Relaxed, approachable environment, beautifully assured cooking – hell, this bistronomy lark might have something going for it, after all
The bistronomy movement was one of the biggest revolutions to hit restaurants in recent-ish years. Hotshot young chefs, chafing against the tyranny of the toque and the dictatorship of the mainstream guides, ditched starched linen, lobster and foie gras, and launched stripped-back ateliers where they could wreak wizardry with le wasabi, turning everyone on to trotters and terrines.
In Paris, that is. Here, it was less revolution and more ripple, possibly because we don’t have centuries of haute cuisine bullying to rebel against, and already had gastropubs doing ambitious stuff without the attitude. This may be why bistronomy bigwig Greg Marchand’s Frenchie landed in London with less of the expected fanfare, and why the scene’s superstar, Iñaki Aizpitarte, shuffled off home, not so much celebrated as eviscerated.
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