Bouche?

J and I had the pleasure of being treated to dinner at Perth's finest French restaurant recently, the judge of what is the finest being my brother, who knows a thing or two about these things. Strangely, for a fine frog establishment, it is tucked away in the very non-frog suburb of Wembley. The only less likely place to find an eating hole of this calibre would be if if was located in the middle of a public housing estate.

Once I got over my initial shock of the location, I was pretty happy with the actual restaurant. It is french enough inside without going in for some horrible Louis XIV type decor with lots of gilt, antiques, wigs and severed heads. It is quite contemporary. I don't know if that is by design, or if the owner despaired of finding any french furniture in Perth and just went with what he could get.

Before we went, I read a few online reviews. All of them raved about the place, but one stated that the owner was quite snooty and rude, and another complained about the small serving of duck (even if it was excellent duck). With those warnings imprinted on my eyeballs, we went eating.

The only thing that I can really say about the place is that the menu was downright wierd. Wierd in a good kind of way, but wierd none the less. It had changed since my brother and his wife were there last, so they were swimming without bearings as well. Apparently the menu was originally in french only, and Em had to rely on a friend to translate the menu into English for her before she could order. The only problem being that I can't believe that bucketmouth knows any french at all, and I'm assuming he just made it all up.

Still, that wouldn't matter as you could poke your finger at just about anything on the menu and find that something interesting and tasty had arrived on the plate in front of you. Well, up to a point. I went for a rabbit thing as any entree (it was Easter after all, and by eating an Easter bunny, I was trying to save some poor fat kid from getting even fatter on more Easter eggs) and then the special. I will get to the special in a minute.

The entree was kind of like one of those Indian fried parcels that are shaped in a cone, except that it was not full of curried rat, but instead nicely shredded bits of bunny meat. I have no idea what came with it, except that it was interesting, tasty and nice. I don't know if I would eat it again, but that's mainly because there were plenty of other interesting things on the menu.

The main on the other hand was a bridge too far. It was monkfish (from NZ no less), topped with scallops, but sitting on a bed of roasted pork belly, along with a very rich brown sauce (presumably derived from the pork belly).

Now monkfish (from NZ) is an odd thing to serve in Perth, given that it had to travel 1/4 of the way around the globe to get there. Given that fresh is best when it comes to seafood, they could have had more sense and cooked something that had been flopping around the kelp locally the day before. Monkfish is also an odd kind of fish. It's white, but it doesn't flake like whiting. I wouldn't run across a bed of burning coals to eat it again.

The scallops were very good, but the whole thing was murdered by the pork belly. It was good pork belly, and it would have been fine on its own, but putting the two together reminds me too much of the Mr Creosote restaurant scene in "The Meaning of Life" - just mix it all up in a bucket. I am sure there is a food critic somewhere that will salivate over the combination to the point where their fingers start to slide of the keyboard, but it was not for me. It left me feeling odd afterwards, and my stomach is not easily upset. Big thumbs up for trying, but big thumbs down for the result.

Dessert was also a bit hit and miss. I ordered a poached pear tart, and what I got in essence was a bit of pear jam thinly smeared over a huge, sugary lump of pastry. I wanted a big, fat juicy pear to wash away the taste of the main course. Instead, I got a big, dried lump of pastry, with a bit of melted ice cream on the side.

Disappointed.

Em however allowed me to share her cheese platter, which was lovely as all that I had done with my dessert is smash up the pastry and push it around the plate a bit. The cheese platter was so much better than the dull cheddar-and-brie things that pass so often for cheese platters in this country. It had a lovely brie, a pungent rind washed cheese and a good, strong blue. Unfortunately, the last two always give me mammoth cheese dreams if had before dinner, so I had to largely abstain. All that I got to do was try a nibble of each, but the rind washed one was so powerful, I could still taste it at 3am. I drank a bucketful of water that night to try and wash the dry, salty, pungent taste off my tongue. I think that stopped me from having any dreams.

All in all, although it was a bit of a disaster for moi, I would love to go back. The only way to create great dishes is to heroically throw things together and see what results. Most will fail, but some will shine through. This place struck me as one that if it gets it right, it really gets it right, and if it fails, it really blows it. There is no safe, mediocre middle ground. I salute that kind of ethic.

To heroic failures, and hopefully a better feed next time!