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Now that the winter season is under way – and mindful of this blog’s title – I think it’s about time I indulged in some proper alpine eating as well as just Geneva haunts.
After a day’s cold and cloudy skiing in Chamonix last weekend, my companions and I found ourselves in La Calèche, a warm, woody and shamelessly touristy town centre restaurant where the pine-clad walls are festooned with pots, pans, old typewriters and telephones – I think I even spotted a ceramic sheep on the floor.
A particularly nice touch was the shelf by the loo from which patrons can take their pick of perfumes and aftershaves, although I’m afraid the Issey Miyake was empty. Not that a scented squirt would have made much difference against the heavy smell of cheese that pervades a place specialising in fondue and yodelling – this latter tradition thankfully relegated to Tuesdays.
Our two friends opted for onion soup topped with an enormous cheesy crouton to start, while Monsieur Gourmand went for garlicky escargots and I tried the goat’s cheese salad. Sun dried tomatoes and pine kernels added taste and texture but I thought the bacon slightly unnecessary, an overpowering addition to the melting chèvre.
To accompany the delicious St Estèphe wine, the obvious choice for main course was raw meat served with a stone slab on which to cook it. The beef wasn’t particularly tender (although that might have been Monsieur Gourmand’s cooking technique) and the three non-descript sauces didn’t make up for the lack of seasoning; however the creamy, crispy-on-top potato dauphinoise was a delicious antidote to a hard day on the slopes.
Amazingly, we managed to find room for dessert, which turned out to be a disappointing reflection of the dreamy-sounding descriptions. The apple pie lacked any crumbly rustic charm while its accompanying cinnamon ice cream was nothing more than vanilla with a dash of colouring and a soupçon of spice. And I devoured enough white chocolate and passion fruit crème brûlée to conclude that this classic dish should not be complicated by unnecessary flavours.
I almost forgot to mention the mechanical polar bear in the entrance hall – a cheesy but charming feature of this adequate yet unremarkable alpine eatery.
La Calèche, 18 Rue Paccard, 74403 Chamonix. +33 (0)450 559468
www.restaurant-caleche.com
I could focus on the failings of L’Armoire – dull décor, snooty clientele and of course slow service – but such trivialities can be overlooked when the food is this fabulous.
The restaurant’s design is hardly cutting edge with blackboards, library-style lampshades, dark wood and burgundy banquettes, however it does bring to mind warmth, comfort and red meat, which is just as well because carnivorous cuisine is L’Armoire’s forte.
Neither Monsieur Gourmand nor I could resist the pan fried foie gras to start, a fiendish luxury I hadn’t allowed myself for at least six months. It was a guilty pleasure worth waiting for, the meat’s rich flavour in heavenly harmony with the balsamic and raspberry reduction.
My companion continued the foie gras frenzy, ordering pavé de boeuf with jus de foie gras for his main course, served with a flourish of frites poking out of a glass. My ‘tataki de thon rouge’ was equally enticing, the red tuna flesh having been seared for mere seconds to lightly singe the sesame seeds. With sides of oriental spinach, basmati rice, soy sauce and wasabi, my appetite was certainly sated, yet I still felt virtuous enough to allow myself a peek at the dessert menu.
So divine was the chocolate mousse that three days later I am still salivating at the memory. It might even have been the best chocolate mousse I’ve ever had, the deep chocolatey flavour enhanced by the subtle scent and texture of hazelnuts, and tempered by a chunk of mint sorbet. Be warned though, it is denser than most mousses, not to mention enormous, so definitely one for sharing.
Poncey patrons and lazy waiters aside, L’Armoire hasn’t lost sight of the idea that food should be the raison d’être of any restaurant. I look forward to coming back for more meaty, moussey indulgences in 2010.
L’Armoire, Vieille Ville; www.l-armoire.ch; +41 (0)22 311 3724
Our dinner at Brasserie Lipp started on an irritating note when Monsieur Gourmand and I were met with the usual shock and disbelief at not having made a reservation.
