Voila, le French Taco

By: Mrs Robot

Ah, la belle France! Home of the finest cuisine. So as our wedding anniversary holiday this year was to Bordeaux, it was only natural that we should seek out the French Taco.

Wait, wut?

I completely blame this article in The Guardian. Usually we avoid junk food places on holiday as possibly not very local, and the Bordeaux branch of O'Tacos is a reasonable distance from the tourist area. But the promise of authentically French junk food, a wrap stuffed with chips and meat and cheese sauce, lured us in. It's nothing like a Mexican taco. If anything, it's half-kebab, half-wrap, with cheese goop thrown in.

When we arrived at O'Tacos the queue was out the door – well, it was lunchtime, and the place was just round the corner from the university. We ended up going away for a coffee and coming back a little later when class had restarted. Even so, the chaps behind the counter were busy with a constant stream of Ubereats drivers picking up delivery orders.

It is really good. How something so wrong can taste so right is beyond me. As far as I could make out, the wrap, chips and cheese sauce are standard. Then you get to pick one to four meats (depending on the size of taco you've chosen), an additional sauce, and any extras (including the option to have it toasted with additional cheese on the outside). It's delightfully non-messy, very tasty, and very filling.

France: not just the best at fine cooking, but here to claim the junk food crown too.

Lunch at Chez Dominique, Bath

By: Mrs Robot

Yesterday was my birthday (45 – might not be a 'big one' but it certainly feels big enough) so Mr Robot took me to Chez Dominique in Bath for lunch. Usually we go out in the evening for birthdays, but my workplace gives us our birthdays off so I'd booked a salon appointment in town that morning and we decided to make it a lunch date instead. Chez Dominique's a la carte menu is available all day, and we'd fancied going there for ages. It's just over Pultney Bridge, near our dentist, so we've both looked longingly at the menu on the way back from being savaged by the hygienist.

Mr Robot had booked the afternoon at work and said it felt very much like being on holiday, as we were eating nice food on a lovely day. It also felt a little like bunking off as he'd been in work that morning and then left it all behind.

But you're not here for tales of bunking off, you're here for food! I had smoked eel salad for a starter, and Mr Robot had a ham hock salad. Mine included chicory and apple, and both had a very nice dill dressing on that made us think yes, we really do need to grow some dill in the garden this year. The sweet crunch of the apple and bitter crunch of the chicory contrasted nicely with the soft, smoky eel and crispy smoky bacon.

For our main course we decided to share the chateaubriand from the Specials board. During our meal we heard the manager telling other customers the meat comes from Walter Rose – well, that explains why it was so good. We had it rare, because neither of us sees any point in having steak any other way. It came with fried mushrooms, salad leaves and frites. I'm fussy about mushrooms, only liking them when they're very fresh and very well fried, and these were perfect. (Honestly, stewed mushrooms are the worst.)

Mr Robot had the pear and almond tart for pudding, while I went for the cheese. This was good cheese. For one thing, there was an acceptable cheese-to-biscuit ratio. Too many places load up on (cheaper) fancy biscuits and stinge on the cheese, in my opinion. Chez Dominique makes sure that when you order the cheese, cheese is the star. And every cheese has a decent amount of punch.

I can't tell you how much it all cost as I didn't pay, but Mr Robot seemed to think the price was jolly reasonable, and we both agreed it's somewhere we'd go back to.

Restaurant Le 68, Paris

By: Mr Robot

First the apologies - I'm mindful we haven't done much for awhile. Sorry. For those who care why, see * below. And of course now there's been the bloody awfulness in Paris, which is what finally prompted me to share a bit of the happiness we enjoyed there just a couple of months ago.

So, somewhat belatedly here's Some Of What I Done On My Holidays. Specifically the night we walked the length of Paris to Guy Martin at No 68.

Arguably Mrs R should be writing this because she found the place. As any casual browse of Greedybots' sister / parent blog (well, we are from Norfolk after all) CrinolineRobot will show, Mrs R is massively into her perfume. And this is relevant because No 68 Champs Elysee is better known as swank central of the perfumier, Guerlain.

