Villandry Kitchen

95-97 High Holborn, Holborn, london, WC1

On the vast stage that is Londinium, a gigantic never-ending performance takes place. We each act out our major and minor parts, perpetually framed by a backdrop adding depth to the entire scene. So, if we are currently in Scene 13,678,034, Act 209,804 of this great drama, what role does Villandry Kitchen have to play?

Well, cast your mind back about three and half million scenes, to a time when the original Villandry - The Kitchen’s wealthier, better looking, elder brother - first entered stage left on Great Portland Street. We all gasped and cooed at its splendid, posh grocery store identity and were dazzled by the fanciful restaurant it used as a prop. So what of this Holborn bistro sideshow?

Firstly, negotiating a path to its door is a hop, skip and a sprint for your life through several tricky traffic intersections. Not since primordial man has the hunter-gatherer feeding process been so perilous. Sanctuary inside Villandry Kitchen is oddly similar to the appeal of a stark cave with every surface staring back with hard and shiny austerity. Chair legs scrape on floors like fingernails on a blackboard and even the lonely bar stools are wincing. By far the best seats in the house are the marble-top booths towards the rear. Not only do they hide the floor-to-ceiling glass frontage and its uninterrupted view of the hurtling High Holborn vehicular savages that attempted to maim you, but they’re also acoustically favourable. The no man’s land of the open floor is a moshpit of chitchat where conversations bounce and fling themselves at one another with little concern for their safety, so seek refuge at the back.

The menu, on the other hand, is mellow in tone, thankfully draped in French language. Essentially a pastiche of robust, rustic French-Italian rations, its potential is more spectacular than its reality and it doesn’t display the Gaul of its Fitzrovia sibling. Befuddling in places, it mashes together everything from lunch to late supper and the initial strike of confusion lies right at the top, where it states quite clearly that olives and bread are non gratis.

The charcuterie bar - or butchers, for want of a better word - offers rillettes from a duck, ham from Bayonne, and salami from Jesus, and the indecisive folk amongst us will want to opt for the signature plate, which happily includes everything. This also leaves little room for Mr Butcher to make mistakes. Case in point: the crunchy Superfood Salad, available a duo of sizes. Arriving on a plate barely visible beyond the edges of its contents, the broccoli has unknowingly wandered into a delicate game of Chase The Feta which circumnavigates the outer extremities of said plate. Consequently, the Super green beans do a Super job of making a Super mess of the table. Plus, with the Rebel Yell, this salad cries more, more, more because the broad beans are conspicuous by their absence and the pine nuts have bunked off for the rest of the day. It’s all lettuce and no action. And it’s friend, the smoked salmon, is equally incomplete, noticeably pining for capers, and framed by a handful of frustrated rocket and a lemon murdered some 5 hours ago.

It’s worth bearing in mind that Villandry Kitchen stands in the grave of a former pizza chain, the ghost of which hasn’t left yet and lives vicariously on through a sturdy squad of stone baked options that are awarded with honours such as artichoke hearts and goat’s cheese.

If the traditional ring of ‘110 year old mother yeast dough’ doesn’t get your knickers twisted, the ‘Classics’ mains might peak some interest with a peppering of the usual steak, chicken and salmon possibilities. The duck confit is the most satisfyingly adventurous and, although it tops the charts in the taste brigade, it is crying out for better presentation; appearing as though it’s attempting to escape death by baked beans. A delicious death that you will wholly appreciate, mind. Sadly, due to the French persuasion, the small, fiddly moules are a tad too fractious to bother with and look like they’ve had a terrible week. The accompanying frites are uncomfortable in their tin bucket armour and cool quickly without the love of a warm plate.

As Villandry Kitchen is tailored more in the direction of the business breakfast, the casual coffee, the short-lived summit, it’s unlikely that desserts get much attention. The syllabub looks like it’s been made in a hurry, presentation once again not at its best: a mountain of Angel Delight slopped into a primary school beaker with a wafer jammed in and a small child’s mango and passionfruit sneeze to top. A less horrifying ordeal is the delicious roast banana and toffee cheesecake which has a good ratio of cheese to cake and is escorted by a dollop of unassuming ice cream that isn’t exciting enough to distract you from an engaging guest.

A comment on the wine: a healthy French and Italian selection, available by the glass, carafe or bottle to suit the length of your meeting or the voracity of your thirst. Avoid the Villandry’s house wine, if you can. It has character that even Old Spice couldn’t muster.

A comment on the service: when it arrives, the service is thorough and charming but for a cafe that promotes transiency, the
.............................pauses
.............................between
....................courses
..........................are
................so
............pregnant
........their waters are breaking.

Villandry Kitchen is created for those who simply need the sustenance to get them through the business they are attending to at the time. Therefore, breakfasts and lunchtimes - aided by complimentary wi-fi and newspapers - thrive. During the darker hours of the day, the stage is very vacant and spotlights exactly how brilliantly unremarkable and forgettably adequate Villandry Kitchen really is. It’s proximity to the tube is advantageous, though. Just be careful crossing the street when continuing your occupational discourse.

The house of Villandry originally engendered feelings that married eye-watering prices with quality performances that could stun an ox, but since unveiling this branch - and the one recently opened at consumerism’s last bastion against recession, Bicester Village - an uncomfortable uneasiness has fallen upon the Villandry name: cheapness.

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