Lausanne: Restaurant de la Croix d'Ouchy

Avenue d'Ouchy 43, Lausanne

Sometimes whistle-stop trips have their drawbacks. While it’s all very well to dip yourself into a country overnight, the scheduling of planes, trains and automobiles often mitigates against throwing yourself into pure hedonism for 24 hours without recourse. Sunday morning saw an early rising, and a walk along the lake wall where the waves overspilled the bankside and wet our feet. Lausanne is quiet on Sunday mornings: the sky was grey, the breeze was high, and the sounds were of nature and nothing else. Refreshing: we were in the heart of Europe, in the centre of an international city, yet in the middle of nowhere.

We took coffee down at the Fleur de Pains bakery on Avenue d’Ouchy, and then prepared for Farid to pick us up and take us out for lunch. He’d planned a surprise location, but was constrained by the need to have me on a train to Geneva airport for 13:17. Trains in Switzerland are not late: they pull out of stations at the exact minute indicated, at the instant the second hand hits 12. We didn’t have much time to waste.

We drove up into the city centre - through which we had walked through the previous night - parked underground, and walked across a junction to the north-east corner, abutting which was the Restaurant de la Croix d’Ouchy. So far, so good: description meets reality. Inside, the restaurant was almost empty – not surprisingly, as it was just gone midday. Valerie was already there with children Olympe and Ulysse (very classical family), and we took our place at the table with them.

By this stage, the sun was streaming in the windows, and illuminating the interior. In my memory, the restaurant had bare stone walls – but I am not sure if that’s true, or if it’s something I have conjured up to fit my impression of a well-appointed, rustic idyll with sunbeams bouncing off the verticals. After some time, our waiter arrived, but unfortunately he brought with him neither his brain nor a basic proficiency in intelligible French. Not a clue what we were talking about, or our need to eat and run, or even what we were ordering. Yes, it may have been Sunday and a day of leisure in Calvin-influenced Switzerland, but someone should have reminded him that working to a Sri Lankan pace really doesn’t cut it when you have trains to catch and places to go. By the time we got the orders in, it was almost 12:30.

Farid ordered a great bottle of Amarone, which we opened just as the starters arrived. I ordered a beef carpaccio with some truffle oil, and it was perfect. The meat was very tender, and hit the palate spot on. Always a dish I tend to eat quickly, the added time pressure meant that I probably had the intensified experience of my taste buds leaking adrenaline as they sensed the flavours. Nevertheless, I couldn’t dwell on the starter too long, as I had one eye on my watch and the other looking out for the waiter. He came, finally, with my main course: three large scallops, an enormous (I mean about 6 inches of) king prawn, rice, and a local take on ratatouille, with a creamy fish sauce. The presentation was beautiful, the taste even more so. Best of all, it came in two portions: the exact same plate was to follow, once I finished the first one. Worst of all: it was now 13:10, and my train was leaving in seven. Farid and I ran from the restaurant, drove to the station, and I caught the train with fully twenty seconds to spare. If I could have taken an extra ten minutes in that restaurant, I would have: the main course was composed of some of the most succulent shellfish that I have come across, and in a landlocked country too! I have no idea of the prices on this menu (though being Switzerland, it coulnd't have been cheap): I passed a mixture of euro and francs to Kruno, and hoped he’d take care of the bill. Haven’t heard anything about it since, so I guess I must have just about covered it.

There is no doubt but that I will visit the Restaurant de la Croix d’Ouchy on my return to Lausanne. By then, I am hoping that I will have planned my schedule a little more liberally, that the waiters will have learned French properly, and that my double-service main course will be appreciated leisurely and in full.
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The Score
5.0 Food and Drink
2.0 Service
4.5 Décor
4.5 Ambience
3.0 Value
4.0 Overall Rating

Lausanne: Brasserie du Grand Chêne

Grand Chêne 7-9, Lausanne
www.lausanne-palace.com

Today I flew into Geneva, almost on a whim, and after a quick walk down by the lake in the city centre, I met Mirta and Farid, who drove us over to Lausanne, a city I had never visited before. Forty minutes later, we were sitting in the Beau Rivage hotel on the banks of Lac Léman, sipping caipirinhas and muscatel – perhaps the only patrons under pensionable age, but enjoying the opulence nonetheless.

Later that evening, we decided it’d be a good idea to visit the city centre. It didn’t look far on the map. Nothing ever does. And I guess it really wasn’t all that far – it’s just that most of it was vertical, with angles of about 65° once we reached the older quarters. By the time we reached the top of the hill and the centre of town – one and the same – we were ready for refreshment at Restaurant Louis, which had come highly recommended by Farid. Unfortunately, we hadn’t known that Louis would be taking some time out from feeding urban mountaineers, and was actually closed that night.

