Roussillon

Nestled in a quiet corner of Pimlico far from the madding crowds of Sloane Square, Roussillon takes its name from the southeastern French commune in the Lubéron. Originally called Marabel’s, it was forced to change its name due to confusion with Marco Pierre White’s restaurant Mirabelle, which opened in the same week in 1997. Holding a Michelin star from 2000 to 2011, resident chef Alexis Gauthier upped sticks with Italian sommelier Roberto Della Pietra to run Gauthier Soho in May 2010. Head chef Shane Hughes has since taken the reins and is continuing the tradition of serving modern French fare made from seasonal British ingredients with a particular focus on vegetables and herbs, which are freshly picked each morning.

Rocking up to the hidden gem, I was wooed by its sherbet lemon façade. Inside, the living room-like interiors are a soothing shade of beige, so soothing in fact, they almost act as a visual lullaby. On my visit, the restaurant is disconcertingly bare on arrival, but soon fills up with smartly dressed, softly spoken locals. Hung on the walls are curious paintings of vegetables, from masculine asparagus spears to the feminine folds of an artichoke. The flora and fauna theme continues on the plant-strewn menu, and even in the loos, which are prettified by sketches of bilberries and wild flowers.

My dining companion and I begin with a chilled glass of Gosset NV, Roussillon’s house Champagne. Crisp and fresh and yet with a biscuit and brioche-laced richness, it makes for a deliciously refreshing drop. To accompany our apéritif, we are offered a colourful trio of nibbles: pickled quails eggs masquerading as giant olives, sweet and sour macadamia nuts, and a childlike bubblegum pink smoked salmon and beetroot mousse. The teriyaki-soaked macadamia nuts are irresistibly moreish, while the light and airy smoked salmon mousse proves a trompe l’oeil trick, its vivid pink colour implying sweetness and yet delivering a surprisingly savoury mouthful. The arrival of the bread basket brings gasps of delight, the croquette-shaped brioche and salted butter proving a particularly pleasing highlight.

An intercourse follows perhaps aiming to show off its veggie credentials – a creamy green pea and asparagus velouté with a hint of white truffle, which arrives warm and slides down my throat easily in a comforting start to proceedings. Bypassing the veggie friendly seven-course “garden” menu, dinner begins in earnest with a langoustine carpaccio prettily displayed around the edge of the plate amid a garden of cherry tomatoes, artichokes and sprigs of green. In the centre lies a disc of clear tomato jelly, and atop, a generous dollop of salty sustainable caviar. Light, fresh and palate cleansing, Roussillon’s vegetarian roots are once again firmly on display.

To follow is a deliciously rich cheese soufflé bobbing amid a cheesy moat. Its piping hot interior oozes liquid cheese, doubling for central heating on this cool night like an oligarch’s cheese on toast. The main event: poussin and foie gras with wild mushrooms, mashed potato and green beans in a Duke of Clarence Madeira sauce is deliriously decadent, the heady Madeira sauce perfectly complementing the succulent little bird and creamy mash, though after less than half I’m defeated, the rich foie gras erring on the sickly side.

Despite feeling stuffed as a pillow, our affable waiter insists we order pudding, promising modest portions. I opt for the lemon tart, while my companion is lured by the sticky toffee pudding. My hunk of tart, which arrives on a black slate with a crème brûlée-like roof, is as large as a pizza slice. Undeterred, I plunge my fork in and am rewarded with intensely zingy lemon curd-like innards enhanced by the glass-like shard of burnt sugar on top. Swimming in a sea of  banana foam, the moist sticky toffee pudding is soothingly sweet.

Roussillon’s wine list is unsurprisingly focused on southern France, with welcome cameos from Turkey and the Lebanon. On our visit, we begin with a glass of creamy Vondeling Chardonnay 2008 from Paarl in South Africa that charms with its rich nose of buttered popcorn and hot buttered toast. To match with our mains, our smiley Hungarian sommelier, who insisted on being called Garry, recommends a home-grown drop: Pannonhalmi Apatsagi Pinot Noir 2009; once made by Benedictine monks. A pretty, feminine Pinot with a bright nose of raspberries, cherries and hints of spice, its smooth, soft and silky palate serves as wonderful proof of the heights Hungarian reds can reach when lovingly encouraged.

Though perfectly pleasant, Roussillon is lacking that all-important sparkle ignited and kept aflame by Gauthier. While the food is consistently good, it’s bereft of the flair and playfulness that once made it great. Roussillon is a grown-up restaurant for grown-up diners. It isn’t trying to be cool or hip, but rather coast along comfortably as a sedate, romantic hideaway for discreet locals. Perhaps Hughes will bring the sleeping beauty back to life?

