Maison de Boeuf, Cardiff, UK
Until about 30 minutes ago, I’d spent today day operating almost entirely on autopilot and maximum filter. My only memories of the journey from Berlin to Cardiff are some remarkably good tea I was served on the flight to LHR, a few flashes of green as my train crossed Shires, and a neophyte taxi driver, who ultimately failed to deliver me to my office. A most unexpected but most welcome conversation has just snapped me out of my stupor and left me grinning from ear to ear. I arrive at Maison de Boeuf at 19:45 in a state of mindful presence that even a Buddhist monk would struggle to achieve (pun intended).
Tonight, I’m dining with Steve. After some initial confusion that resulted in Steve and I sitting for 10 minutes at separate tables at opposite ends of the restaurant, we unite in a cosy corner. From the get-go, I feel this is going to be an immersive experience. The décor, the lighting, the ambiance are all carefully considered. I’m immediately struck by the abundance of unusual, eye-height mirrors and rows of green, warmly backlit wine bottles that seem to skew the spectrum by negating everything blue. While I write effusive notes, Steve narrates the cocktail list, which includes some interesting sounding non-classics. I like the classics but choose to fight my inflexibility with a “Maison Martini”…. a gin martini with Cointreau and physalis. Steve takes a Pyrenees Mountain, which confusingly turns out to be Mezcal-based. But who cares about geography? We’re off to a flying start.
Having done no research, only now does it become clear that Maison de Boeuf is, shall we say, a “derivative” of the one-dish L'Entrecôte concept. i.e. steak-frites with simple salad and a secret sauce. Truthfully, I am a non-plussed about this, as I’ve been previously unimpressed by it, elsewhere. I adjust my expectations slightly and focus on the cocktail, which is a lovely soft landing after a long day of travel.
The starter and dessert options are all French classics. I select the onion soup, while Steve takes a smoked cheese soufflé. We’re both excited by our choices. I cannot deny, I am curious to see what the plant-based alternative to entrecôte looks like. But I feel it would be rude, ludicrous even, to come to Maison de Boeuf and not order cow.
We dispense with work-chat after five cursory minutes, and cocktails on board, we get to catching up. I take a look through the French only wine list and plump for a bottle of Chateau Bel-Air Puissegin St Emilion. Steve approves. My soup arrives HOT in a white ceramic terrine / chalice, buried under a few inches of molten Gruyère and crusty baguette. This has “scalded roof-of-mouth” written all over it, and as I’d prefer to have working tastebuds when the wine and secret steak sauce arrive, I sit back, wait patiently and enjoy the satisfying wafts of grilled cheese. When eventually I start to dig, I find the onions are deep brown, sweet, and nicely balanced with a tang of white wine. This is a colossal portion for a starter, but very well done. My second triumph of the day. Steve is no less impressed with his soufflé, which he describes as “pleasingly kitsch”. Easy Steve, I’m the writer…..stay in your lane. Actually, I think “pleasing” might be an understatement. A forensic scientist would struggle to find any trace of it left on his plate.
Our chosen wine is poured into chunky canteen glassware. This was a fine choice. I can’t place any fruit, but it feels like one of those all-round life-giving wines; warm and smooth without tannin, non-desiccating.
Though we’re in no kind of rush, our next course now seems a little tardy. The superbly bearded waiter is quick to spot my raised eyebrow and we’re soon presented with our plates of sliced steak, ample frites, and a bowl of endive salad with very tasty, mustardy dressing. The beef is cooked as requested, served warm and only partially soused in the secret sauce, which I will fail to adequately describe later. The frites are hot, salty, and crispy. Not a flaccid one among them. Steve comments that he could comfortably eat two portions of these.
Little is made of the secret sauce, beyond a single line in the menu. I think it’s green, but in this murky lighting, it could just as easily be blue. Steve and I do not manage to uncover its secrets. I can only say that it is quite herby, contains some form of cheese and something umami, like anchovy. There’s basil and perhaps a little coriander. It is interesting and intense, but I certainly don’t want any more of it. We do accept the offer of a second helping of beef, however.
It's 21:21 and I see only three other occupied tables. The place feels a little calmer, the atmosphere warmer, and accordion music befitting a French bistro is now to be appreciated / winced at. Our waiter has been replaced by a younger lady. She’s sporting appropriately French neckwear and is exuberant about the desserts. From the short list, we both select Tarte Tatin. As it happens, I made one of these for the first time just a few weeks back and was surprised at how satisfying yet straightforward it was. Foreshadowing disappointment? Yes somewhat. We each receive an individual tartelette rather than a slice of something greater, which makes sense in a restaurant of course, but is certainly less appealing. The apples are under-caramelised and have lost all their integrity. Somehow, they are far hotter than the pastry, which is dense and not particularly crisp. Meanwhile, I’m lacking the butterscotch-y sauce that is needed to support the whole affair. The feeling of homely rusticity I’ve been enjoying is suddenly wrenched away, and I’m dropped into a motorway service station, or perhaps a shopping centre food-court, whichever makes more sense.
Luckily, we have some wine left to appreciate, and with the help of Brigitte Bardot’s dreamy madness “Moi Je Joue”, we find our way back to Paris….on Taff. Payment is painless. And there we have it.
My final tally.
Atmosphere 8/10
Food & Drink quality 7/10
Service 7/10
Value for money 8/10
7.5 / 10
“I defy you to accurately count all the mirrors. Some secrets should be taken to the grave. SOUP!”