Of course, as if by magic, a table was soon conjured up and they managed to squeeze us in. ‘Squeeze’ being the operative word as we were cast out into the middle of the brightly lit brasserie on a table barely big enough for one enthusiastic eater, let alone two.
The comprehensive menu seemed to be full of things I had never heard of and I had a feeling that the apron-wearing waiters would think me a food philistine if I dared enquire about the provenance of a paillard or the content of a quenelle. Consequently, I chose to play it safe with moules frites while Monsieur Gourmand went for a stab in the dark and ordered a choucroute.
As the growing pile of paraphernalia arrived at our tiny table – a mini gas stove, candle-heated hotplates, ladles – we began to wonder what we had let ourselves in for. It turns out that the stove was to warm my moules which, although a bit puny, were served in a tasty creamy sauce and accompanied by first class frites.
The choucroute looked a little heavy and hearty for my tastes but Monsieur Gourmand was delighted with it. Peppercorns embedded among the strands of sauerkraut added a spicy edge to the vinegary vegetables while heightening the fine flavours of a humble yet heavenly frankfurter and another deliciously seasoned sausage packed with pistachios.
It was a shame that Monsieur Gourmand was too stuffed to contemplate a dessert because this is where Brasserie Lipp truly triumphs. I was sorely tempted by the mille-feuille aux marrons and the artisan ice creams but my Sergent Lipp – blood orange sorbet in a glass of campari – proved to be the perfect combination of dessert and digestif. A refreshing finale to a meal only marred by the discomfort of a too-small table.
Brasserie Lipp, Confédération Centre www.brasserielipp.ch
As Monsieur Gourmand and I braved the biting wind on the Pont du Mont Blanc the other night, we agreed that Geneva is a town of two halves. On the one hand it is a banking centre where the world’s wealthiest can safely squirrel away their money; on the other hand it is a haven for human rights and international development, playing host to countless charities and NGOs.
This means Geneva’s restaurants must cater for city slickers and caviar-eating oligarchs as well as scientists and diplomats from all corners of the globe.
Le Comptoir is a hip ‘designer’ hangout where trendy Geneva-dwellers can pretend they are in Paris or London as they admire each other over low rectangular tables, socialising to a soundtrack of funky house music and munching their way through a menu of Asian ‘fusion’ food.
At first glance, it perfectly fits the mould of sophisticated urban eatery with its minimalist banquettes, mellow lighting and exotic-sounding dishes. Scratch the surface, however, and the concept comes unstuck. Peeling paint on the walls is barely disguised by MDF panels emitting white light through crudely drilled holes, while wires dangle untidily from the corner speakers. One might expect immaculate oriental waiters, yet orders are taken by an earthy woman with weather-beaten skin who might be more at home serving herbal infusions and organic cakes.
The platters of sushi that floated past looked fabulous but I had consumed a week’s worth of raw fish the night before so I went for ‘teppan de poulet à la sauce teriyaki’ – chunks of chicken coated in a gloopy sauce that didn’t seem to taste of much other than salt. Perhaps some of the effort that went into creating Le Comptoir’s jaunty jungle-style website should have gone into the food.
Our visit to Le Grand Café in Eaux-Vives two days later was quite the reverse.
Confronted by the sight of a lone customer sipping red wine under harsh yellow lights, we wondered what we had let ourselves in for when we set foot in this traditional Swiss restaurant. But, as with our Comptoir experience, we were soon reminded that appearances can be deceptive.
I denied myself a starter while Monsieur Gourmand went for foie gras soup. Having imagined an unappetising grey, fatty liquid, I realised I had missed out when I tasted the frothy, deliciously subtle soup that it turned out to be.
I feared I might be defeated by the main course – we both ordered enormous entrecôte charolaise – but the thick wedge of meat was so flavoursome that I devoured the whole thing as well as the home made frites and the Café de Paris sauce, served as a herby butter that melts over the meat rather than in a jug. The sheer size of the hefty steak allowed us plenty of time to admire our surroundings. What had at first seemed like a tired old café was on closer inspection a picture of understated elegance with shiny tiled floors and a magnificent stained glass ceiling befitting an old-style ocean liner.
