised a selection of keenly-priced starters. Both Our Lass and I plumped for the sauteed octopus and squid. 

Now, I'm not a massive seafood lover. However, set down before me the chilli and garlic-tossed remnants of a cephalod mollusc of the order Octopoda, and I am as happy as a clam. (No pun intended.) This was a dish that was light and, thankfully, not at all vinegary. (Many of the vinegar-pickled octopus tentacles I've been served elsewhere have been of sufficient acidity to make your North and South pucker and your eyes brim with tears.) The accompanying sauce was flavoursome and, pleasingly, didn't mask the subtle, delicate squid. 

COLOSSAL SQUID: MANTLE AS ANYTHING

It's a funny thing to talk of a squid as being subtle and delicate. This is, after all, a leviathan which, in its 'colossal' form, is capable of expanding to an eye-watering 14 metres in length, not to mention the armoury of rotating three-way hooks in its possession, that could all but gut a whale. During episodes of the Blue Planet (and other, similar shows in which rare footage of delicious-looking monsters afflicted with abyssal giganticism is shown), I've found myself wondering what the calamari of the Colossal Squid might taste like. Wondrous, would be my guess. And pleasantly salty to boot, from all those deep-sea capers. (Squid and capers. A combination just waiting to be tried.)

CEPHALICIOUS

Mains materialised in the shape of slow-roasted leg of lamb, marinated in a variety of herbs and accompanied by sauteed potatoes and a pea puree. And bread. And salad, in fact. The dishes at La Cantina aren't exactly cheap (it set me back the best part of £20), but you get a lot of nosh for your nicker. You need a hearty appetite, dining here. Thankfully, the lamb was just the right shade of pink, and as tender as you like. God knows how long it'd been slow-cooking for. Several weeks, if its succulence was anything to go by.

ON THE LAMB

As to dessert. Well, despite the array of Italian staples on show (exotic-sounding flans and so forth), it was a foregone conclusion: it was going to be cheese. It had to cheese. It's always cheese. Well, what arrived wasn't quite what I was expecting. I'm not particularly fond of Scottish oatcakes (whose sandpaper aridity is not too dissimilar to the material with which you would line a budgie's cage), so I wasn't too chuffed to find them befouling my plate in an unsolicited manner. Some of that rustic Italian bread would be far, far better suited to what were, by and large, cheeses of note. The cheeky blue number, a creamy offering, proved the highlight. Similarly, the accompanying chutney was first rate. 

OAT-CAKE EXPECTATIONS

But mozzarella on a cheese board? Well, that is just not right. I'm surprised the other cheeses didn't recoil in horror and inch towards the outer-reaches of the plate, in order to avoid contact with that flavourless, banal, mush-like interloper which has no place anywhere near curds of stature. How it has the temerity to even call itself a cheese is beyond my comprehension. And talk about difficult to spell. I'm getting red squiggly lines all over the show, here. But, as far as blips go, this wasn't a showstopper. I ate around the mozzarella and, in so doing, showed it the effrontery it deserved.

MOZZA-HELLISH

On the whole, this was a very good experience. And the gratis Sauvignon - imbibed in tandem with complimentary, fizzy rose - was as dry and as zesty as you like. If you're looking for a classy alternative to some of the pizza-and-pasta-by-numbers joints that grace Chester's busier streets, then you'd be well advised to give La Cantina, a quirky and endearing Boughton mainstay, a try. It's definitely a bit different. It's a touch undiscovered, even. But, once word gets out, it mightn't stay that way.

Food: ✓✓✓✓

Service: ✓✓✓✓

Ambiance: ✓✓✓

Value: ✓✓✓✓

Website: http://www.lacantinachester.com

Phone number: 01244 401413

Tip: Follow them on Twitter for some excellent offers 

Follow @BobViveur

CHESTER, LA P'TITE FRANCE - Cheesy Does It

Chester was, in fairness, desperate for a decent Gallic eatery. It veritably ached for one. It was crying out. Not that there's much in the way of the competition, especially after the sudden and unexpected demise of short-lived Cuppin Street bolthole Bouchon last year. What about Chez Jules? You might well ask. Well, that's about as French as tuppence, that place. A quick scan of the menu confirms as much (their Table du Jour boasting Parisian staples such as 'roast pork with an apple compote' and 'grilled seabass with a tomato'. You could almost be strolling down the Champs Elysses, couldn't you?) But that's a conversation best left for another post.

