Le Gaglio Nice, France

Let’s start as we certainly don’t mean to go on….in France. I am dining solo at Gaglio, Place Saint-François, Nice. It’s a Monday evening. I’m in town for a conference (Metabolism and Cancer), and after ambling around and following my nose (which at 8PM in Nice is agreeably stimulated by aromatic wafts of grilling meats), I spot Gaglio. The restaurant is comfortably populated; not particularly tourist-heavy, and to my surprise is offering Beaujolais Nouveau. I don’t order this, but am reminded of an old friend who introduced me to the dubious custom of drinking three-week-old wine on the third Thursday in November.

My French is poor, so I am on pins whenever I have to contend with waiters here. Happily, the exchange is straightforward and I am swiftly seated in the outdoor area. It’s a warm night and I’m not in a thoroughfare, so this does not faze me. My eye is drawn to the gleaming dining chairs that remind me of 1950s picnic furniture. Naturellement, my table is covered in a clean, white tablecloth. Points on the board!

I briefly consider ordering Pastis, which I would normally relish, but on so empty a stomach could lead me to make bad decisions. So, I forego this and plump for a glass of Muscat Casanova, in the hope of raising my blood sugar quickly. I am snappily served with a very stylish glass of liquid amber. I’ve recently moved into a new apartment and have struggled to find white wine glasses that aren’t ludicrously over-sized, or so simplistically utilitarian they’d look at home on a moonbase. These ones are splendid, and I make a mental note to hunt them down.

The menu is quite accessible with several appealing options. I know the veal chop or beef tartare would likely get me where I need to be. But, to my delight, I see confit veal with polenta and sage and an irreversible decision is made. I also select the fish soup from a slightly less exciting list of entrées.

A plate of garlic toasts arrives with some black olive tapenade. I so seldom get to use the word “hors d’oevre”, and it is more pleasing to write than these toasts are to eat. I actually only manage one and a half before they are whisked away and replaced with a terrine of fish soup. This is unexpectedly fast….I’m not ready, and I begin to fear that this is not going to be the protracted culinary journey I’m seeking.

My soup is served in a white ceramic terrine, similar to the ones they use to serve Eintopf at the Staatsbibliothek cafeteria back in Berlin. And there that comparison must end. This soup is good. Earthy, herby, silky, and most importantly for me, is not too salty. A crouton self-assembly plate is also provided with some engaging, orange-coloured mustard and unidentified shredded cheese. This works very well indeed. I would have preferred a soup spoon to the tablespoon I am given to eat it with, but that is really the only detractor.  

From somewhere above me, I can hear some gender-bent acoustic guitar muzak. A female singing Paranoid Android and a man singing something of Katy Perry’s. You get the idea. It’s pleasant and at an almost ignorable volume. A bemuscled maitre d', previously hidden from sight, strides confidently past my table. He is almost certainly a fellow friend of Dorothy. I catch his eye. I see the flash of recognition I’m looking for. Hurrah! This dinner just got a lot more interesting. The fish variety in my soup is now an afterthought. I consider the fairness of including the attractiveness of the staff as a criterion for this and future reviews. As this is my blog, I’ll include whatever I want.

As I’m enjoying a few salacious thoughts, my waiter arrives. I order a glass of Chateau Panchille Bordeaux, which I think should befit the plate of confit veal I’m presented with. I’ve often said that nobody knows how to cook meat quite like the French, so my expectations are high. I am not disappointed. This dish is delicious. The polenta is buttery and fragrant with astringent sage. The veal disintegrates in my mouth almost before I have chance to chew. Divine. The drizzle of meat jus is heftily bovine and saline. The Wiganer in me wants another ten times the volume.

Mr. hunky maitre ‘d is chatting to a party of four on the other side of the “room”. He’s about 6’1’’, is bald with a well-groomed near ginger beard. Crucially, he is wearing a fitted white shirt and light grey trousers that leave little to the imagination. After studying him for a minute or two, I conclude that he reminds me of Damien Crosse (the porn actor) and Gimli the dwarf from the Lord of the Rings film. That’s a combination I can use. I imagine what might happen if I were to accidentally spill wine on my crotch the next time he passes by. Would he eagerly pat me dry with a napkin? Insist that I immediately take off my trousers? But this is a restaurant review, not a sleaze diary….back to the dinner.

Besides, it would be a shame to waste this smashing forest-y Bordeaux, which does indeed go well with herby polenta. I also detect traces of black cherry…..the easiest fruit to identify in any wine. An acoustic version of a song from my gym playlist registers (“Faith”, by Galantis, featuring Dolly Parton), and I am aware of how very far away thoughts of physical activity now seem. I am not unhappy about that.

The waiter cheerfully clears my table, leaving only water and wine. I note that the other occupied tables all consist of seemingly relaxed, Francophone parties of two. I don’t see any other tourists, nor any children. I do see a lady on a nearby table in a pea-green leather coat, raucously belly-laughing and putting involuntary smiles on other people’s faces. I decide to please myself even more with the tarte du jour, which I understand to be pear and almond.

I envisage a two-inch segment with a drizzle of cream or a quenelle of milky glace alongside. Instead, the waiter brings me a five-inch slab with absolutely nothing. The pastry is good, I must admit, but the filling is unforgivingly dense and dry. I order an emergency coffee to give myself a hope of shifting some of it. The belly-laugher receives a cauldron of moules that smell absolutely delicious and embolden me to dig deep.

I am replete, and at 10:15 PM, I ask for the bill. This is the final test. This may sound precious, but I am hyper-sensitized to being made to wait for more than a few minutes to pay. There is no faster way to diminish my experience (and my gratuity) than leaving me to drum my fingers on my credit card for twenty minutes. This happens quite a bit in Berlin. The clock is ticking. The calming muzak that has amused me throughout the meal suddenly changes to a frenetic Portuguese guitar medley that is adding to the drama. Gratifyingly, I swipe my card at 10.20 PM and am offered a parting glass of limoncello, which I obviously accept.

I bid my waiter bonne nuit. Gimli Crosse is unfortunately nowhere to be seen, which is disappointing. My dinner at Gaglio, however, was certainly not so, for this was a very enjoyable evening. The restaurant was warm and welcoming. The service was relaxed yet attentive. And, having stood up to leave a little over two hours after I sat down, I’d say the pace was ideal.

Here’s the final tally….

Atmosphere 8/10

Food & Drink quality 7/10

Service 8/10 (including hot-waiter bonus point)

Value for money 10/10

8.25 / 10

“Next time go for the pineapple tartare and make time and space for a final digestif”