Je ne sais quoi: Richoux
(Picture: Steven Joyce)Sometimes you do not necessarily want to be challenged or surprised by a restaurant. Sometimes, either through tiredness or a mind dulled by the news, all that will do is the consoling certainty of golden frites in a gleaming metal tub. Sometimes — and this could just be a personal one, based on the fact I have somehow still not been on a plane in more than two years — you want to induce the sense of a far-flung hotel by quietly dispatching an Emmental omelette at 3pm.
There is a timelessness to these impulses. And it seems to me that the essential truth of them, not to mention their newfound relevance, is what has given us Richoux: an unexpectedly buzzy new all-day spot on Piccadilly that sees a fallen 113-year-old patisserie brand cannily reborn by young chefs Jamie Butler and Lewis Spencer as a cost-conscious, vaguely grand Parisian cafe.
Richoux does not seek to reinvent the wheel. It is, in many ways, self-consciously bland and middlebrow. But, nonetheless, there is something quietly effective about the way it is swimming against the tide at precisely the right moment (that it is a short walk from The Wolseley, the jewel in Corbin & King’s contentiously acquired crown, feels pointed). And I found that with each sweated over little detail — the lacy shreds of bacon and onion in a dish of peas a la francaise; sharp chive dressing on fresh, crunching boats of little gem; the sticky ruff of caramel at the edge of a tart tatin — I fell a little further under its naggingly familiar, comfortingly normcore spell.
Though I can’t say it made the best first impression. Nuzzled beside a scraggy branch of Paul, this first rebooted outpost (Richoux’s estate previously included a site here and there are international franchising plans), it looks a little too much like a chain-in-waiting: a blue exterior and little “cruffin”-piled patisserie counter give way to a long, partially skylit room dominated by a brass-accented central bar, seafoam green alcove booths hemmed in by mirrors and the broad sense of opulent flourishes not entirely at home in a slightly awkward space.
But then, weirdly, something as objectively boring as a chicken club sandwich changed everything. Foregrounded by a creamy, rivetingly peppery chicken mayo it had the punch, balance and nostalgia to make you sit up and take notice. Raw tuna and watermelon too — cubed up to resemble each other and lifted by lime, mint and a herbal dribble of olive oil — possessed uncommon control and elegance.
And this theme, of relatively simple food cooked with a blindsiding confidence, continued. At a second trip with my wife and kids in tow (the youngest Famurewas could bring their sophisticated little palates along because Richoux passed the rigorous “do they serve chips?” test) it manifested in a capably cooked ribeye steak (£19.95 with excellent frites) of yielding, well-rested lusciousness; it was there in a beguiling, crisp-skinned salmon fillet — presented aboard artichoke-studded black rice — and dinky Welsh rarebit toasts afforded a breathy sweetness by a swirl of onion chutney.
Yes, there was some erratic seasoning here and there. And I suppose you could also say that those atmospheric intangibles — namely, innately charismatic service and consistency of theme — aren’t yet in the same universe as a Corbin & King joint. But Richoux definitely has something; an indefinable charm and low, pacifying buzz helped along by a largely French wine list that starts at £24 a bottle. Plus the reassuringly grab-bag nature of the crowd each time I have been in speaks to its egalitarian appeal. We ended, that final time, with featherlight slices of meringue gateaux and scoops of raspberry sorbet; impeccable, exclamation point puddings that sent me and my family skipping towards the lights of Piccadilly Circus, out long after the kids’ regular bedtime but leaning happily into the Easter holiday delirium. It was a familiar sort of high. But sometimes, of course, that is exactly what you need.
