Ma Cuisine
4/10
Telephone 020-8878 4092
Address 7 White Hart Lane, London SW13
Open Mon-Fri, lunch noon-2.30pm, dinner 6-10.30pm; Sat & Sun, all day, noon-10.30pm
Out of all evil, there cometh good. This is not an original point - countless theologians and philosophers have posited it in the past, while Tom Baker's Doctor Who made the observation far in the future to justify his refusal to destroy the Daleks at the moment of their creation by Davros.
Yet originality isn't everything. On this page, in fact, it is nothing. So I make the point again in regard to dining en famille at Ma Cuisine in the moneyed, west London suburb of Barnes. Had we not been to this "petit bistro", I would never have made a major discovery about my mother-in-law, Mirabelle, and Richard O'Sullivan.
Venerable readers will recall Mr O'Sullivan for his roles in 70s TV sitcoms such as Robin's Nest, the Man About The House spin-off about life running a little bistro on which this one may well be directly modelled. Admittedly, there was no merriment at Ma Cuisine involving a one-armed Irish washer-up (or wash-upper). Nor was the place patrolled by a pompous didact such as the one played by Tony Britton. Even so, the red-and-white checked tablecloths, nicotine-yellow walls, Folies Bergères prints and general air of ersatz Left Bankery imbue it with the aura of an old ITV comedy set.
As for the food, which looked hugely enticing on one of those menus from which you want everything, in reality this suggested that Mr Britton's daughter, Fern, the dramatically shrunken ITV daytime presenter recently collared for falsely denying a gastric bypass, could have halved her body weight in half the time by coming here each day for lunch and dinner.
Before I lace up the hobnails, a word of praise for the place's integrity. Few restaurant managers, observing an unfamiliar customer taking notes so soon after a visit from a photographer for a national newspaper, would serve a confit of rabbit and cep ravioli so stone cold that it was sent straight back to the kitchen. That takes some guts. The confit, on returning duly heated, was fine, albeit the pasta casing struck a not quite pubescent boy of our acquaintance as "cheesy cling-film".
Another starter, courgette flower filled with prawns and salmon, was the highlight of the meal, being "really fresh. And the creamy sauce is good, too." My sautéed veal kidneys, meanwhile, proved more curio than disaster, an offputtingly large ball of marginally overcooked kidney coming with two slabs of mediocre foie gras that had not been mentioned on the menu (startling amateurishness when so many people these days refuse to eat the stuff) and served on a glass plate so small and narrow that even someone with a semblance of table manners would have slopped the red-wine sauce over the side. There are restaurants in which the vision of a heavily soiled table would entice the staff to give the cloth a quick wipe. The service here, from people with French accents so florid that we assumed they come from Peckham, fell tantalisingly short.
In the light of the main courses that ensued, however, imbecilic crockery and distracted service seemed pedantic moans. The comfortable winner was my wife's cassoulet, which was perfectly competent, "although I've had better out of a tin. Mind you, they are brilliant, those tins." My coq au vin, on the other hand, was a shocker, the chicken being dried out to the texture of a J Cloth (on reflection, I should have picked up a drumstick and used it to mop up the mess from the kidneys). Worse by far, though, was a hideously presented, clumping great portion of rack of lamb with goat's cheese ravioli and a black olive sauce. The meat, although an ideal deep pink, was astonishingly flavourless (how do you find such tasteless lamb in Britain at this time of year? Presumably by shopping at a supermarket) and slathered in a weird, sludgy-green gunk that we eventually guessed may have been a novel, though none too successful, take on pesto.
Generally, meals such as this are partially redeemed by the puddings, gratifyingly sweet things being pretty hard for anyone to screw up. But it can be done, as was established by a weirdly overheated, soggy tarte tatin with pears and then swiftly confirmed by a crêpe suzette styled after two folded napkins that had been soaked in spilled tea and then doused in far too much Grand Marnier than could possibly be burned off after being ignited.
I adore atmospheric retro-bistros that serve classical French dishes when they are labours of love, such as the outstanding Brula not far away in Twickenham, and wish there were more of them. This one, although not expensive (by rip-off London standards), feels like a clip joint assembled overnight from Ikea's Rive Gauche flat-pack range, and designed to fleece the credulous Gin & Jaggers of plush south-west London.
"What a shame," said my wife as we asked for the bill. "When we saw the menu, I had such high hopes. Speaking of which, did I ever tell you that my mother was in a 60s telly production of Great Expectations with Richard O'Sullivan?"
All these years reviewing restaurants under a pulverising inferiority complex because my so-called rival AA Gill's mother played Mrs Peignoir in Fawlty Towers, and then from nowhere comes liberation thanks to a family link of my own to a sitcom Goliath (well, a sitcom). Out of all evil, indeed.
The bill
Rabbit confit ravioli £7
Stuffed courgette flower £7.50
Veal kidneys £9
Cassoulet £12.50
Coq au vin £12.50
Rack of lamb £18
Tarte tatin £5.50
Crêpe suzette £5
Coca-Cola £2
Kir Royale £6
Bottle pinot noir £30
Subtotal £115
Service @ 10% £11.50
Total £126.50
