It was all a bit odd. I would have sworn we were in one of the swankier restaurants in Provence. Sunlight was streaming in on the terracotta tiles, on the ochre, buff-brown, faded yellow, washed-out, burnt sienna walls and fittings, and on the crisp, white tablecloths, glinting glasses and heavy-duty French accents. And all the while, above the sleek sounds of the hi-fi system, you could just catch the distant murmur of traffic whizzing up and down Woodstock Road, Oxford. I knew it was Woodstock Road because I had spent some part of the morning going up and down it in search of La Gousse d'Ail. In fact, it was only on about the fourth sweep that I spotted the very tasteful sign on the site of what had formerly been the Lemon Tree.
I was meeting my brother, the Heron, for a rare fraternal lunch, and presently he arrived, all flushed and puffing and lamenting the inadequacy of travel arrangements from the station. A glass of fine German wheat beer soon put paid to his ululation, and he settled down contentedly to work his way through the menu with the odd "Cor, crikey" and "Hmmm".
La Gousse d'Ail is very new. It is the handiwork of Jonathan Wright and his wife, Jane - Jonathan used to be master chef at Le Manoir aux Quat' Saisons, where, for several years, he was the chief interpreter of Raymond Blanc's culinary vision and in charge of a team of 30 or so chefs; now, he has a mere eight, but the restaurant is smaller, and it is his own, so he can play with the food how he likes.
It is clear from the moment that you enter that this is no struggling prentice outfit. It is a restaurant with ambitions and very considerable sophistication. It may be too early to say that La Gousse D'Ail will achieve parity with the restaurant side of Le Manoir, but it seems to be aiming that way. The wine list is fat with good bottles, and a few well-priced ones, too, while the menu has a distinct upper-echelon, stars-and-garters feel to it. What else can you make of terrine of foie gras and confit duck on pressé riesling jelly and quince, or of roasted fillet of Cornish sea bass, étuvée of braised fennel and artichokes, bouillabaisse jus and chorizo sausage?
The general style of the food is highly wrought and very complex. In fact, it seemed to me that half of what appeared on the plate didn't get a mention in the menu rubric, but then, I suppose, each dish would have needed a whole chapter to itself if they had. Take the warm salad of skate with oyster beignets, new potato salad and smoked herring cream with which I officially launched myself on lunch. That's enough to be getting on with, you might have thought, but the little quenelles of salt cod topped with substantial mounds of Sevruga caviar never got a mention. Neither did the extra shredded skate that had been moulded like a cannelloni. Neither did . . . well, there was a lot more going on in streaks and whirls and mounds and quenelles, and the trouble is you start thinking, oh my gosh, where shall I start?
I began with the beignets of oysters, which were plump chappies within an exemplary light, crisp batter - better eat those quick, or they'll go soggy. Then it was on to what turned out to be the salt cod quenelles with caviar on top. Next, I dipped my finger into the various streaks and whirls of different sauces. Finally, I got to the skate.
It was like eating a whole sequence of dishes on the same plate. Come to think of it, it was a whole sequence of dishes on the same plate. The question is, did they all coalesce into a great unified gastronomic experience? In this case, I'm not sure that they did, although the individual parts were terrific.
This approach worked better with the Heron's marinated aubergines with roasted langoustine ravioli, verbena vinaigrette, langoustine oil and aged balsamic vinegar, a dish in which the variety of textures and flavours on display blended together in a beguiling polyphony, sweet and gently acid, firm and squidgy, fruity and herbal.
After that, the Heron had ballotine of boned oxtail braised in Hermitage wine sauce with poached ox tongue and a parsnip mousseline, which represented an apotheosis of all his favourite parts of an ox. I, meanwhile, settled down to a civet of hare, of which I have no official description as it wasn't on the menu but it was mentioned in passing by the waiter as we gave our order. I switched to the civet from the roasted saddle of venison with caramelised endives, celeriac purée, sauce grande veneur and almond emulsion that I'd had my eye on. That almond emulsion, I thought, sounded a useful trick, but the notion of hare was irresistible - as, indeed, was the dish: beautifully hung, beautifully cooked, teasing out the gamey flavour. There were a mass of accoutrements on the plate alongside, and dozens more slashes and sauces. This was a magnificent, faultless dish, effortful though it was, each shred of flavour building in layers to a superbly structured mouthful.
The Heron's view of the oxtail was almost as eulogistic. However, it caused him to wax nostalgic about our grandmother's monumental dishes of braised oxtail, recalling fondly how the chunks of meat fell away from the bone and how we would suck the bones and how all this was part of the oxtail experience - and, by the way, did oxtail, in itself, really warrant the lavish treatment it was getting here? Still, he didn't leave so much as a smear on his plate.
We just about had room for pudding, he the hot fondant with bitter chocolate, pistachio ice cream and espresso sauce, I for an apricot and almond tart, both of which were as expertly conjured up as the courses that went before.
I find myself in something of a quandary about La Gousse d'Ail. I like the place a lot. I like the notion of being transported to the sunshine of Provence from the suburbs of Oxford. I like the cheerful professionalism of the staff - they work almost as hard as the food. And I like the food a great deal. But I can't quite love it. It is difficult to do justice to so complicated constructions in a review, but each and every dish was so effortful, and seemed to make similar demands of the eater, that I couldn't help wishing that there were one or two elements fewer on the plate. All that whizz-bangery demanded attention, particularly as there tended to be quite a pause between courses.
It all made for an exceedingly pleasant and leisurely fraternal lunch, though we had to pay the bill in something of a hurry when we suddenly realised that we had places to go and people to see before nightfall. The bill was a princely £83.50 for the food, with a bit more for the wine. (I will not give details on consumption because we rather treated ourselves; not in quantity, which was modest, but in quality, which was magnificent. Oh, all right then, it was a bottle of Barolo Vigna Farina 1990, and I don't often come across one of those.) That £83.50 is, in fact, pretty modest for cooking of such ambition and accomplishment. Even more generous are the fixed-price lunches - two courses for £19.50, three for £22.50. Whether the style is for you is up to you to decide
