There is a book called The Art Of Simple French Cookery by Alexander Watt,
a notorious gourmet who spent much of his life lounging around in Gallic
restaurants, which perfectly captures the essence of the Parisian bistro in the
1950s.
No doubt beginning his day with pastis, moving on to red wine, and then
finishing the night on brandy, Watt would gorge himself on bistro classics such
as poularde Marie-Louise, boeuf en gelee, rognons a la moutarde, gibelotte de
lapin, and always a plate of seasonal cheeses.
The accounts of his “gastronomic peregrinations” are a joy to read, as is
his book, Paris Bistro Cookery, which adjoins the back of The Art Of Simple
French Cookery like an upside down Siamese twin. As you flick through the
pages, you can picture Watt swaying in the doorway of tiny Parisian kitchens,
disrupting service as he scrawls into a grease-spattered notebook.
And something tells me he would have approved of La P’tite France, 6,200
miles away in Phnom Penh, and the cooking of its chef-owner Didier. I wasn’t
lucky enough to go to his original, much smaller venue, just off the Riverside.
But foodies fondly recall it as a typical bistro – friendly, cramped, tables
pushed together, noise and tobacco smoke drifting over the cheeseboards. They
recall with gluttonous, lip-smacking memories, the splendid simplicity of the
dishes – always a severer test of a kitchen’s ability than the fancy stuff.
La P’tite France has since moved to a beautiful villa on Street 306, and
people who know tell me the food is even better. But everything comes at a cost
– in this case a less chirpy, more formal ambience, they say. So it was with
these thoughts and the longing for Gallic classics like confit duck, terrines,
and oysters flown in from France, as our tuk tuk arrived at the plush gates and
garish pink sign of Didier’s new home.
For 8pm on a Saturday night, business was steady rather than busy, and
we chose a table on the patio giving a glimpse of the Khmer chefs in their
whites beavering away in the kitchen. Around us sat pudgy, well-dressed French
men doing what they do best – discussing food while gorging themselves like
foie gras geese to a chorus of ooh la las.
There were specials on the blackboard – including tripe and scallops –
but sadly they’d sold out of oysters, which our waiter said arrive every
Friday.
The service was smooth and brisk, and a little plate of amuse bouche
quickly arrived – two slices of baguette topped with tomato, olive, and melted
cheese that were a little ordinary, and certainly not needed considering the
enormous portions that followed.
My $5.25 starter of marrow bone gratin with toast and a saucer of fleur
de sel was exquisite. The gooey, oozing, fatty, beef shin marrow melted in your
mouth and was a reminder – at half the price and far more generous – of the
similar signature dish at St John restaurant in London, which food writer
Anthony Bourdain claims is the best dish he’s eaten.
My friend’s starter of whelks with garlic mayonnaise ($6.25) was very
good too – no trace of grit, and a wonderful, fresh, fossily taste of the sea.
But if I were to be properly critical, the garlic should have been chopped much
finer, and the aioli was lacking in the richness it should deliver in its
perfect form.
Mon Dieu this man knows his onions though. And that view was confirmed
by the main courses. Each part was a model of how it should be cooked, with
such assurance, such taste, and such old-fashioned virtue.
My $11.50 braised pork shank with cep confit, sitting on a bed of choucroute,
and winged by two turned potatoes, was enormous and fell apart as I dug in. It
was an exceptional dish and showcased every part of Didier’s cooking skills.
My friend kept uttering appreciative noises as he ate his $12.50 braised
lamb shank nestled on creamy flageolet beans, steeped in garlic. It came with a
ramekin of fiery Tunisian harissa paste that brought the whole dish alive.
Our bellies bursting, and with the true taste of France dancing on our
taste buds, we looked at the dessert menu, boasting dark chocolate mousse,
poached pears, tarte tatin et al. But as any French cook will tell you, every
good Gallic meal should end with cheese, so we shared a platter ($6.50) that
came with a roof-of-the-mouth-etching Roquefort that would have made King
Charles VI proud, and certainly the finest French bread – baked daily by Didier
and his crew – I can remember having in Asia.
By golly it was an incredible meal. The cooking was sublime, and the
only downside was the eagerness of the well-drilled, immaculately-turned-out
Khmer waiters to snatch our plates at every opportunity. It’s certainly not a
place for night owls or loiterers. By 10pm we were the last table to clear, and
felt slightly hurried to vacate that beautiful, rare spot of leafy sanctuary in
the steamy streets of Phnom Penh.
The frogmarching, if you will, aside, I’d heartily recommend it to food
lovers, and anyone wanting a romantic notion of what it must have been like
before French colonialists were finally booted out of Cambodia. A pocket of
history, a pocket of gastronomic excellence. It may not have the informal,
neighbourhood dive ambience of a true bistro, but I know Watt would have
greeted the cooking with appreciate applause.
La P’tite France, #38, Street 306, Phnom Penh, 016 64 26 30. Meal for
two, including drinks and service: $65
To read an edited extract published in Caterer and Hotelkeeper Magazine click here...
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