Brasserie Blanc Opera Terrace by Raymond Blanc (Bar, Restaurant)

Best for: impeccable service; views; impressing out-of-towners with a glam location.

Great: decent, but not outstanding, French cuisine; a reasonably priced, celebrity chef experience.


In a galaxy not that far away (Covent Garden)…

These aren't the droids we're looking for;
These aren't the droids we're looking for;
These aren't the droids we're looking for.

I take mouthful; I chew; I replay the scene in my head. I swallow. I look up at my dining companion; my boyfriend who has held my hand on this mission for many a moon now. My eyes say it all. His head drops. He is sorrowful; we are defeated.

I mutter into my plate: “This is not the steak tartare I’ve been looking for.”

It began, incredulously, in a Korean restaurant. “What is this raw meat in front of me?” I pondered. I prodded the meat. A waiter beat in the egg. Never one to turn down a strange food substance, I began to pick at it, capers and all. And before I knew it, it was gone. Devoured, and I wanted more.

“Don’t eat it too regularly,” my mother, font of all knowledge, told me, “Michael Winner did and he can’t eat red meat any more.”

I remain unperturbed. And so the mission began. I will do it. I WILL find the best steak tartare in London. Nay, the world!

And then it arrives. The invitation to Brasserie Blanc in Covent Garden; the most recent of double Michelin-starred Raymond Blanc’s undertakings (with an astounding 8 restaurants opened in the UK in 2012 alone).

It offers so much promise; its glass conservatory glistening with prosperity from its glorious location opposite the Royal Opera House.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” naysayer boyfriend tells me. “When has a Covent Garden restaurant ever lived up to anyone’s expectations?”

But this time, this time it will be different, I tell myself. We will dine like kings.

And treated like kings we are. For the waitress showers us with patience and kindness. She charms and advises; smiles and eventually sympathises. For she sees the sadness in my eyes.

“This is not the steak tartare I’ve been looking for.”

In the weeks prior to our visit I eagerly perused the menu. Days before I had picked out what we would eat, drink, and how we would be merry and jubilant. Much of this was true. We sup on Sancerre, it is indeed divine; we dine on pâté and meat. They are, well, fine. Nothing more. Well-cooked, well-presented. Not terribly well-priced. Fine. Just fine.

I am deflated. I pick at my mussels. Again, so full of promise. More than merely edible; very tasty, in fact. But they don’t sparkle. The food doesn't blow me away like I thought it would. It doesn’t make me swoon.

This was not the meal I’d been hoping for.

The food may not sparkle, but the view does. From our window table, we breathe in the exquisite festive scenery that surrounds the chi-chi location; the lights, the baubles. No matter how cold a Londoner you are, the thrill of eating high above the former fruit market that is Covent Garden never dies. It’s the perfect spot for people watching.

Outside is spectacular, but the interior not so much. A former Chez Gerard, I’m informed; the interior feels uniform, familiar. Busy though it is, it lacks atmosphere, zing. Bustling, yes. Ambience? Not so much. And we are cold, so, so cold. We cling to the heater next to us, cling to it as though our lives depend on it, which they do, to an extent.

This was not the venue I’d been hoping for.

I decline desert.

We leave.

I cast a glance back at the building, shining like a star in the evening light.

“So much promise,” I think to myself.

I sigh.

Mission aborted; for now....read more