I’m not good at judging distances. Today we moved my eldest daughter to her new place in Hackney. She is a nursing student just finishing her first year and her stuff has multiplied. After humping boxes, bags and linen around everyone was hungry. I suggested we walk to Brick Lane for a curry. Over 45 minutes later we had the impossible task of choosing a decent restaurant from the hundreds on offer. Our 10-year old was losing the will to live.
The last time we visited Brick Lane we’d eaten in a curry house only to find out they’d been fined £16,000 by Environmental Health Officers for failing hygiene standards – the kitchen was found to be infested with mice and cockroaches.
Naturally we were looking forward to Cockroach on Puri and Mouse Tikka Jalfrezi. But our old haunt had closed. Soldiering on we passed sign after sign; Punjabi, Bengali, Bangladeshi, Nepalese. More than one claimed to be “The World’s Best Curry House”, reminding me of Will Ferrell in Elf and “The World’s Best Coffee”. Dutifully I employed the latest technology to find a madras mansion with a review of at least 4 stars (that’s nothing to do with heat you understand). We found the place. It looked uninspiring. It was boring. The menu could have been photocopied from my local tandoori.
Walking wearily back we started looking at uncurried options. Suddenly we were in France. It could have been the result of a wormhole for all I know; a rip in the space-time continuum. Whatever. It mattered not. We had found Chez Elles Bistroquet. Not a bahji in sight. They had just opened for lunch. We were welcomed with a smile. The place was clean and beautifully decorated. Water was given without us having to ask. The service was warm and attentive. The food was excellent and reasonably priced. The wine was good. By the time we left the place was almost full. I could go on. I had not intended to write a restaurant review in my blog but Chez Elles is a gem. I wish them well. If I can find that wormhole I’ll visit again.
One more thing. They do café creme (like they do in France). If only I lived nearby; you’d see me there every morning, with pen and paper, writing my novel.