Not only did she want to see the Guerlain shop anyway, the pitch was amazing: according to the website, chef Guy Martin offers
'"a menu with dishes associated to the fragrances of perfumes: foie gras and Madagascar’s vanilla in puff pastry, cod like a little black dress and liquorice , macaroon of the gardens of Shalimar ” so many winks of eye.'

So many winks of eye indeed.

Ok there's a bit of tossery but a menu based on perfume excited us - not least because we couldn't really imagine how it would play out - and in any case aren't we always told that blah% of flavour comes through the nose? So we resolved to go. And did.

Overlooking the sheer awfulness of the Champs Elysee (worthy of a whole blog in itself) the Guerlain shop has charming staff who swiftly establish we're not buyers, for she has the full set already, and direct us downstairs to l'eaterie.


It's a beautiful, sumptuous place.

We were very prepared to feel - or be made to feel - out of place and sub-par. We've had that in Bristol, ffs, and if anywhere is entitled to feel up itself this is it.

But no. It was welcoming and comfortable, yet preposterously luxuriant.

Gold everywhere, and lots of mirrors, and lush drapes, and pretty much anything else you can think of from a 1980s Mills & Boon moneyshot.

There are even (swear to god) mirrors on the ceiling.

Oh yeah.

Playing against all that were tres moderne plastic-y tables printed with things like lilies, violets, cardamoms (cardoma?) and other scent-related monothemic montages. Sadly no ambergris. This (which would have been just too hip in any other context) and the pleasantly funky cutlery took any edge of pomposity away - we were left with a sense of "gosh".

So, prevaricator, the food?

Well, a kind of brilliant, beyond doubt, but I'm not sure the perfume thing really came through. I will concede that I ain't no Nose, but She is, and She agrees with me.

I started with a cepe tarte which was delicious: crisp pastry full of butter, and deep mushroom lifted with herbage. Lovely. Perfume? dunno.

I get that there's a woody green thing going on, but I'm fishing for it to be honest.

My main was probably the highlight of the evening, and certainly the exemplar of the project.

Badged as szechuan honey-glazed-duck, this was wonderful for surprising and pleasing reasons. The duck was as perfect as you'd expect, and nicely glazed with honey.

Accompaniments and sauces were delicious but not that notable in comparison to the turnips.

This pleased me immensely for the turnip is a beautiful and much-maligned veg. Here I got two varieties: grown up and baby. Here's the thing: the grown-up turnip had been sympathetically steamed to bring out his turnipitude, while the baby, somehow, was made the vessel for all the szechuan in the dish. All those numbing, tingly pepper bits lay around the plate in little turnipey nuggets, interacting with herbs here, honey there, sauces some other place...

Outstanding turnip dish with an extravagant duck accompaniment

In that dish I truly got the notion of notes playing against each other, and developing over time. It wasn't a perfume, it did little on the nose, but it ate like a good perfume smells. It was genuinely exciting.


I felt a bit bad for pudding. Le Petite Robe Noir (little black dress, he-hon, he-hon) was an exceptional chocolate dessert: wonderfully light mousse with the most ridiculously thin tempered layers; beautiful cherry goop in there. It was a joy to eat.

But it just wasn't as exciting as the turnips.

The final delight was the tea. They make it to match the perfumes, you see.

She had (actually I've no idea) while I went for the Habit Rouge tea, on account of how I was wearing Habit Rouge that very night.

I'm happy to say my tea tasted nothing like my aftershave. but it was very lovely...


Oh I nearly forgot - les petite fours. Or sixes as it turned out. Mostly lovely but bergamot marshmallow is something I will never ever forget. I may spend the rest of my life learning how to make it.



Brass tacks then:

We were sad to find the menu was a Formule (what we used to call Prix Fixe back in the day). Maybe it was a midweek thing and the really exciting a la carte is only at weekends, but if so the website should say as much. It did mean, however, that having expected around 100 euros each, we (I) actually paid e48 per head. And for that price, Le 68 is as absurdly good value as any back-street bistro one would boast of finding.

The wine menu, on the other hand, caters for some wallets better than others since it ranges from about 29 euros a bottle to, um, 1000 euros. And it's weighted towards the big end.

