Launceston Place...Again: Kensington, Wednesday 9th February, 2011

I've mused long and hard (if one can indeed muse hard) on re-visiting places with dire consequences before, so I shan't do the same here. Launceston Place, for the third time since I've been doing this blog, was another visit that provided much to talk about.

At the turn of the year, I had really been pushing myself. I was keenly showing my intent to apply for a vacant manager's position at work, a promotion which I did actually get (and one, incidentally, which helps to explain my posting slowdown in 2011), but in doing so I was close to burnout. I was instructed to take a morning or afternoon off and enjoy myself to get away from work. Naturally my mind quickly reasoned 'afternoon off = lunch out'.

The other half had a day off too, so we decided to once again sample Launceston Place's ridiculously reasonable lunch offer. It turned out to be even better during the week: £22 for three courses sounds decent, but considering the great time we had some months earlier, it sounded almost too good to be true. To top it off, it was one of those outstandingly sunny days which make the gradual end of winter and the eventual entry to spring a beautiful time.

Launceston Place has confounded certain critics in the press for some time. They believe the place deserves a Michelin Star and it remains a scandal that it hasn't had one yet. The food here is branded as British but I think it can't be pinned down to one sort of cuisine. Like many other popular venues, this is food based in Britain that has picked up traces of worldly spice along the way into defining quite a unique product.

On the other hand, some say this place is just trying too hard, that head chef Tristan Welch has gotten caught up in the extensive and diverse culinary background he has catalogued. (Welch has worked with Gary Rhodes, Michel Roux and Marcus Wareing amongst others.) I sit on the fence, safe in the knowledge that no Michelin Star means no price hike-up and more effort from the kitchen.

What I love about Launceston Place is the little touches they put into their meals. When you sit down, you get home-made devilled crisps (left). These are crunchy and flavoursome; a little greasy but fresh crisps should have a touch of grease about them. Just the ticket with a glass of fresh orange juice as we had here.

What followed was even better: home-baked bread with salted butter and pickled herring (right). This was excessive, filling, rustic and undoubtedly extremely English. There aren't many meals which good bread & butter can't improve and this as a starter was just the ticket. The problem was the crust being slightly hard and had that unwanted gum-cutting feel to it at times. That and the fact that you had wolfed down so much bread so quickly you didn't want to eat anything else.

Still, we weren't to be deterred by our bread indulgence and hungrily looked forward to our starters. As per our last visit, duck egg with toast, black truffle and truffle purée was nothing short of outstanding (left). The fumy magnificence of truffles is something that restaurants have a duty to get across (the misuse of truffles should be an arrestable offence) and in this starter, Launceston Place know exactly what they are doing. I don't see any reasonable way this dish could be improved upon.

The second starter looked so rich and heavy on the page that it did not appear to be a starter at all. Braised short rib of beef with polenta should really be something that comes in a steaming bowl with perfectly-cooked vegetables when you're hitting main courses, but somehow it was a starter here. It was rather pleasant: the beef was cooked exceptionally and the polenta was quite a fun accompaniment, as were the mini-onion rings on top. It looked great too (right). However, the nature of the dish was a little lost on me. For a starter, it was on the heavy side and it felt like more of a converted main course than an impeccably conceived dish. Maybe I'm nit-picking though; we devoured it.

Main courses proved to be rather fun too. It seemed Welch had gone for playful ideas and impressive concepts last winter. Chicken cooked au vin with bacon was, at first glance, one of those deconstructed, pretentious efforts of reviving a classic when you looked at it but when you tasted it you got the point (left). Two separate styles of chicken, one with a dark, sticky glaze and one with a more saucy, gravy-like accompaniment, worked rather well as a contrast. The bacon was smoky and rich enough to stay on the plate.

The stand-out was the pork, though (right). Cooked with cider wood (which they then left on the plate for show) and served with apple compote and hazelnut mash, the stuff was absolutely charming. Aside the inconvenience of removing the hazelnuts and debating whether or not to make a small shed out of the cider wood, the meat was divine, the potatoes were creamy and the small fruit jellies they scattered on top of the meat were the crowning touch. Seriously tender meat which made for superb late-winter lunch.

Dessert was of course necessary, but we were starting to feel the effects of the bread, crisps and other heavy fare we'd eaten up to this point. In a cruel joke of a move, they soothed us with lemon posset and thyme jelly as a pre-dessert (left). I say it was a cruel joke since they didn't need to give it to us, we probably shouldn't have eaten any more than we needed and it was a little out of place on a winter menu. It turned out to have the desired effect: eaten double-quickly, making one think it was clearing one's palate, as opposed to filling one up even further.

Picking ourselves up for the final push, we trudged into a treacle tart with creme-fraiche ice cream (right). Back to British for the desserts, this was really decent treacle tart. The pastry was verging on the dry side but the filling and the ice cream were both wonderfully pleasant and complimentary.

The last part was possibly the best. Unless the sun is out in spring or summer, you can't really get away with a rhubarb crumble on an English menu. Unless you call it 'baked egg custard, rhubarb and crumble'. Before you start sighing and shaking your head, let me tell you why this was a stroke of brilliant brio on the kitchen's part. Baked egg custard is not a summer dessert - rather than a sauce they're turning it into a pudding - and rhubarb, whilst synonymous with warmer climes in the UK, is apparently even better when it's force-grown in winter. Giving a stronger, fresher taste and a bright pink colour it lends more to the dish on all fronts. Finally sprinkle on the crumble and you've got your winter dessert. It was sensational (left). We practically fought over it.

They had one last chance to send us out of the door and straight to lie down with some lovely vanilla mousse and lemon madelines to finish with (right). This was great, enjoyable and excessive eating. Too much by half but we couldn't help ourselves. As I said, it's all about the little touches here.

The lunch we ate was not, as I mentioned earlier, something I'd label 'British' as it were. But it was filling, driven by the eager hunger, giving way to outright greed, of two enthusiastic diners. There's not a lot about eating that's more British than that. A Michelin Star may not be in the wings for this place - it's not French enough and the service is never perfect - but the food is simply wonderful.

Launceston Place