More important was the fact that I came away thinking there was a place tucked away in the depths of Soho that could be all things to all people, particularly if that person was me. A prune and Armagnac jelly was much better. They make much of their soufflés, and though the theatre that attended the arrival of our chocolate version, the sauce disappearing deep into its slit innards, was great fun, the example itself was rubbery. I am suspicious of anything listed as a "favourite", or listed with the name of the restaurant as if it were a signature dish, because what does that make all the other stuff? Things they just thought they had to have to clear the numbers? It also raises expectations. I worry that you can use it to clean tarnished copper coins - but I liked the fact they brought it. More from the canteen end was a hefty disk of corned beef hash with slivers of dill pickle below and a fried egg on top, with which they brought a bottle of HP Sauce. The closest to an evolved dish was a hunk of seared monkfish on a red wine sauce with lardons. There's shepherd's pie and chicken curry, macaroni cheese, or lobster and chips for those who are all fur coat and no knickers. Mains are aimed at people who think the 21st century might not be such a good idea after all, and I was happy to be one of them. A jar of potted, confited middle white pork was served at room temperature with a generous pile of salty toast, dribbled with oil and a less than necessary jar of wobbly perry jelly. Very simple, but I was pleased to be reminded of it. That old stager egg mayonnaise arrived looking like a colour plate from Great Dishes of the World, the three domes on lettuce leaves glazed with mayo and decorated with anchovies. It does elevenses and lunch, high tea and dinner and supper, and any other small meals you might just be able to slip in between them.īoringly, we went for dinner and ate very well.
BBR - I can't be fagged to spell it out any longer - is open from 7am to 3am, for toast (and toaster) and preserves at £4.50 through to the full English breakfast at £12.75. However, the big numbers are mitigated by the enormous choice. Sure, it's comfort food at prices that can only ever be aimed at people who are already very comfortable indeed, thank you very much. Happily, though, there is a steady hand at work both in the kitchen and front of house, which makes all of this more than acceptable.
There is much that is absurd about the place, from the waiters' pink, shiny-lapelled waistcoats, through to the ornate interior, designed to look like the dining car of some fine Edwardian train (all leather banquette, brass rail and lamp light), to the chrome toasters they bring if you order breakfast. I can think of many restaurants where such a button would probably get rubbed away through overuse.īut not, I'm happy to say, at Bob Bob Ricard. There could be others: a button with an icon of somebody stifling a yawn for when their companion has become insufferably boring another with a plane dropping cluster bombs for when the braying from the nearest table has become unbearable and something must be done a third with a picture of a revolver for when the chef has completely overreached him- or herself and needs to be brought out into the dining room and shot as a warning to others.