Tábla

What’s the story with Tábla?

It’s not the best time to be a bistro. News last month of Piglet pulling down the shutters was bad enough – in Paris plenty were having theirs kicked in. De Gaulle once quipped it couldn’t be done, governing a country with 246 varieties of cheese. He may have been right. The sad scenes unfolding all over France aren’t the kind of images anyone likes to see coming out of le pays de la gourmandise.

That’d be oeufs mayonnaise and coq au vin, quiche lorraine and soupe à l'oignon. The kind of thing they’re dishing up at Tábla, where Piglet alumni Tanguy Gros Daillon and Thomas Loisel have been quietly courting a loyal suburban clientele since taking over the Mount Merrion space back in March, previously Esther’s and before that Little Mike’s.

It's just a little glib, lunching while Limoges burns. “Tell me what you eat: I will tell you what you are”, wrote Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin in his classic Physiologie Du Goût, our butter-flecked copy of which we couldn’t but thumb through again in recent days. Cooking is about the only thing the French do better than protest, and we could all use a reminder of who they really are.

How’s the room?

Not unfairly for a space that’s seen two well-received concepts off in as many years, Gros Daillon and Loisel haven’t meddled much with the previous tenants’ setup beyond a few Francophile flourishes and art pop prints on the walls. “Real friends bring wine” one reads. They surely have, ranged above the bar where four seats peering into the kitchen offer the best vantage – even if bathing your knees in a lurid blue strip light feels more Pigalle peep-show than left bank bistro.

Shimmy down a tight corridor to find the more formal room where two-tops can be shuffled around leather banquettes and upholstered chairs to fit fourteen covers, just about landing the cosy side of cramped. A great space for a group though. We nosily poke our heads around the corner to scope it out and almost find them tangled in a coiffure – désolé, madame.

What’s on the menu?

True to the trend of wringing maximum value from extortionate rent rates, Tábla operate at just all hours, with coffee and pastries propping up morning trade before croques and soupes swoop in for lunch. But restaurateurs are far from the only ones struggling to make ends meet, and it’s their three-course, €35 early bird served from 17:00 - 19:00 each night that caught our value-eager eye.

Sadly the early bird does not catch the snails, but a pivot off-menu saw a bubbling bowl of maitre d’hotel butter arrive, the good stuff bobbing inside (€9.50). Some might mourn the Pretty Woman-esque ritual of pince and fourchette, but having flung a few shells across Chez Max’s courtyard in our time, prior deshelling in these tighter environs is a smart move. The wafting aromas turn every head in the room, encouraging a fresh legion of suburban sceptics to give them an escar-got (sorry).

A country terrine also testifies to Loisel’s Parisian pedigree – personally manning the kitchen’s petite plancha, the chef-owner has smartly stacked the menu to free focus for mains with starters and desserts that just require some assembly. But a "here’s-one-we-prepared-earlier" lump this is not – the flaking forcemeat’s just-right texture and temperature surrender to the knife and toasted triangles of Tartine sourdough like butter. A free hand with the espelette pepper and little mound of house pickles (jarred proudly on the bar) balance the richness.

They like their espelette here – the same sprinkle sharpens the soused herring, another classic done justice. Fresh and firm from a vinegar cure, piqued by pickled onions and a scallion jelly, the fish yields softly against crusty croutons for a treat of textures in every fork. If not for past-their-prime tomatoes showing signs of season’s end (and time in the fridge), this would be an essential.

One glimpse of another table’s grilled swordfish frites is enough to forget all of the fears Anthony Bourdain left us with – if you’re not so forgiving, steak frites turns up much more often (no supplément! In this economy!) Nutty, sharp grenobloise cascades over the flaking loin’s layers of fat – and the CHIPS. A castaway would guzzle water with more decorum than we lap up the proper homemade mayo slathered on perfectly piping crisp skin. We beg for more. It arrives with a knowing smile, and no added charge. It’s the little things.

You could make boeuf bourgignon over mash at home, with the time you don’t have and the mounds of butter you can’t forget adding in. Part of the joy of plates like this – of eating out in general – is all the indulgence with none of the effort. As the rich red wine sauce spills over the spuds, the meat just falls to pieces – same.

Flashes of blue blowtorch flame periodically erupt over our shoulders as the wait staff finish dessert from a fridge below the register – space is really at a premium. Our nerves, too, so we stick with mousse to spare ourselves another brûlée blast. It recalls the one from the late Le Petit Renard, though there a hazelnut crumb and EVOO dribble had more depth to offset the airy intensity.

“Dessert without cheese”, Brillat-Savarin wrote, “is like a pretty woman with only one eye”. A man of his time... With this fromage though he might have looked the other way. Chewy cranberry and oat-laced crackers and intense fig jam are wasted on wedges of brie whose too-recent exit from the fridge leaves their flavour beyond reach.

How are the drinks?

A Taylor’s white port and tonic (€12) makes an ideal aperitif to explore a wine list that’s both broad – no preciousness about leaving France here – and offering bang-for-buck. We spied several glasses €1 below equivalent experiences like Excuse My French, and bottles at all ends of the list undercutting the likes of Ely by €5 to €10.

Fresh minerality from a young muscadet from Chateau Thébaud (€11.50) is a dream with the snails, and a top tip for a cheaper outing than the more traditional chablis. The La Borde Côtes du Rhône’s (€11.25) lighter tannins make a less obvious pair for the bourgignon, but one that stands up well to the swordfish.

How was the service?

Two wait staff work the small space with a perfect harmony of quick pace and good grace, whispered words over the pass en français all that’s needed to keep things whirring. Hissing steaks and bubbling stews are the only sounds to escape the kitchen – it’s very tightly run.

What’s the damage?

You’ll find very few early birds around town offering so much for so little, and even fewer running through the weekend – this is a steal. You could skip dessert and share snails over a very good glass and go home with an even lighter bill. Even outside of offers, prices scan very fair. When’s the last time you saw a 10oz ribeye for €33?

What's the Tábla verdict?

As one waitress took our order, the other said sadly into the phone that outdoor seats were all that was available on this cruelly cold October evening. By the time the snails landed, the couple who’d called were happily sat there wrapped in blankets, further warmed by wine. They get it. If Piglet’s shuttering suggests this model of cheap quality bistro might be under threat, Tábla’s neighbourhood take keeps the candle lit. “The fate of nations depends on the way they eat”, our old friend Brillat-Savarin says. Viva la cuisine de France.