Roussillon: 16 St. Barnabas Street, London SW1W 8PB; Tel: +44 (0)20 7730 5550; an eight-course tasting menu costs £75.

Taste of London

On Friday evening, armed with an umbrella and a steely resolve, I made the muddy pilgrimage to Taste of London. On arrival at Regent's Park, I was surprised to find an army of umbrella-wielding foodies blocking the entrance. The fact that so many people had ventured out in the torrential rain is a testament to the British resolve. Were we all brave or just bonkers?

This was to be my first taste of Taste. Two years ago I'd luxuriated in the Scottish sunshine at Taste of Edinburgh, where I ate enough pork belly to have me oinking all the way home. Taste is an experience that lends itself to sunshine. Eating in the rain is odd and unpleasant. But with the near biblical torrent showing no sign of stopping, I was determined to squeeze some enjoyment out of the experience, if only fleeting. Soggy map in hand, I hoofed it to the Bocca di Lupo stand, where I paid six crowns (Taste currency) for their shaved radish and celeariac salad with pomegranate, pecorino and truffle oil (below), which, mercifully, was sensational, and worth braving the rain for alone.

From the crunchy radish and tangy pecornio to the juicy pomegrante pips that glinted, ruby-like on the plate and the final flourish of truffle oil that I could taste in my mouth the next morning, the salad was a symphony of flavour and texture. I was off to a good start. While waiting for the dish, I got talking to the guy on the neighbouring Gelupo stand - Bocca di Lupo's sister ice cream parlour. Unsurprisingly, sales were slow, but the Hendrick's granitas were proving popular due to generous gin pours. Desperate times call for disparate measures.

Still hungry, I moved swiftly on to Opera Tavern across the park. Having circled the icon dish in my programme earlier that day, by the time I arrived at the stand I was dribbling in anticipation, having read Marina O'Loughlin's paean to the pork burger a month before in the Metro. It sounded sublime, and I was about to get a slice of the action.

I eagerly handed over my 14 crowns (£7) and waited, whetting my appetite further by watching the bad boys being made in the open plan kitchen, their tops white from a dusting of Manchego. Finally it arrived. I ate it in three bites. It was every inch as good as the review – mixed in with the pork, the foie gras gave it exquisite richness, juiciness and depth of flavour, while the Manchego made it unmistakably Spanish.

On a food high, my next stop was due to be at Gauthier Soho to try their Top Dog Deluxe – a smoked Strasbourg sausage served in a pain au lait filled with honey bacon and mustard mayo, but my mind kept wondering back to the Bocca di Lupo balls. The trio looked so tasty, I got plate envy from those around me enjoying the spherical treats.

Unstoppable in my quest, I squelched through the mud – Taste by this point had become something of a gastro Glastonbury, back to the Bocca stand, where 12 crowns got me three deep fried delights: olive stuffed with veal and pork, tomato risotto and mozzarella; by far the best of the three. Biting into it, the warm white goo quickly cascaded down my throat, serving as central heating on this shiver-inducing night.

Having enjoyed so many savoury snacks, I was craving something sweet to end the evening on a sugar high. The Asia de Cuba Mexican doughnuts had earlier caught my eye. I thought they would be long, Churros-like tubes filled with butterscotch sauce, so was slightly disappointed to find them perfectly round. And while they were fluffy and light, the centre wasn't nearly sticky enough. The accompanying Motijo sorbet however was on the money. Sharp, smooth and with an alcoholic kick, it proved the ideal palate cleanser, though my lack of crowns forced an early exit.

Trudging out of the park, the rain still pouring, my thoughts turned to the Top Dog Deluxe. Should I buy some more crowns and have one last taste? I decided against it. Sometimes the idea of a dish is just as sweet, if not sweeter than the reality...

Gauthier Soho

Gauthier Soho is a curious place. Set in a four-storey Georgian townhouse, admittance is granted through ringing a doorbell, at which point you are ushered either into a small, ground floor dining room, or up a narrow, thickly-carpeted staircase, as I was, to an intimate, sash-windowed space that feels like you've invaded a well-to-do, if aesthetically unadventurous, front room.

As tasteful as the white and beige colour scheme is, there is something of the dentist's waiting room about it – a location no diner wants to be reminded of while they tuck into their scallops. Matching the white walls in austerity are the acoustics. On my visit, I dined with my young cousin, who, fresh from a year-and-a-half abroad, enlivened the interiors with her bronzed hue and caused the sprinkling of diners populating the room to look on disapprovingly on hearing her animated anecdotes about motorbike rides across India and killing kangaroos in the outback. Such is the layout at Gauthier, that anything more than a whisper seems like a shout. Noticing this, we lowered our tones.

