Spy Sharks and Prostitutes: Mon Plaisir in Covent Garden (France)

So. France. What better place to begin our epic gustatory journey?

'Apparently they only have French wine here,' said Esther. 'Do you like French wine?'

Um, Esther. I have a wine blog. Would you like to reconsider your question?

In any case, Mon Plaisir in Covent Garden makes some kind of claim to be London's oldest French restaurant. But I come from Oxford, where at least four different places say they're Oxford's oldest College. So I view such claims with lofty scepticism. In any case, although it's clearly been around for a while, it's pleasantly unpretentious, with a thrown-together kind of approach to decor.

(Those who know me or have ever seen my desk will not need telling that I favour the thrown-together approach — albeit in what is arguably more literal a sense than that adopted by Mon Plaisir.)

So. Starter. The snails were nice — but over-salted, I'd say, and (honestly) not as nice as the ones I had last time I was at Pierre Victoire. Which is clearly not the oldest restaurant in anywhere. And the rabbit rillettes? Fine, fine, fine. I didn't find it earthshattering, to be honest. Though I guess the rabbit probably did. Poor bugger.

Main courses were better. E-star's steak was clearly rare, rather than the medium-rare she'd asked for. But that's okay. Because she should've asked for rare in the first place, right? I thought it was very good, crisscrossed with the magical charcoal lacings of the griddle. And confit duck. Pretty nice, pretty nice — although squatting its ducky haunches upon a rather uninspired bed of leaves.

The petits pois side dish, though, was gosh-darn outstanding. Creamy, with little bacon nuggets. Yum McYum.

Then puddings. Which were (unusually) the best part of the meal. In fact, the quality of our three courses, had they been plotted on a graph (by the kind of achingly tedious obsessive who'd think to plot such things on a graph) would have described an ascending arc.

For a start, the menu choices were genuinely interesting; not the usual tedious, predictable array of cremes brulees and tartes aux pommes. And they were well-executed, too. Even if the meringue tongues did (to the eyes of the scatological Esther) resemble delicate curlicues of turd.

And even if we were both virtually crying with laughter as I attempted to narrate a tale of inadvertent shark-murder poached from episode 138 of The Bugle (listen to it and kill yourself with mirth from 26.30 onwards).

Now. Mon Plaisir wasn't exactly cheap. I suppose there's an inevitable oldest-French-restaurant-in-London premium. So if that stuff's important to you, I guess you'll suck it up. But otherwise, I suspect you could eat just as well for a good bit less, if you're prepared to sacrifice a bit of heritage.

Me, I'd sacrifice heritage in the blink of an eye. Slap it on the stone table and give me the dagger, man.

Later, at some point as we shambled along the South Bank in our post-repast 'debrief', it struck us as a good idea to entitle this, our inaugural post, 'Spy sharks and prostitutes'. And I have honoured that inspiration.

Though I can't for the love of Christ remember where the prostitutes bit came from. Oh well.

So. Mon Plaisir. Fine, but very overpriced. Alright? That's your lot. Except for this picture of Esther. Because it made me laugh.

(Esther's account is coming tomorrow, by the by.)