It took roughly fifteen minutes to fully fall in love with Chez Bruce. It wasn’t the warm welcome after a gruelling sixty quid Uber across London, nor the warm parmesan biscuits straight out of the oven, fragrant and crisp and moreish to the extent they might be my next addiction. It wasn’t the bread, however good that focaccia was, nor the impeccably sourced butter to go with the country style bread also offered. It was a cold soup of all things. Sure, the Spanish might be insistent that I correctly call it gazpacho, and I will before I’m cancelled, but cold soup it was. A thick cold soup of red pepper and tomato, garlicky, heavily seasoned and with a little heat loitering in the background. It is the work of a kitchen in total control, an unfussy flavour bomb. It transpires that the rest of the menu would follow similar suit. Chez Bruce, for all the accolades and the star above the door, is less about the frivolities of fine dining and more to do with feeding the diner generously and with old school hospitality.
I think the best way to describe it is Sophie’s words, not mine. It is the restaurant you think about when you imagine one. Smart in decor, big tables, front of house who are meticulous in knowledge, big portions of food that tastes of its intended flavours. We’ve been eyeing up the menu for forever, a Sunday ritual of looking at the menu posted by Head Chef Matt Christmas, where I get told how much she wants the lobster ravioli, the cod main, and a big plate of runny cheese. She gets her wish, starting with the ravioli that must contain half a lobster, pasta bulging like a meathead in a tight t-shirt, swimming in a bisque that’s all caramelised shell and cognac. It’s iconic. I’m incredibly grateful they knocked one up on the request of a very hungry girlfriend. My starter was befitting of the sunny weather; mozzarella, roast peaches, a spiced nut pesto that I’ve since replicated at home. Fresh, light, and absolutely brilliant.
I guess with the trend of tasting menus and small plates it’s easy to forget the purpose of main courses, yet my chicken was very much a main. A whole breast, skin crisped, meat that’s gone through traditional heat in a pan and an oven. There is sweetcorn purée, potato terrine, a piece of pan fried foie gras, spinach, wild mushrooms, and one of those deeply glossy sauces which parts like the Red Sea when you run a loaded fork through it. Sophie gets her cod, another huge piece of protein bronzed from lots of butter, with roasted tomato, a stuffed courgette, and a mash that has integrity and still tastes of potato. Neither of us finish our main. We apologise. They understand. I doubt we are the first to be defeated by their bounty.
The cheese is ten pieces of immaculate conditioned dairy, purposefully positioned to build-up to the more characterful ones. A little membrillo and some crackers. Just perfect. And the last dessert; a compote of summer berries, the very essence of sunshine, with soft amaretto biscuits and a blackberry sorbet that I’ve substituted in place of a coconut one. It works, I promise. Some coffee and a digestif, a bill for £330 that feels almost cheap given how good it was. I’d been looking forward to coming here as much as any restaurant I’ve booked and it didn’t disappoint. Chez Bruce is everything a restaurant should be but sadly seldom is in recent times. One of the most enjoyable meals I can remember having, it feels the natural successor to Le Gavroche as the place to be for old school hospitality. I’d eat here every week if I could.
10/10