Without the 60 euro (cheap! but very acceptable) wine, Le 68 would compete on price with any regular three-course dinner - but offers an exceptional experience. From the shop to the decor to the concept to the staff. Hit or miss on the perfumerie "concept" front it's brilliant food in a very special setting.

If you're wondering what Mrs R had, I wish I could remember. This is her main. Not as good as my turnips.

One thing I will firmly assert is that it was a bloody shame the place was so empty. I think we were the third and last table in all night, although that did mean we could hear one couple arranging their next extramarital liason, which was fun.

Ok it was a Wednesday night, but this is the middle of GodAwful Street and there were still about 15,000 people picking each others pockets when we left.

If you want to go to this place, and I strongly urge you to, don't hang about - if that level of custom is normal I can't help worrying how long it'll last.

TEA - Splash it on...

All images (c) PP Gettins

*First we lost our beloved Boo cat to old age and duff kidneys, which kind of took the fun out of pretty much everything. Then we went to Paris for which we'd planned many posts but, you know, sad about the Boo. And then we were desperately looking for a new cat because while we still miss the Boo dreadfully, we also missed general catness in a big way. And that turned out to be harder than you might think but finally we found a pair of tabby KITTENS and frankly who's ever going sit in front of a laptop because KITTENS.

Tasting France. Part 1: The Artichoke Peril

By: Mr Robot

 In my head, I'm something of a Francophile. 

I think of France as a place we love, my French is only slightly more awful than my Spanish, and it was I, after all, who educated the cheesemonster that is Mrs Robot on the difference between Brie and Camembert, for goodness sake. I like to think I'm a moderately proficient shrugger.

So it was an appalling reality-check to realise our last trip was about 15 years ago. Fifteen years! How did that happen? Resolved to do better, I quickly booked a week in Paris (coming soon) and began my mission to cook my way through The Taste Of France. As already noted, it's a book we've had for years but I don't think have ever used in anger.

Where to start? Mrs Robot's recent dalliance with The Root Canal Man limited my options to fairly squishy stuff, and Riverford had kindly popped a couple of globe artichokes in our vegbox. So with that as my starting point I decided to kick off with an extravagant four-courser.

Le Menu

Artichauts Farci

Omelette a la Piperard

Loup de Mer "Auguste Escoffier"

Creme d'Homere

Stuffed Artichokes

I've you've never tried dismembering an adult artichoke, I urge you to give it a go. Only then will you understand the enormous satisfaction of NEVER EVER doing it again.

I'm kind of wishing I'd videoed it: I have no doubt it'd be a YouTube sensation with lucrative sponsorship deals rolling in from providers of medical supplies and mouth soap.

Suffice to say that after 90 minutes I had two tiny tiny bits of rapidly browning artichoke, a knee-high pile of discarded alien skin, and some excitingly arterial spray patterns across the ceiling.

From there, though, it was splendid. The forcemeat called for a mix of pork and veal, but having not planned ahead I couldn't get the veal, so substituted it with chicken thigh - much as I imagined an Anjou farmer might.

The meats are mixed with mushroom and a little double cream, and stuffed in the artichoke cavity.

This, in a stroke of genius, is wrapped with bacon to hold it all in, before being lightly browned and then simmered in half a bottle of white wine.

The artichoke tastes amazing, despite it all, and stuffing is both delicate and rich. The reduced wine has soaked into everything, bringing acidity and balance. It's real treat. 

I'm not doing it again.

Omelette a la Piperade

I've commented before that egg dishes seem tragically undervalued in Britain.

The Spanish Revueltos makes an art of scrambling, and the French do the same with omelettes. A good Omelette Fine Herbs is an extraordinary, revelatory experience.

This Pays Basque dish is your standard omelette filled with the sunshine: tomato, bell pepper, garlic, chilli, bay and thyme that have gently fried together for a good half-hour.

It's all served up with slabs of fried ham on the side.

I know what you're thinking - I'm buggered if I'm taking half an hour and three pans just to make an omelette. Well you should.

