Eating British in Paris

‘On va manger anglais ce soir?’ — ‘Shall we eat English tonight?’ — is not the sort of thing you’d expect to hear a Frenchman say, especially a chef. But my friend was quite clear on the phone. ‘Le restaurant, c’est anglais, comme toi.’ My initial disbelief gave way to suspicion. I remembered that he once led us to a Franco-Italian-Japanese hole-in-the-wall whose signature dish was spaghetti with sea urchins and fermented soya, on the grounds that it was ‘different’. It was. 

‘I’m not in the mood for fish and chips,’ I told my pal. ‘How about Chinese?’ He sighed. ‘It’s not that kind of English restaurant — it’s good. It’s got a great review in Le Figaro.’ And he was right. The paper had not only praised this particular place but devoted a full page to praising the new battery of British chefs in Paris. Don’t count on them for lamb with mint sauce or an English pudding, it cautioned, and don’t imagine that all they do is imitate French cooking. Their approach, it said, is ‘creative and personal’.

A few hours and a Métro ride later, we were sitting in a bright, airy restaurant near the Gare du Nord, rather provocatively named Albion. The people seated around us were mostly French, and clearly impressed by the work of chef Matthew Ong, whom we observed through a large window at the back of the restaurant looking through to the kitchen.

‘Le chef est anglais,’ I overheard one man telling the two women he was dining — not in surprise, but as if to impress them. Murmurs of appreciation came from both of them as they tucked into their joue de boeuf braisée.