I’m looking at the item in front of me with the kind of dilated-pupil, pulse-racing lust other women reserve for Ryan Reynolds. (Or Benedict Cumberbatch. I know! Me neither.) It is, simply, beautiful. A pie of wonder, an über pie. Sure, they call it a pithivier, but whatever; it is the prince of pastry goods, one of the finest I’ve encountered in my puff.
Cut through the golden, egg-washed crust – crisp and buttery, with just the right suggestion of squidge where pastry meets filling – and the interior is every bit as gorgeous. It’s described on the menu of this new restaurant in London’s garment district as “game pithivier”, but tonight contains only wild mallard; its contents change with the seasons, what’s good at the market, the chef’s whims. The bird’s extremities and innards are minced to create, with duxelled mushroom, a brilliantly honking farce that clings to the mallard like a bandage frock to a starlet. Despite being baked in pastry, the whole breasts are still purplish-rare, intensely meaty, the knife sliding through them like a whisper of anticipated naughtiness. As if this weren’t overexcitement enough, there’s sticky, vinous game sauce on the side and the whole thing is confetti-ed with tendrils of black truffle. In the mouth, the whole thing comes together in a blast of purest culinary pleasure.
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