The menu is one of things like camembert soufflé, pâté de campagne, garlic-soaked snails, chicken in morels, beef fillet in a Bordelaise. It reads like erotica. But its execution was decidedly less seductive. French onion soup with a cheese top like a trampoline was too sweet, jammy, as though someone had tipped sugar in with the beef stock. No sugar faults with the soufflé, but enough salt in it to de-ice a road — almost as much as in the brain-pink tartare. Marengo sauce, usually reserved for chicken, here smothered an inelegant lump of a pork and spinach faggot. Not bad just — okay.
Josephine Marylebone: Ready-made chain feels like a cynical cash grab