Given a choice between designer décor and substandard cooking or zero atmosphere and down to earth deliciousness, I know which one I’ll be returning to.
Le Comptoir, 9 Rue de Richemont, Paquis www.lecomptoirdesign.com
Le Grand Café, 8 Rue du Vieux-Marché, Eaux-Vives www.legrandcafe.ch
In the days before such continental condiments as vinaigrette and balsamic vinegar graced British plates, lettuce leaves were liberally doused with Heinz salad cream. But it seems we weren’t the only ones with a taste for processed, sickly sauces; the European equivalent is salsa rosa, a vinegary mélange of mayonnaise and ketchup.
One day when lunching in Geneva’s Vieille Ville I ordered a tasty sounding salad of avocado and crevettes, expecting to see four or five juicy-looking crustaceans poking out of the greenery, perhaps perked up by a light lemony dressing. The reality was a bowl of dull iceberg lettuce and a couple of avocado chunks topped off with a dollop of flourescent pink sauce containing a dozen poky prawns.
Maybe this is to be expected in a tourist trap Old Town eatery but I would have expected more from the steak tartare at Les 5 Portes, a well-regarded restaurant in Pâquis. Yes, a good tartare should certainly be tangy from seasoning and perhaps a touch of mustard, but when something tastes so unnaturally sweet and sour from lashings of salsa rosa you start to wonder what the chef is trying to hide.
Thankfully, the steak was redeemed by a side dish of ever-so-slightly undercooked roasted new potatoes, which happens to be just how I like them.
Monsieur Gourmand tried the pumpkin soup to start, which didn’t taste much like pumpkin but was tasty nonetheless, before tucking into a slow-cooked lamb shank. This proved to be a real autumnal treat, the tender meat coming easily away from the bone onto a fluffy bed of polenta surrounded by firm and flavoursome root vegetables.
Huge gold-framed mirrors and a vintage tricycle above the entrance set Les 5 Portes apart from its identikit minimalist rivals while rusty red, burnt orange and sand coloured walls create a warm atmosphere to offset the palatial dimensions. This eclectic style, combined with a crowd-pleasing menu and an alluring list of cocktails, attracts a sophisticated yet unpretentious clientele of cosy couples, gossiping groups of girls and boho arty types.
The staff were friendly, if a little annoying – I had to confirm three times that no, we really hadn’t reserved before the horrified waiter conceded that he did indeed have a free table (quelle surprise) – and the cramped layout isn’t ideal for eating. But these are small imperfections; salsa rosa aside, Les 5 Portes is a lively and sophisticated spot for eating, drinking and socialising in style.
8 Rue de Zurich, 1201 Genève; 022 731 8438
www.lescandale.ch
In August Monsieur Gourmand and I went to Corfu. Everything was as it should be - sun-filled days spent swimming and snorkelling followed by balmy evenings guzzling retsina and tucking into grilled Greek delights - except this time something wasn't quite right.
The fish wasn't especially meaty or abundant, the grilled octopus tasted tinned at times and, on more than one occasion, the squid had a bitter, silvery paste inside that I can only assume was the remnants of entrails.
Food being one of the key factors in my ultimate enjoyment of any holiday, I left Corfu feeling a little shortchanged. Of course, Switzerland is the last place one should go when feeling shortchanged but a month after my return to Geneva I enjoyed a Greek meal good enough to banish my holiday disappointment.
Emilios near Plainpalais offers a fine choice of healthy mezze, from fava beans and feta to tzatziki and taramosalata, as well as an excellent selection of meaty moussakas and comforting kleftikos. But on a pleasantly warm September night, nothing was going to tear me away from some grilled, succulent seafood.
My substantial squid came whole, chargrilled and doused in herby lemon. Monsieur Gourmand was also most impressed with his two fat tentacles of octopus (to my great relief as I have come to dread his frustration after each failed attempt to cook it himself).