Sea Bass in Lettuce Leaves "Auguste Escoffier"

Yes indeed, we're in the big time now. There's no lengthy narrative or anecdote about the great man here: it just pops up, quite casually, in the pages of Provence between beef in red wine and (god help us) a recipe for artichokes.

It immediately put me in mind of Keith Floyd, which probably has poor Escoffier spinning in his grave, bringing simple things together with booze and cream to make a surprisingly sophisticated and happy dish. 

Incidentally if you're one of those people inclined to pull faces at the thought of cooked lettuce, I'm disappointed in you. Go and eat Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's lettuce risotto, and come back when you've grown up.

So, a stock is made with all the grim bits of fish (I had some langostine paws kicking around too - go me) with your regular stock veg and white wine.

The fish himself is cut into biggish pieces (to fillet or not? I did), dusted with flour and lightly fried for a couple of minutes each side. 

Then the brilliant bit. Blanch the lettuce leaves, wrap one or two around each piece of fish, and simmer really gently, with softened shallots, in the stock, some white wine and vermouth for a few minutes.

Finish with a splash of cream, naturally.

If the gods are kind you haven't overcooked the fish. The lettuce is soft but still light and fresh, and is a great carrier for the rich, slightly sweet sauce.

It's beyond my skill to make this thing look elegant, especially when it's my bloody dinner and the last thing I want is cold fishy lettuce, but that doesn't matter because all the elegance you need is on your palate.

Wine and Honey Cream

We're off to the Languedoc for pudding. At a casual glance I imagined it to be some syllabub-type whipped affair for serving in a tall glass (or possibly a jam-jar with a handle for those in Shoreditch). I still think that's a jolly good idea, but it ain't this.

Instead we have more of a baked custard, the kind of creme you find under a brulee: honey and wine are simply whipped up with eggs, cinnamon and lemon peel and baked on a low heat for half an hour, then left to cool. 

With typical style, I forgot to make a caramel for the moulds so they looked a bit anaemic when turned out, but you can't fault the taste.

I mean, wine and honey - if you're going to quibble with that, all I can do is shrug.

All images (c) PP Gettins

The Taste of France

By: Mr Robot

Over the last couple of years we’ve mainly been trying to expand our cookery repertoire – not least dabbling with Burmese food (largely thanks to MiMi Aye), Vietnamese (Uyen Luu), and Japanese (Tim Anderson), while my subscription with The Spicery is for a World Discoverer box that takes me all over the place (including the odd trip to pastry hell). And though we’d never claim an ounce of expertise it’s exciting and liberating and fun to explore these things.

But for a while I’ve had the nagging feeling that perhaps we’re neglecting classical European a bit, and a recent trip to the new Bistrot Pierre in Bath only confirmed that.

I’ve also had a yearning to properly do one cookbook in full, cover to cover, including all the stuff that makes me dubious or scared.

So in the spirit of a double-bird massacre I’ve decided to go full tilt at The Taste of France by Robert Freson, Adrian Bailey and Jacqueline Saulnier. 

This is a lovely book of proper traditional French fare and when we picked it up about 15 years ago

, it was very much in the foodporn spirit: it has acres of descriptive text and atmospheric photos covering each region of France, though at the time the recipes seemed impossibly challenging.

Looking at it now, there’s little to be afraid of (don’t mention the pastry) and it’s not ridiculously huge - though now I come to count I hadn’t realised it runs to 91 recipes – so meets my current needs nicely. With any luck I’ll be able to pull off a spectacular multi-course feast each month or so and we should be done in, erm, a couple of years.

It won’t be without it’s challenges, not least for ingredients. My local butcher is wonderful but we may have difficulty getting hold of the hare, calves feet, snails and frog legs I’ll need to do it in full – thank heavens for interweb mail order. 

The authors also seem strangely devoted to chervil, which appears to be extinct in Wiltshire supermarkets, so I might have to get my wellies on and sort the garden out.

I can’t say my wallet is looking forward to the Lobster pot-au-feu or Turbot gigot styke and frankly I fully expect the Dried and Salted Pig’s Liver to go to the cat. But I’m going to do them anyway, because that’s what being a Greedybot is all about.