Not a big room, Jackson Boxer’s new place, which is tricky as there’s already an elephant in it. This Paris-inspired bistro — wanting to be ooh la la, va va voom On-ree, not claret-at-the-golf-club Henry — is the sixth restaurant Boxer has on the go. Between this, the advertising irons he seems to keep in the fire, and, well, his lengthy Instagram essays (beautifully written all, but still), it’s a wonder he has the time. Is the chef spreading himself too thinly? There are murmurs.
Well, let’s see. Lunching during the soft launch, for free — don’t worry, I went back and paid last week — there was no hint of a man on the brink of burning out. Boxer smoulders, of course, but that’s another thing altogether. Here he was, chipper as anything. “Covent Garden used to be anathema to me,” he smiled. “But I wondered if I might be able to open a restaurant here I’d want to go to.”
In Henri, that means a space of marble-topped tables with latte-coloured skirts, walls with terracotta tiles, a honeycomb floor. It means candles lit early afternoon, Duralex tumblers, and an open kitchen at the back glimmering with brass and babbling with chef chatter. It is somewhere of bauble lights and mirrors and art. Oh, and noise, cacophonous noise. Was it to make room for said elephant that prompted Boxer to cram the tables so tightly together? They are practically terraced here, meaning both gossip (welcome!) and business chat (not!) is hurled in every direction. The answer, of course, would be for everybody to chat to their neighbours, make friends, have a laugh. But this is London. Don’t be daft.
Much of that noise is at least accounted for by joyful exclamations over the food. The majority of the crowd here seemed sufficiently young and hot that bistro-fatigue appears unlikely: people with skin this good don’t spend Fridays in Racine, hands up in protest at pudding — “stuffed, I’m afraid” — while nodding that, yes, three large Armagnacs might slip down without too much trouble. This lot have not traipsed down to Joséphine, been turned away by Camille, gone bankrupt at 64 Goodge Street, questioned their life choices at Lapérouse or, or, or… They have just come to Covent Garden for their tea, and French might suit the mood.
The menu offers snacks, entrées, plats, and then plats again, only this time cooked over a charcoal grill. There is much that delights. Those looking for the Instagram hit will want the seaweed canelé topped with orange pin-heads of trout roe. It has the looks and structure of the traditional Bordeaux pastry, but salinity has been added and butter taken away. Breadcrumbed and fried pied de cochon — trotter offal, if you like — have a burnt caramel note from the addition of prunes; apply mustard to get their best. Is a baguette with “very good butter” (a fair brag) too expensive at £6? Of course, but one must be ordered: a meal here (lunch is the time) should be the sort where the table is constantly nibbling. Besides, six quid bread might be offset by value elsewhere, like the £8 carrot râpée (thanks to spunky black olives as exciting as grated carrot can really get).
Great thick slices of beautiful ham with a celeriac remoulade and tart cornichons is as good a use of £12 as can be found in zone 1. Well, unless that £12 is going towards the snails with veal rice at £13, which is the best snail dish in London. Not your usual garlic butter bake, with snails nothing more than a conduit, here they come with black burns from the grill, boasting their own meaty flavour, while the rice soaks up an intensely savoury stock. The dish is a wonder. Another was the crispy-skinned cod covered in the bronze of crab bisque, with lime leaf acting as a lasso, reigning in the richness.
What else? Well, a raclette burger tempted both guests, but then flummoxed them too. Pan-fried duck worked with olives, but the traditional confit prep was missed. A tartare of duck liver and beef was horrid. These last mishaps came on the second meal.
So does Jackson need to slow down? That strikes me as sniping jealousy. But it is unusual that a meal in the second week roundly trumps one a month later (this review accounts for both). Boxer was cooking at the former, but not the latter. Does that explain their difference? The murmurs will likely continue; Babar will become a regular.
But for Henri to make us really go oh la la, Boxer must consider its raison d’être.