Behind us, a couple of streets away, we saw a large attractive building, with crimson canopies over each window and lit up like a beacon of hope and restauration. This was the Lausanne Palace and Spa Hotel. Visiting their website later, I found they had numerous bars and restaurants inside, but we headed for the first one we saw, which was their brasserie. Now, I can’t really tell the difference between a French brasserie and a Swiss Romande brasserie. Perhaps it’s like those theme Irish bars you find in every city from Anchorage to Auckland – you’re never sure how authentic it is, but it looks attractive enough to the untrained eye. This brasserie seemed to me to be straight out of Lyon (not, of course, a million miles from Lausanne anyway) – so familiarity always being a great enticement, we walked to the nearest waiter and asked for a table. None available. The positive side about such establishments, however, is that you can eat au comptoir – which I actually prefer, as you can relax so much more easily. Our waiter offered us this option so pleasantly that I knew instantly that while the decor may have looked Gare-du-Nord template French, the welcome was much more inviting.

Kruno was doing his usual trick of considering a weekend to be a few hours either side of midnight on Saturday/ Sunday, and so had not arrived yet. Mirta and I took our places at the bar, ordered a couple of cokes for both of us and a soupe de poisons for me. As we took in the action in the restaurant from our fulcrum at the bar, I took charge of the soup. It was pleasant, and given my hunger, it was much appreciated. However, the rouille that came with it was lacking in taste, the soup itself would have benefited from greater seasoning and a lesser ground texture, and overall it was not of the standard that one would find down at the Vieux Port in Marseilles. Yet my original definition of it stands: it was pleasant.

Kruno finally arrived, and he and I both ordered steak tartare, with Mirta opting for a vegetarian lasagne. Her pasta seemed – what’s the word again? Oh yes, pleasant. But the thing is, you can get this sort of dish anywhere. A steak tartare, however, is a rarity in Ireland, and I crave it the minute I set foot on francophone territory. Ours came with the obligatory three dots of reduced balsamic vinegar, yet sans the traditional quail’s egg on top. This was replaced by some capers and a large anchovy, which were nice – though I would have liked the egg as well. The meat pieces were larger than I would have expected – in France, the consistency is often nearly that of a paste – but very tasty along with the toast that was brought alongside, and the enormous basket of chips that sat in the vicinity and remained half-untouched, due to sheer volume. Steak tartare is a dish I love, even though it always conjures up images of Mr. Bean for me. We used to eat this in Luxembourg, in baguettes for lunch; Lebanese restaurants cater for my taste perfectly with their kibbeh; and I often take the fusion cousin – tuna tartare – when in restaurants elsewhere. That choice is directly influenced by experience of the meat variety, and this evening’s dish serves to reinforce that preference for me.

Earlier in the evening, I had seen an oblong plate of profiteroles and ice cream transported to a nearby table, and had been keeping that thought in mind throughout the evening. When I ordered it, though, the waiter told us that they stopped making that dessert at 22:30, and so we were 45 minutes past the deadline. Look, it’s a French-type place; they don’t change their minds on this sort of thing. Instead, I was invited to select a dessert from a revolving glass carousel: from a choice that included crème brûlée, tarte aux fraises and rhum baba, I set eyes on a towering chocolate mousse, and had it brought to me. Lovely and rich, and much larger than I had judged from the other side of the display glass, this mousse was topped with a white chocolate room, and a couple of rolled wafers. It was satisfyingly substantial without being heavy, and tasted of chocolate rather than cocoa, which is always a plus – and one which is not universally guaranteed.

The meal over, we decided to hit the nightlife of Lausanne until the early hours. No, wait: that’s what we would have done if we were just a few years younger. What really happened is that we took a bus to our hotel and went to bed immediately. At least it was on a full stomach, and after a good meal. I’d recommend this restaurant for future visitors to Lausanne: Mirta wanted to give it 4.0; Kruno was a little grouchier at 3.0. If I knew what was good for me, I would side with the princess - but I'm going to split the difference this time. It's 3.5.

