9 hours ago
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The French, at least at one stage in culinary history, would not have balked at eating the entire cast of Watership Down in a robust dijon sauce. The British, on the other hand, have always been rather less keen, so it was surprising to hear reports that Lapin, a new French restaurant in Bristol, had been struggling to keep fluffy bunnies on its classic, single-sheet menu due to supply reasons, apparently because its game dealer couldn’t shoot them quickly enough to meet Lapin’s demand. Instead, its diners had had to settle for confit duck leg, coarse sausage and deep-fried pig’s head.
Lapin patently aims to offer actual French cooking, albeit stopping short of the likes of pungent andouillette, complete with its tubey innards escaping on to the plate. That said, I’d bet that chef Jack Briggs-Horan and restaurateur Dan O’Regan tinkered with the idea before accepting that serving something quite so smelly in a small, repurposed shipping container was probably one Gallic step too far. I’ve mentioned Bristol’s love of delis and dining spots in former shipping containers before, and here we are again at Lapin, gasping at how, with a little imagination and clever sleight of hand, you can turn an impersonal iron box into a tiny slice of France. The walls are painted a calm, elegant sage-green, there’s a dinky little drinks trolley and a prix-fixe menu up on the wall – £29 for three courses – all while France Gall coos Ella, Elle l’a coquettishly over the speakers.
I went with Charles, my longsuffering sidekick and a man of French stock, and watched as, after a short debate in French about the booze-free aperitif offering, the French server ended up bringing him a bright green glass of sweet, minty diabolo, which is the taste of Charles’ childhood. “OK,” I thought to myself, “you guys are good at this stuff. We’re not in Cafe Rouge now.”
As we waited for some cheese-stacked comté gougeres with custardy insides and baguette with a mountain of whipped cod’s roe, it dawned on me that, although rabbit didn’t feature among the entrees that day (there’s usually some rillettes), there were tiny, subtle rabbit motifs on the tableware, the servers’ jackets, the wine list and the table. To me, these understated Donnie Darko touches were a delight.
Would I recommend Lapin? On the whole, yes, because this is a menu that could thaw the iciest of hearts. Who can resist chunky asparagus with sauce gribiche and beurre noisette, or a very good, fluffily light, but rich-with-gruyère souffle Suissesse? Both were charming to look at and to eat. I erred, however, by ordering the chicken schnitzel with madeira jus, because, although it was crisp, hot, generous and came with an oyster mushroom and a chicken wing, it was a little one-note – that note being “fried” – unlike the colourful Provençal fish stew filled with mullet, prawns and mussels I saw being delivered to other tables.
Lapin’s menu might even trip you up. Take the gnocchi Parisienne: if you’d ordered it expecting a sedate plate of Italian-style potato bullets, then buckle up: these gnocchi mean business, because these are plump, fluffy, choux pastry parcels in a stew of braised courgette, mint and creme fraiche. They were also that day’s sole vegetarian main-course option, which was possibly the least French part of the meal, because the French feel about vegetarians roughly the same as Queen Victoria allegedly did about lesbians: they’ve vaguely heard of the concept, but don’t fully believe they really exist. Rather boldly, Lapin also offers to add a 5g spoon of caviar or a scoop of Rollright cheese to any dish for an extra cost (£13 and £7, respectively), which is a nifty little way of turning even the most saintly dish into some arch you-time.
We skipped the part of the menu marked trou normand, offering a traditional palate-cleansing glass of apple cider brandy with apple sorbet for £8, and sailed headlong into desserts, where Basque cheesecake sits side by side with the éclair du jour, which on this occasion was lemon meringue; pain perdu, that rib-sticking classic, was also on offer, served with vanilla ice-cream and apple. An almost impossible decision, and one complicated further by a St Émilion au chocolat in which the rich chocolate cream met crushed amaretti biscuits soaked in sherry.
Lapin is a peculiar, meta, slightly earnest, definitely delicious French restaurant that you would never, ever find in France – not least because no one in France would be seen dead eating in an old metal box. But Bristolians are lucky to have it. It’s only early days, and they’re still finding their feet, but mange tout, Rodders, mange tout.
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Lapin Unit 14, Cargo 2, Museum Street, Bristol BS1, 0117-408 4997. Open lunch Fri & Sat, noon-3.30pm (10pm Sun); dinner Tues-Sat 5.30-10pm; Sun noon-8pm. From about £55 a head à la carte; three-course prix fixe menu £29, all plus drinks and service
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The next episode of Grace’s Comfort Eating podcast is out on Tuesday 15 July – listen to it here
