Comptoir Gascon, Smithfield, London
I have found the best-named dish of the year and it is this: piggy treats. You would have to be without laughter in your soul (or a vegetarian, which is the same thing) not to find that attractive. Or, I suppose, a pig, for whom being pressed, cured and sliced is less of a treat. At least the porker can feel appreciated. At Comptoir Gascon, in London's Smithfield, those treats included slices of sweet ham with marblewhite fat, various salamis, sliced pig's ear, garlicky sausage and a little blood sausage. The ingredients are impeccable, the care taken over them obvious, and the price of £6.50 very fair indeed.
All of which could be said for the entire experience; without wishing to dribble too much (not least because it plays havoc with my computer keyboard), this was one of my meals of the year. Comptoir Gascon was, for a long time, a delicatessen, a spin-off from the Michelin-starred Club Gascon on the other side of Smithfield, which made its name with grazing menus of foie gras club sandwiches and dinky duck pies. Club Gascon's food riffs on the robust cuisine of southwest France, and Comptoir was meant to be the place where you could buy some of the ingredients for yourself. To be honest, though, I always found the display so pretty, so damn beautiful, that I never wanted to disturb anything by buying from it.
Perhaps I wasn't the only one, because the retail element is now much reduced. In come a few small tables and a simple menu of those Toulousain classics that inspired Club Gascon in the first place. I'd describe the look - bare-brick walls, dark-wood floors - as 'urban rustic' if I didn't hate people who wrote cobblers like that. Let's just say it is handsome, as is the food. A starter of home-made black pudding with soft slices of caramelised apples rescued the honour of that noble dish from the violation it received on my watch in Nottingham a few weeks back. This was savoury and sweet, and thick-textured; crisp outside and dense within. I'm sure it won't reassure the pig any, but it certainly didn't bleed in vain.
A fricassee of seafood with a flan of ceps was the most ambitious dish we tried: generous chunks of cep and artichoke set in a light mousseline, scattered with tiny, sauteed squid, in a foamed seafood sauce, with the authentic tang of trawler. A lot of work for £7. Main courses were more straightforward. For my companion, duck a l'orange, a dish saved from Seventies food hell by pairing the richness of longroasted duck with an orange sauce that had a pronounced bitterness. My cassoulet was simply outrageous, and made me hope that the French paradox - lots of heavy animal fats, but not that many heart attacks - would work for me, too. Here was a leg of duck confit, protruding like a wrecked ship from the crusty stew of white beans - on top of it, chunks of Toulouse sausage. There were ribbons of melting pork fat inside and, on top, a strip of sweet bacon. And, as if that wasn't enough, there were also slices of pork crackling. If I do die from eating this dish, I will die happy. We drank a full-bodied red from the right corner of France for £20, and finished with some exemplary home-made ice creams.
So just how good is this place? Put it this way: my companion took one bite of his main course, then called over the waiter and booked a table for the following week. Which tells you all you need to know.