Interiors aside, there is much to recommend at Gauthier, which was awarded its first Michelin star in January. After a 12-year stint at renowned Pimlico restaurant Roussillon, where he picked up a Michelin star along the way, Alexis Gauthier set up shop last summer in the Romilly Street townhouse, formerly home to Richard Corrigan's Lindsay House. The upstairs downstairs atmosphere is enhanced by the nimble-limbed young waiters, who scurry about, silver platters in hand, trying to transport dish after dish from the kitchen downstairs, up to the dining room in an almost comedic display of adroitness. I'm sure they could balance the plates on their heads if the situation required it.

Our five hour feast – the longest dinner I've ever had, began on a high note with ice-cold Gosset Champagne and a dizzying array of bread, highlights of which included salty bacon and spicy chorizo rolls served warm, with a fluffy interior. This is the second restaurant in a row where the bread has been a talking point, having recently enjoyed the wondrous, anise-flecked Grissini sticks at Tempo in Mayfair. Mon cousine and I opted for the tasting menu, reasonably priced at £68 for eight courses. After our bouches were amused with iced salmon eggs, beetroot tartlets and Parmesan twirls, the meal began in earnest with a terracotta-hued langoustine velouté, exotified by the addition of coconut and mango, which reminded my cousin of her time in Thailand.

Before continuing, mention must be made of the wine list, or tome as more appropriately describes it, which charmingly begins with 'Ode to Wine' by Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. Alexis cleverly brought Italian sommelier Roberto della Pietra with him from Roussillon to Gauthier, where he is doing a sterling job with the wines. A different wine was poured to match each dish, and with it, an impassioned explanation as to why said wine had been (seemingly painstakingly) selected. Our velouté, for example, was paired with Château Khoury Réve Blanc from Lebanon's Bekaa Valley – a blend of Riesling, Chardonnay and Torrontes, alive with grassy, green-fruited notes.

Dish two was silky scallops, lithe langoustine and a dollop of meaty bone marrow in a brown butter jus (pictured), served with asparagus – Gauthier is mad about vegetables, weaving them into his dishes wherever possible. Dish three stole the show: perfectly al dente black truffle risotto in a pleasingly rich brown butter jus, the risotto barely visible through the paper-thin truffle shavings that emitted glorious forest floor aromas. The truffle proved so strong, I could taste it in my mouth the next morning, serving as a ghostly reminder of our culinary epic. Nutty and full bodied, with a mineral core, the accompanying 2009 Minervois more than held its own against the dish.

Dish four: glazed monkfish tail with clams, mussels, and artichokes in a basil jus, having unfairly come after such greatness, proved unable to entice my tastebuds out of their truffle-induced slumber. The risotto should have come afterwards, overpowering anything other than red meat in its wake. Luckily, dish five was meat shaped: a melt-in-the-mouth fillet of Angus beef with morels and – you guessed it – spring vegetables, matched with Viña Casa Tamaya Carmenère Reverva 2009 from Chile's up-and-coming, cool climate Limari region – a fruit forward, unmistakably New World wine with attractive vegetal notes that mixed with juicy blackberry and black olive into a velveteen finish.

A curious pair of wines accompanied our trio of desserts: a 17% abv, marzipan-fuelled Floc de Gascogne Blanc, imported by Les Caves de Pyrène, which matched wonderfully well with my potent slither of Munster cheese, and the final flourish, Cristian Drouhin Pommeau de Normandie, made from unfermented apple must and Calvados, that sang of baked apples and cinnamon, and won immediate Brownie points for its lustful label, featuring an Adam & Eve-like nude couple swirling round the bottle, intoxicated by the apples they've eaten. Much mention has already been made of Gauthier's signature dessert: Golden Louis XV, a Wagon Wheel-shaped chocolate and praline pud finished with a decorative swoosh of gold leaf. It was predictably decadent, but by this point I was too high on apples to fully appreciate it.

With lunch priced at two courses for £18, or three for £25 (without wine), Gauthier Soho offers remarkable value for its Michelin-starred status. The wines are thoughtfully matched, and the menu has much to entice and delight, I only wish the décor was less bright, less white, less not quite right. If Gauthier can translate the soulful character of its food and wine into its surroundings, then the restaurant will shine as bright as its new star.

Gauthier Soho, 21 Romilly Street, London W1D 5AF

Tel: +44 (0)20 7494 3111