Emilios is only let down by its décor, which is more bingo hall than beachside taverna. Bright lights extinguish any hint of romance, the plain, practical furniture would be more at home in a motorway diner and a conspicuous lack of greenery makes the Mediterranean feel far, far away.
Nevertheless, the food was good quality and we stuffed ourselves enough to be grateful for the walk home.
Nobody tips in Switzerland because the service is generally dreadful. I think it's a chicken and egg situation - do diners not tip because the service is bad or do waiters make no effort because they know they won't be rewarded?
Anyway, it didn't really matter last Sunday because Monsieur Gourmand and I had a wonderful lunch at Lacustre in Bellevue despite waiting for what seemed like an eternity for somebody to give us a menu. The view was so glorious that I was only too happy to bask in the bright September sun, watching sailboats whizz along the lake in front of a glistening Mont Blanc.
This was our second visit to Lacustre and it was a vast improvement on the first. One dark, chilly night in early spring we had been seated next to two young couples and their whining offspring while we shared a disappointingly bland Chateaubriand served by a heavy-browed and bequiffed waiter whose apparent drunkenness rendered him incapable of remembering anything.
Perhaps it was too early in the day for him to hit the bottle as he seemed sober and friendly on this second visit - though still painfully slow. And he wasn't the only thing to have improved - the food was delicious. Tasty and lemony perches du lac meunière were served with a filo basket full of vegetables while the rich and tangy steak tartare was a triumph of taste and presentation, topped off with a lattice of vegetables and accompanied by nutty rice.
It goes without saying that such a backdrop demanded a cold bottle of rosé and we left feeling a little light-headed, full of food and totally in awe of our scenic surroundings.
Last night I was invited with my partner, who shall from now on be known as Monsieur Gourmand, to the home of one of his colleagues for risotto.
The apartment is in a fabulous spot close to trendy Carouge with a wraparound balcony that offers views of the Jura mountains, the near-vertical rockface of the Salève and the craggy peaks of the Alps in the distance. Even the Jet d'eau can be spotted poking out above the roof tops.
The other guests were all bankers so it is no surprise that champagne was being consumed by all. I wouldn't have imagined, however, that the pricey aperitif would also feature as part of the meal.
I had been told that risotto would be on the menu and had wondered what might accompany the rice. Wild mushrooms? Truffles? Cheese or peas perhaps? But when the huge saucepan appeared on the table it appeared to be a simple risotto with no other discernible ingredients at all. Then the hostess proceeded to plonk a baby bottle of Moet in the centre of the saucepan and added a teaspoon of sugar so that the foam erupted into the surrounding rice, much to everyone's surprise and delight.
With a sprinkling of parmigiano, the champagne risotto was a very tasty dish and proof that a dinner party is all the more memorable with some drama thrown in to the mix.
I thought it would at least take some investigating and some less-than-satisfying saag aloo before stumbling across a good Indian in Geneva. Luckily it looks as though my fears were unfounded.
Bollywood is in a square in Paquis, a surprisingly edgy district of Geneva where ethnic eateries jostle for position and the city's sex trade is evident on every corner. A sort of Swiss Soho, if you like.
The interior of the restaurant itself is charmingly old fashioned with red carpets and gold Ganeshas on display but on balmy evenings the terrace is the place to be. Diners can tuck into poppadums, chutney and a cold beer or two while watching the cool crowd of Paquis passing by.
A lover of tandoori lamb, I thought my usual choice perhaps a little wintry for such a sultry summer night so I went for fish instead. The firm flesh of the salmon came apart in succulent morsels while the tangy tandoori flavour lingered long after the final bite.
The accompanying tarka dhal was pleasingly thick and less liquidised than its British equivalent, the naan bread crisp and brown around the edges - and refreshingly free of butter.
Though I'm sure the people of Mumbai think nothing of devouring hot and spicy food in searing temperatures, I still associate subcontinental cuisine with winter. When the colder weather arrives this autumn the excitement of skiing and fondues will now be matched by the prospect of further forays into Geneva's spicy restaurant scene - and perhaps a return visit to Bollywood.
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