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The Damage (CHF)

• TBC Soupe de Poissons
• TBC Vegetarian Lasagne
• TBC Steak Tartare *2
• TBC Chocolate Mousse
  

Drinks

• TBC Coke * 2
• TBC San Pellegrino (75cl)

Service TBC
Total TBC
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The Score
4.0 Food and Drink
3.0 Service
4.0 Décor
3.5 Ambience
3.0 Value
3.5 Overall Rating

Mongolian BBQ

7 Anglesey Street, Temple Bar, Dublin 2
www.mongolianbbq.ie

I wonder if there's a Mongolian Barbecue in every capital city in the world. Apart from Genghis Khan, it seems to be about the only export of note in the last 800 years or so, the fermented yak's milk not having done so well and lost market share to Baileys somewhat. Although I have visited a few, Suzanne tells me every time we walk through Temple Bar that she has never been to a Mongolian, but always wanted to. The last time I was here was with Barbara and her daughter, Rachel. This seven-year-old was queueing to make up a bowl of food, when I heard her tell a nearby gang of tourists: "You know he's not my Daddy - he's just my mammy's friend". After that, how could I not love this place? To mark Suzanne and Aoife's return from the trip round Thailand, Australia and New Zealand, I didn't have to think twice, and organised that we meet in Anglesey Street for dinner.

On another beautiful evening in the first week of summer, where we haven't seen rain for weeks, I walked into town - two feet being quicker than getting stuck in the traffic that snarls and clogs the roads of Dublin, regardless of the season. Aoife and Suzanne were already seated by the time I arrived and, cheekily enough, had already started eating. I guess that's not as bad as it sounds. The whole ethos of the restaurant is that you serve yourself, when you like and as often as you like, and the wobbles in the cycles will eventually even out between all the people at your table.

We decided to meet just before 18:30, at which time the prices go up. Perhaps the array of food expands too: I remember in former times that the barbecue offered fish, prawns and turkey - all of which were absent this time. The system now works like this: you can reach for the salad bar at any time, and fill up on lettuce, cherry tomatoes, chickpeas, peppers and dressing. Or you can skip the Mongo-Lite and go straight for the full Monty. You select firstly from a metal table holding sunken containers of beef, pork, and chicken; you top up your plastic bowl with your choice of tomatoes, peppers, onions, leeks, mushrooms, tofu, seeds, carrots, kidney beans, corn and pineapple. Then it's over to the herbs and spice jars: cayenne pepper, cumin, coriander, chilli, ginger, Cajun Spice and Chinese Five Spice (along with the traditional salt and pepper). Finally you drown your raw food with sauce - let's see what I can remember here: Thai sweet chilli; lemon; wine; honey and ginger; soy; tikka massala ... probably another four or so more. I think you get the idea: the fun is concocting your own recipe at each stage, and varying your culinary skills with each iteration. Once the bowl is full, you pass it to a guy at a large, semi-circular metal sheet who proceeds to cook it for you, keeping everyone's food separate and fully cooked with the use of what looks like giant black chopsticks. Poor guy must be almost roasted himself: the heat coming from the barbecue would be unbearable up that close and for that long.

The food is given back to you in china bowls sporting the restaurant logo - and they're very attractive. I remember, once, a waitress telling me that an American man once ate seventeen bowlfuls. We managed four each, along with two bowls of rice for the girls and some flatbreads for me. I also satisfied a craving for Diet Coke: perhaps I'm hanging out with Frits too much. Then, although we saw exquisite desserts pass by to another table - we think it was Death by Chocolate - we were more concerned about obesity by chocolate, so we decided to pass, and ordered tea and coffee instead.

Suzie loved this restaurant - she wants to give it a 5. Aoife seemed slightly less enamoured of it - but she'd been many times before, so it was nothing novel for her. I like it a lot - and they still give out the Swizzels-Matlow Refreshers with the bill, which I think should be made mandatory in every restaurant. I'd suggest, however, that they replan their table layout - there was hardly room for people to squeeze between chairs once the restaurant began to crowd up, and frankly it's annoying. But if you manage to get a spot where you don't back onto the aisle, you'll enjoy this restaurant enormously.

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The Damage (EUR)

• 50.97 Early Bird Buffet, including salad and rice (16.99*3)
• 2.50 Flatbreads (4)

Drinks

• 2.00 Diet Coke (*1)
  
• 5.00 Lattes (2.50*2)
• 2.00 Peppermint Tea (*1)
  

Service 6.25 (10% added automatically)
Total 68.72
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The Score
4.0 Food and Drink
4.0 Service
4.0 Décor
4.0 Ambience
4.5 Value
4.0 Overall Rating

Wagamama

South King Street, Dublin 2

www.wagamama.ie

Wagamama has been a staple for years. I’ve been to outlets in the Netherlands, around the UK, and countless times to their Dublin restaurant. I’ve also been to the not-Wagamamas: Lenuci in Zagreb, where they used to mix Japanese and Mexican in a not-always-successful attempt at Pacific Rim fusion cuisine, but have given up copying the Wagamama ethos and gone fully Mexican now; and the excellent Izakaya in Toronto, where the menu even uses the same styles and fonts, but where I had the head nearly eaten off me one day soon after its opening by daring to suggest it was like Wagamama. “We’re nothing like them, and anyway, we’re much better”. Hmm. Don’t know how much faith I’d have in that snippy opinion, as I have never found Wagamama anything less than excellent. Anecdotal evidence shows I am not alone – I have never heard anyone I know criticise it. Smacks of insecurity – a not unheard-of trait in Canada.

