Estragon - devoid of je ne sais quoi. Photo / Herald on Sunday
Herald rating: * * 1/2
Address:22 Jellicoe Rd, Panmure
Phone:(09) 527 5080
Open: Lunch and dinner, six days
Ambience: Warehouse with wall hangings.
Vegetarians: They say they'll think of something.
Watch out for: The bouillabaisse.
Bottom line: Meat and three veg - with an accent.
Without wishing to appear suburbist, I have to say that I would not normally have gone hunting for a French restaurant in Panmure. But a reader put me on to this place. "You'll be surprised," she wrote. She was right. I have never had a French experience so devoid of
je ne sais quoi.
To list the good points first: there is ample parking; the waiter was affable and obliging (when I noticed icicles forming on the Professor's nose and manhandled the small electric heater a little closer to the table, he was quick to assist me); vegetables are included; and the bill was very reasonable. At this point, I begin to struggle.
The cavernous space has all the ambience of a (sparklingly clean) changing room at a rugby club. It is piteously cold on a winter's night, despite the best efforts of that cheap Chinese heater, although it warmed up a bit as the place filled.
Some of the misspelled entries on the website menu (Provensal, bouillabaise) had made me wonder whether we were in French hands. But, deciding to avoid the menu's Italian section (which includes such Italian classics as Chef's Favourite Chicken and Ostrich a L'Italian), we ploughed ahead.
I soon wondered whether that chicken fettucine would have been a better choice. Servings of chicken liver pate and anchoiade (a Provencal anchovy pate) were fine but the lamb's fry in a Madeira sauce was thick and dry.
The Professor thought her fish had a whiff of the freezer about it but it must have just been overcooked since the waiter, wide-eyed, told her he'd picked it up from the New World next door that very afternoon. (Is it unreasonable to expect a suburban restaurant to buy its fish from a fish market?) Our companion remarked of the chicken in a tarragon sauce that it was just like mother used to make. I thought this a silly assessment since the broccoli had not been boiled vigorously for 45 minutes, but I fancy she was damning with faint praise. And my bouillabaisse was a cruel mockery of the classic fish stew: a large and unsubtly spicy bowl of tomato soup contained eight pieces of fish or seafood. The desserts - fine for the price but unmemorable - were just sweet enough to stop my crying.
We couldn't help noticing a group of women at a nearby table having a whale of a time. The Professor casually quizzed them as I paid the bill, and they said they were loyal regulars. This may prove that some people are easily pleased. Or that there is no pleasing some people. Take your pick.
