What the critics say: Viajante, Bar Boulud…

1st June 2010, 10:45am

A round-up of the latest reviews

Viajante, London
Zoe Williams, The Telegraph, 31 May

"A crostini arrived, with olives and almonds artfully splodged; it was pretty nice. Smoked aubergine over a sort of soy-milk gelée arrived in a shot glass. It looked like a B52 cocktail that had unaccountably set. Reminded me of being a drunk 17-year-old. 'What's that?' said M, picking over some vegetal matter on the top. 'A bit of banana?' It was, in keeping with the theme of the dish, actually a bit of aubergine, but she had a point – it's the kind of a place where a rogue banana might just show up. This was smoky and amazing. It was still an amuse bouche, though, as was the 'Thai explosion' – an incredible little square of minced chicken, coconut and coriander, between crisped layers of chicken skin. 

"The first actual course was a squid carpaccio with ink granita. The squid looked like one complete piece, but was in fact a mosaic of quarter-centimetre squares. Effort on this scale makes me nervous. The granita occupied a no-man's land I have never set foot on, between sweet and savoury. It was really… something: not my death-row dinner, but more considered than most books I've read, never mind food I've eaten. Next came 'textures of beetroot', roast, pickled and puréed, with dabs of crab meat. I loved the chessboard contrasts: the crab looked dainty but was actually very macho; the beetroot looked grizzly but was actually very delicate. Green apple and whipped goat's curd made everything tangy."

Bar Boulud, Knightsbridge
John Walsh, The Independent, 29 May

"The empire-building M Boulud has taken his time bringing his expertise to London. The fact that he's surfaced at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, that commands the main drag of Knightsbridge, is not a surprise. What's surprising is how much of a bar it actually feels. The evening we went, the drinking area was full of local Knightsbridgeans – confident men in Hugo Boss suits, women in DKNY skinny jeans, diamante belts and strappy tops – drinking champagne. M Boulud himself was much in evidence, gliding through the crush, immaculately coiffed and sleek.

"The place itself isn't immediately appealing: it's subterranean, with a ceiling so low as to attract only the most gifted limbo dancers. The tables are cheap wood veneer, unburdened by white cloths. The décor is predominantly beige and brown. We were seated against the end wall, dominated by photographs of stains: the stains of expensive wines (eg, a 1964 Romanée-Conti, Burgundy) on a muslin cloth as their final lees were poured through it. It's an odd thing to celebrate visually – the stains look so unpleasantly like something else."

Bar Boulud, London
Jay Rayner, The Observer, 30 May

"Boulud is originally from Lyon, and that comes shining through in a mixed plate of their terrines and charcuterie. This is a kitchen that knows what it's doing with pressed bits of slow-cooked animal. Best is its coarse country pâté, and another of chicken liver, pork and cognac. If their home-cured ham is a little indifferent, pink folds of thinly sliced salami, the colour of a baby's cheeks, are salty and fatty in the right way. All of this comes with a perfectly poised celeriac rémoulade. It is the kind of French food you would dream of getting in France, but rarely do.

"The same is true of a slow-cooked shoulder of lamb in a jus with a flavour so deep potholers could explore it. Entirely un-French is the 'piggy' burger. I have friends who whine tiresomely that our hamburgers in Britain are awful, even the good ones; that only American-based chefs make them well. I have to admit this one proves the point: the thick medium-rare patty is rich and beefy and comes laden with hunks of long-cooked pulled pork, all of it dressed with green-chilli mayo. At the end we have a fine-enough Grand Marnier soufflé and an impressive mint ice cream and chocolate combo."

Viajante, London
Matthew Norman, The Guardian, 29 May

"A torrent of pretty amuses-bouche (soy milk jelly with aubergine, chicken confit with a coconut tuille and so on) flowed our way before the magical mystery tour began. Squid tartare, pickled radish and samphire would have tasted of nothing even without a palate-anaesthetising 'frozen squid ink jus' slightly cooler than liquid nitrogen. 'Textures' of beetroot and crab with apple was livelier, but ruined by whipped goat's curd better described as 'Textures of decomposing Bird's custard'. Roast celeriac came with tangy San Jorge cheese and an onion and hazelnut gloop that the doe-eyed chef dolloped on to the plates himself. 'This is, erm…' analysed my friend. 'It's, erm…' Precisely, I said. It's ermissimus.

"Then came a dish from The Mescaline User's Recipe Book to crystallise the chef's internal battle between technical excellence and plain foolishness. Strips of lemon sole, served with cute mustard gnocchi and much else, would have been great had he not coated them with yeast. I've nothing against men who cook with yeast (like the Queen Mother visiting this part of town in the Blitz, I'm always happy to look the yeast men in the face), but few flavours are better designed to obliterate the delicacy of this fish."

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