Le Petit Bois
‘Allo ‘Allo
Former Little Blackwood owners Ben Taylor and Zsofia Kisgergely are back at their old haunt, relaunching as a French Bistro, Le Petit Bois. It’s the opening night and coincides with our wedding anniversary. Before our daughter was born, we spent our first eight anniversaries in Paris and now she’s flown the nest it feels right to return to ‘France’.
On a damp and windy Wednesday, the hope of more bustle than normal that a new opening can offer is richly rewarded. It’s already full at 7.30 and fuelled by a mostly gypsy jazz soundtrack, the atmosphere is oozing ‘je ne sais quoi’.
We order drinks before assessing the menu that’s a bistrot Tour de France and there’ll be no French resistance from me. I’m well up for it and would have frog’s legs or ortolans à la Provençale if available, but choosing escargot; confit canard, haricot blanc cassoulet; and crème brûlée still manages to belt out a culinary La Marseillaise. Ooh là là!
Sorry, I will stop now.
Snails in garlic butter arrive looking as enticing as garden pests can ever be. I’m fine with their toffee chewiness, but five out of the six have no garlic butter of note, reducing the dish from French delicacy to Bushtucker Trial
Escargots
My darling wife (hey, it’s our anniversary) opts for Jersey rock oysters with shallot vinegar and reports they are as she’d expect.
Jersey rock oysters
My perfectly slow cooked confit duck leg is meltingly tender under paper-thin crispy skin. It sits on an indulgently creamy white bean cassoulet brought into line by a sassy herb-rich sauce verte. Confit duck must be one of the high points of French cuisine and this is heavenly high.
Confit duck, haricot blanc cassoulet, sauce verte
My darling wife has opted for steak frites, with Café De Paris butter that’s more absent than apparent although the medium rare, easy on the bite entrecote is cooked to perfection and is rightly the star of the show.
Steak frites, Café De Paris butter
My vanilla crème brûlée with langues de chat—‘cat’s tongues’—manage to bring out the Paul Hollywood in me as they are neither particularly light nor crisp on the edge, but it’s a faultless crème brûlée and that’s the important part.
Vanilla crème brûlée, langues de chat
My darling wife’s clafoutis is perfectly spongy soufflé-esque with juicy sultanas but it’s missing the promised cherry sorbet. She’d forgotten and I only notice when I’m offered a taste. We raise this and with a profuse apology, we’re asked if we now want it, but the moment has gone with just a spoonful left.
Clafoutis
The bill is £157.50 including the tip and the clafoutis. I expect where they’ve fallen short is likely due to first night nerves or not yet being in their full stride, but the service has been excellent throughout. We’ve had a reasonable amount of booze—at least a couple of bottles—one made up from various glasses—plus dessert wines, roughly replicating Wednesdays before we had a child.
We’ve had wonderful reminiscences of Paris too, so that’s next year’s anniversary sorted, although I’d expect the food there will not be nearly so ‘French.’
RECOMMENDED 7/10
145 Alcester Road, Moseley, Birmingham B13 8JP
