At L’Ambroisie, the first impression is not of arrival so much as quiet admission; like being allowed into a members club that has no interest in explaining itself. Tucked inside Place des Vosges, all symmetrical calm and aristocratic brick, it feels less like a restaurant and more like a well-kept secret that has somehow resisted the vulgarity of being discovered. There are no theatrics, no open kitchens clattering for attention, no earnest lectures about provenance. Instead, an atmosphere of cultivated indifference: the sort that suggests everything has already been decided, and decided correctly. Though in French and in French only.
Truth is I’ve wanted to visit for at least twenty years, ever since the obsession with food kicked in and I’d whittle away the hours working for the soulless tile company in Tyseley whilst reading Andy Hayler’s restaurant reviews. L’Ambrosie always struck me as different; a kind of culinary absolutism that feels wildly out of step with modern fuss and fashion. A place that shuns tasting menus in place of choice, and shuns all wine that isn’t from France, as if anybody else cannot be trusted to crush grapes properly. When we opted to take a leisurely route to San Sebastian via train from Birmingham, it left us with two days in Paris and the question of where to have a special lunch. L’Ambrosie. It was always going to be L’Ambrosie.
We get champagne and the notification that menus are in French only, like we hadn’t been studying it daily for the last three months. Then the canapes of raw scallop with lemon balm, hollow potato pillows dusted in herb salt, a bread studded with sun dried tomato, and Jerulsalem artichoke puree with hazelnut nestled in the bosom of the most perfect Jerusalem artichoke crisp. You find yourself leaning in, paying attention, adjusting your expectations to meet it on its own terms. And somewhere between the first bite and the slow, considered finish, you realise that what felt at first like aloofness is, in fact, a kind of uncompromising clarity.
There is excellent sourdough with butter that shimmers like the afternoon of a late afternoon field, followed quickly by an amuse of sorts for the buche. Delicate white crab sat in a little burrata heart, a jelly of tomato water, olive oil, and Kampot pepper. The first real glimpse into their style that’s delicate and nuanced. Sophie gets the iconic langoustine starter, yours for a mere 145 euro, with three absurdly pristine fat tails captured between sesame tuiles, with a light curry sauce and the tidiest bed of spinach. It is, without question, one of the great dishes of the world; a simple sum of the best ingredients lifted by perfect technique. I get the truffled Îles flottantes, with a Jerusalem artichoke veloute, truffled meringue, confit egg yolk, all surrounded in an out building of perigord truffle. It is rich, slightly smug, and brilliantly put together.
Looking back to those days when I first read about the restaurant I never truly believed I’d be in a position to order a 380 euro chicken main course, yet here we are. The chicken, a poulet jaune from Bresse, arrives whole at the table, skin a deep amber the colour of autumn honey, with just the suggestion of the truffled butter that lays all around it. Not home cooking, exactly – this is too controlled, too exacting – but the idea of home cooking, perfected and slightly weaponised. We are told it will come in two parts; now the breast, then the rest of the bird as a salad. Like everything here it is deceptively simple, the most perfect of chicken covered in the best of truffle, with salsify cooked in truffled butter and a sauce of the roasting juices. It has ruined all roast chickens forever. Then the salad, which is to salads what my crisp sandwiches are to a balanced lunch. Bits of leg, thigh, and the oyster of the bird, with truffled vinaigrette, and some notional greenery. The skin is brittle and delicate, not unlike the very best cantonese roast duck. I’m getting bored of saying perfect now, but it really is faultless.
Sophie doesn’t want dessert though they bring her the signature chocolate tart with vanilla ice cream. She loves it. Well, most of it, given she scrapes the ethereally light filling out of the casing because she doesn’t like pastry. I get the vanilla bundle which I’m told is new and therefore makes me feel important for all of a second. Vanilla everything; tube, set cream, ice cream, powder, gel. The occasional suggestion of something more bitter and a kiss of citrus somewhere. The ice cream stars; slightly caramelised, it’s the richest, most decadent ice cream I’ve ever had, and when the loaded people drinking Romanee-Conti on the table next to us engage with us to tell me how good it is, they end up with a scoop each as bonus course. Bastards. There are petit fours and freshly baked madelaines, coffee, and that bill. Oh yes, that bill.
This is Sophie’s birthday and, given her menu was priceless, I’ll spare you the grand total. The food, some champagne, a very nice red, and service check in at four figures, which is a lot for any meal, but then we are in L’Ambrosie. I’d do it all again tomorrow if I could afford to. A word on the service before I go. I was told by two people that the service can be stiff, borderline rude, especially to the English and Americans. We found it to be the opposite; warm and engaging, where they listened to our very broken French and appreciated the effort made. L’Ambroisie doesn’t perform for you; it expects you to rise to it, to meet its standards, to understand its rhythms. And when you do it rewards you with some of the finest cooking on the planet.
10/10
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