'The chef describes himself as driven; obsessive might be nearer the mark. But we are the beneficiaries of this obsession'
France's most high-profile restaurant critic, François Simon, recently lashed out at the Michelin Guide, dismissing it as being about as relevant as a black and white TV. Exciting stuff for us food nerds, a bit like Keef Richards announcing the death of rock'n'roll.
I'm all for dissing the tired old tyre purveyors, but I wish someone would tell the chefs. Especially those helming the kind of outfits whose desperation to score a sparkler makes them about as much fun as a night out with Gordon Ramsay and Chris Hutcheson. Michelin's stars carry an obese weight of expectations, especially if you have to wait three months for a booking, as we do with Fraiche.
Marc Wilkinson's tiny Wirral restaurant has only five tables, but that doesn't preclude all sorts of Michelin sleeve-tugging pretensions, such as staff wearing gloves to place cutlery, or having a lengthy list of sherries yet serving palo cortado in a measure so small it barely covers the bottom of the glass. But even after waiting all those weeks, I defy you not to be impressed by his food.
Take a pre-starter of mussels, each one exactly the same size, each one the orangey hue of the tastier female. They're in a bisque that hints at the carcasses of many shellfish and on a dice of vegetables so minuscule, it's like wizardry. There are bursts of freshness from cubes of yuzu jelly, and it's all presented in a porcelain sea urchin: clever and beautiful.
Or bread: delivered over two services – this is the kind of thing they say here – earthy mushroom or granary and treacle, cheese or "five nut", tomato or black olive. Two kinds of butter, one cow's, one almost-white, deliriously creamy goat's. Every tiny garnish, every foetal leaf, is thought out to the last detail. The egg yolk at the bottom of a delicate beaker of the lightest cauliflower cream is, I'd guess, a 64-degree job, a piece of solid/liquid alchemy; the dish's soothingness jolted by glorious smoked eel and the crunch of toasted seeds.
I like that Wilkinson shuns the clichéd klaxons of fayn daynin' (the foie and fillet and lobster); instead, he plays with the likes of quinoa, kohlrabi, lamb breast – on this visit, given a slow/fast pork belly treatment and served with Greek-accented accompaniments zhuzhed into poshness: caramelly aubergine, feta turned into a pannacotta-like jelly.
There's lots of that kind of showboating: mint and cucumber whipped up tableside with liquid nitrogen to insta-freeze, last seen at the Fat Duck. Duck skin turned into a flat, seductively crisp sheet. "Fizzy grapes", a modernist cuisine standard. Intricate puddings: special mention for an almost Japanese-style sauternes custard topped with shards of "dehydrated crepes". And then the joy of a cheese trolley of honking, perfectly-kept loveliness.
What's amazing is that Wilkinson is alone in his kitchen. I picture him surrounded by kit – Thermomixes and Pacojets and dehydrators – or off on solitary jaunts to his hero temples of gastronomy: Gagnaire, for sure, but recently perhaps Scandinavia and Spain, too. He describes himself as driven; obsessive might be nearer the mark. But we are the beneficiaries of this obsession.
So I've tried my darndest to throw snark out of the window. But oh dear, the wee restaurant… It's a solemn little place, brown and beige, with the kind of metal and glass "wall art" you find in TK Maxx, plus sparkly, novelty loo seats. Apparently Wilkinson designed it himself, a compelling case for a spot of light delegation. Couples whisper at each other. I'm with a pal I haven't seen for ages, and our laughter and wine over-ordering (a ripe pinot bianco from Elena Walch) make us feel like a hen party from Geordie Shore.
How can Fraiche possibly make financial sense, even fully booked? When cheese and butter is flown in from France, olive oil from Tuscany? Wilkinson apparently regularly puts in 90-hour weeks and that elaborate menu costs only 65 quid. It all hurts my brain. I blame Michelin.
• Fraiche 1 Rose Mount, Oxton, Wirral, 0151-652 2914. Open Weds-Sat dinner only, Sun lunch noon-1.30pm (last orders). Set menu only, £65 a head for six courses, plus drinks and service; Sun four-course set lunch only, £35 a head plus drinks and service.
Food 9/10
Atmosphere 3/10
Value for money 8/10
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