Frits had hardly set foot outside the office and the hotel since he started working in Ireland, so my inner social worker came to the fore and decided he was having a night out. Following a Harcourt Street beer garden, the Bailey and Market Bar, and skipping Café en Seine (too many old guys with big wallets buying drinks for meretricious girls) and Ron Black's (just because, basically, there was nobody there), and hearing Frits' need for “something Japanese, and not too heavy”, we headed for Wagamama. We descended the stairs under the St. Stephen’s Green Centre, past the John Rocha Waterford Crystal cow (Wagamoomoo. Surreal? You’re not even half-way there), and were seated at the Scandinavian blond-wood benches, where you eat in canteen-style as you watch the cooks in the open kitchen prepare endless food with gusto.

Wagamama is a display of consistent satisfaction in a world where mediocrity seems to pass muster more and more. The staff are still dressed in those funky T-shirts, the atmosphere is always both noisy and relaxed, and I usually know what I’m going for: 42, with a 103 and a 109. It makes sense to those in the know. The only thing changed is that they no longer seem to take orders on those radio devices that transmitted customer choices directly to the kitchen over the airwaves.

Being an izakaya-type restaurant, the dishes are served as they are prepared – no rota of starters and mains here. I did the usual of ordering what I liked and hoped my guest would enjoy the results. Here’s the list of usuals for the evening:

• 103 Ebi Katsu: five king prawns in fried breadcrumbs, with a chilli and garlic sauce, and lime wedges with which you drown the shrimp and awaken their taste.
• 106 Negima Yakitori: three skewers of chicken (3 pieces on each skewer), interspersed with scallion segments. These come in a caramel-like yakitori sauce which is superb as ever, though less generous than on any previous visit. Hope they’re not thinking of skimp on portion size.
• 42 Yaki Udon: where do I begin? Thick udon noodles, shiitake mushrooms, egg, leeks, prawns, chicken, red peppers, beansprouts, shallots, and Japanese fishcakes, with curry oil and fish powder. Great as ever.

I really never take anything other than the Yaki Udon or the Chilli Beef Ramen as a main course at Wagamama. But for some reason, last night I chose to leave the 42 to Frits, and order from the list of specials (they’re updated every two months or so). My #61 was delivered on a square black plate, of the type I’d never before seen at this restaurant. The dish consisted of udon noodles, marinated beef, plenty of well-cooked slices of red and green pepper, shallots, and a sweet, soy-based sauce. Very nice, but to be honest, I missed my 42. Becoming a creature of habit, perhaps – but when you have perfection, and you’re guaranteed it, there’s not much incentive to move elsewhere.

We took a flask of warm sake to accompany our meal, along with some water and green tea - which is free, but which Frits was convinced was actually seaweed juice. Maybe it’s big in Holland? I don’t know. Frits was also slightly disconcerted by the waiter writing the code numbers for each dish on the disposable paper placemats – or at least pretended to be enough that the waiter took it upon himself to explain his system to us, without a trace of sarcasm. His style was in keeping with the best traits of Wagamama. Good, honest food, served with politeness and humour, and always enticing the discerning diner back for repeat visits. Wagamama has high standards: you don’t expect anything less, and they never fail to live up to them. A worthy recipient of a 4.5.

P.S. One quibble, but which won’t dent the score unless the trend continues: the prices in Dublin’s Wagamama significantly outweigh those on their UK menus, even allowing for currency conversion and the prime real estate premium of the Grafton Street area. There is no need for this extra mark-up. On top of this, the prices have increased fast and noticeably in recent times. It just contributes in its own small way to the cancerous rip-off culture in Ireland.
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The Damage (EUR)

• 8.25 Ebi Katsu
• 7.25 Negima Yakitori
• 12.45 Yaki Udon
• 15.95 Beef Udon

Drinks

• 8.50 Sake (flask)
• 0.00 Green Tea
• 0.00 Water
  

Service 6.50
Total 58.90
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The Score
4.5 Food and Drink
4.5 Service
4.5 Décor
4.5 Ambience
4.5 Value
4.5 Overall Rating