CHEZ FOOLS

La P'tite France has apparently been relocated from Nottingham and, despite having only been open a clutch of weeks, it's already attracted a legion of admirers. The restaurant's interior is light but cosy and, though initially quiet at the time of our advent two Fridays since, it soon came to throng. There were people dining alone. There were people in large groups. There were people who did actually look French, berets and all. They were vast in numbers. Perhaps that's just the novelty value in action. It might well wear off. Or, perhaps, La P'tite France, with its rakishly-placed apostrophe and convivial ambiance, is offering something a little different from the usual fayre.

And with a crisp Chablis at £21, we were off. First things first. The bread. Baskets of it. It was amazing. And limitless. Just what you get across the channel. Don't ask me what it's called. It wasn't your bog-standard French stick, that's for sure (Chez Jules take note). Some kind of sour dough, I suspect. But I couldn't put money on that. Soon after, a starter of smoked duck salad proved adequate. It was nice enough. The slivers of duck breast were a touch on the fatty side, but it's a duck salad, right? And duck is a fatty meat. What else was I expecting? Our Lass plumped for the escargot. Now she's a dab hand with the snail tongs, her, but she was rather crestfallen to find that the assembly of gastropod molluscs was presented sans la carapace. Our host imparted that serving shell-on snails is now frowned upon by the environmental health. Further, doing so can jeopardise a restaurant's all-important Scores on the Doors rating.

SHELL EPOQUE

Now, I've seen enough episodes of the Food Inspectors to know that there are certain dishes and ingredients that the titular scrutineers of that programme go apoplectic over. Rarely-cooked burgers being one example. Kidneys and liver being another. So it doesn't surprise me to learn that the hapless snail should have inadvertently slithered into this minefield. This is probably why you don't see steak tartare on the menu anymore. More's the pity, I say. Raw beef bound with a raw egg yolk does wonders for those wishing to shed a couple of pounds quickly (not to mention violently). Where will it all end? Might we soon see the advent of a Meat Police undertaking to banish from the servery the bloody and the blue? A kind of steak-oriented dystopia? Now there's something to send a shudder. Kill me now, please.

THE STEAKS ARE HIGH

Existential musings notwithstanding, a main course of Entrecote Grillee proved a good bet. And nice and rare it was, too. Still alive. Barely showed to the pan. The hefty slab was accompanied by a rich, Roquefort sauce and a pot of hand-cut chips. It must be said, a better bit of rib-eye you'd struggle to get your mitts on in these parts. At £16.90 it was competitively priced, to boot. 

And so to desserts. Well, this was something else. Throughout the evening, I'd been closely eyeing a tray of cheeses that had been surreptitiously doing the rounds between tables. It's always a good idea to have the cheeses on display. Their presence invariably causes one to crave a bit of cheddar, want a wodge of Wensleydale, seek solace in a slice of Stilton. But with this being a French cheeseboard - well, expectations were stratospheric. To be honest, I've always been a bit snotty about French cheeses. They think they're better than our British curds. Brie especially. That is one pompous little upstart. And with no good cause, to my mind. Can it hold a candle to the local delights embodied in Nantwich Blue and Lancashire Blacksticks? Can it heck as like. Nor can a Camembert for that matter. A Saint Marcellin? Possibly.

CHEESE IN OUR TIME

Well, La P'tite France's cheeseboard almost made me reevaluate my deep seated, long-entrenched anti-French-cheese prejudices. It was otherworldy. And there were no mean slivers either. Full on wedges descended onto the plate one at a time, a little like lifeboats lowered from a mother-ship. Accompanied by the most delectable cherry jam, and more bread, this was the course that elevated the entire evening. I could bore for England as to its virtues. I really could.

And so, best of luck to La P'tite France in its endeavour to foster just a touch of Paris in Bridge Street. I'll be back; if only for the sole cheese board in Chester that could give the Sticky Walnut's a run for its money.

Food: ✓✓✓✓

Service: ✓✓✓✓

Ambiance: ✓✓✓✓✓
Value: ✓✓✓✓

Website: http://www.laptitefrance.co.uk/

Phone number: 01244 401635

Tip: At all costs, go for the cheeseboard 

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