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6 hours ago
4
My theory on the current explosion of French-inspired dining ventures, in London and beyond, is that many restaurateurs these days feel that it’s much better to have a direction – in this case, pointing at Paris – than no direction at all. Take 74 Duke, a brand new, mock-Parisian brasserie just off Oxford Street that serves filet de bœuf, tarte au citron and potent Bastille cocktails and appears to have Mayfair’s mega-affluent tourist firmly in mind. It’s an elegant, pseudo-Gallic, Emily in Paris-style brasserie with outdoor seating – a place to see and be seen, rather than some confusing, pan-European, small plates trendy-wendy joint. And, zut!, its rather limited menu sets out its stall pretty tout de suite, too: salade César, escalopes de veau, crevettes royale à la sauce thermidor.
So, yes, 74 Duke is très French, but it is also a pricey, sterilised, movie-set version of France for diners with deep pockets and only the smallest yearning for true French cooking. Decor-wise, it is heavenly inside and out, like a sleek private jet or objet d’art showroom that opens by appointment only. It is a dreamy blur of honey-coloured leather banquettes, elegant awnings, ivory paintwork, dainty doilies on silver platters, monogrammed cutlery, pretty mahogany tables and the kindest, most diligent, white-jacketed staff.
None of that is remotely Parisian, though;: not a jot. It is a charming, chic and sterile five-star Dubai beach resort-type Parisian restaurant, where all traces of the sticky-carpeted, scabby-banistered Parisian all-day diner with fractious waiters have been completely erased. Even the air-conditioned air here smells expensive – not that many customers were sitting inside on this Saturday lunchtime. Nay, table after table of Rolex-wearing, Birkin bag-clutching guests demanded the al fresco option, out there on the wild, lawless, Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome streets of London W1. While meek and cowed urchins such as myself tend to scurry quickly around Mayfair and Piccadilly, real wealth pulls up a chair, orders a 74 Duke martini and a wagyu cheeseburger, and sits back and enjoys l’air frais – or at least as frais as the air can be while bus and taxi exhausts blast their fumes over your asperges blanches à la truffe d’été.
We ate nicely enough, but not memorably so. The brief lunchtime menu offers a choice of four hors d’œuvres: goat’s cheese salad, breaded squid, tuna tartare and the aforementioned white asparagus. The goat’s cheese salad featured a small pile of good-quality leaves in a decent vinaigrette with some inoffensive cheese on a crostini. Chopped raw tuna and avocado in a citrus dressing was similarly pretty, but without any real spin or innovation. Chefs often claim that their food’s extra ingredient is “love” and that their passion is to woo the diner, but there was little love in evidence here. Which is probably for the best, because love’s a grubby business, anyway.
From the grill section, we had a bavette with beurre maître d’hôtel, a rich, buttery sauce with parsley and lemon juice that was delicious, if a little lukewarm by the time it arrived.
Another main of poulet Gaston Gérard was also a tiny bit on the cold side, but the tarragon and dijon sauce that came with it was outstanding. Other than that, the only really notable dish on the entire menu can be found in the accompagnements section, hidden between the salade verte and the haricots verts: namely the gratin du ravioli du Dauphiné. Does anyone really need a side portion of bubbling baked cheese ravioli to go with their paillard de saumon or crevettes royales? Probably not, but definitely order it anyway.
The dessert menu is a short list of mostly pre-made items, some of which are deeply un-Parisian patisseries, including one of those multi-layered chocolate cakes that have been big on Instagram for about a year, a huge 1980s Sara Lee gateau on steroids that seems to work under the premise that no amount of chocolate ganache can be too much. Did I finish it? Yes. In fact, I set about it like a lion demolishing an antelope. Does it have any place on a French menu? Non. C’est ridicule, and I would be more sniffy about this had I not enjoyed every sticky, chocolatey mouthful.
74 Duke is a charming place to spend someone else’s money should they wish to treat you to lunch within close range of Selfridge’s. You can dip a toe into French-ish cuisine and you will understand the menu even if you’ve not spoken French since you last picked up a Tricolore textbook at comp school. C’est bon, but only bon.
