When people would ask me what I missed most about London, I would tell them honestly, “Waitrose. And Bob Bob Ricard.” American supermarkets were fluorescent nightmares, and American restaurants were full of cheap chairs and limited sparkling wine choices. I ran away from the Jewel’s and Dominick’s of the world, and started doing most of my shopping at the very tiny Green Grocer, which had everything I needed, really. (But still, no Waitrose.) And I found myself spending more and more time in the velvet and brass lobby bars of the grand hotels — The Four Seasons, my preferred choice — chasing that sense of escape and other-worldliness I had found in London at the all plush and all lovely Bob Bob Ricard.

So when Leonid (one of the Bobs of Bob Bob Ricard) invited me over last weekend for BBR’s “Hey look now we’re open for lunch on weekends” grand affair, there was no hesitation. Yes, Leonid, YES. I will be there. And it was just as beautiful as I remembered. One day, when I make the millions I deserve, I will paper my home with Bob Bob Ricard’s wallpaper and install “Press for Champagne” buttons in the most unexpected of places. I will smother myself in caviar, eat everything off of blinis and stamp all my toast with the BBR logo.

Bob Bob Ricard is an escape, a journey to a place you do not want to come back from. Where the sommelier Jeremiah, who you haven’t seen or spoken to in over four years, remembers you and the photography course you were taking in 2009, and you have to wonder if there’s a file on you somewhere, a photograph, a list. (“Prefers tap water, known to break glasses…”)

At the end of my meal at Bob Bob Ricard — caviar, sea bass, filet mignon — when the dining room was quiet again and the staff were gearing up for dinner service, I wanted to hug every single employee. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t stop saying thank you — thank you! — because if there was anything that confirmed to me that I was back in London, it was being back at Bob Bob Ricard. So thank you, Leonid. Thank you!

OK, now off to Waitrose…

I had lunch at Bob Bob Ricard with four — and then five — friends, as a guest of Leonid’s. He was — and is — extraordinarily gracious. And while I am no Tom Parker Bowles, I hope you read this and make yourself a reservation at Bob Bob Ricard’s soon. Tell them I sent you.

The post Bob Bob Ricard, I Love You first appeared on Passport Delicious | Solo Travel Blog | Solo Female Travel.

I'll get there….eventually.

I had veal last Tuesday at Bob Bob Ricard in Soho. Veal Holstein. And it was excellent. (In my world, you can never have too much veal. Or anchovies. Or capers. Or secret sauce!) I love BBR for its veal, and for many of its other qualities. We talked about my love at dinner and when asked, "Yes but why?" here's what I came up with.

I had a fantastic time in St. Petersburg and Moscow in 1998 and was pleasantly surprised by the food that I had there. I had had images of old babushkas cackling over black cauldrons sputtering with shanks of unidentified meat. This was absolutely not the case. Instead, we traipsed from one pelmeni place to the next, stuffing ourselves full of dumplings and vodka or dumplings and Baltica or in our soberer moments, dumplings and chai. All thanks to my friend Kim who was teaching English in Russia at the time. (Local knowledge. Important! It brings me back to The awesomely awesome Leicester Square Challenge.) I like the idea of Russia food, all very hearty and cold-weather-like. Root vegetables. Cabbage. Offal. Pancakes. People normally look at me funny and laugh when I say this, much like I look at people (mostly American tourists) funny when they tell me that British food is terrible.

But it's true. Get to know Russian food through an expert, and it's quite enjoyable.

I also like that BBR is different. As much as I love "local, seasonal, sustainable" at any good gastropub, at this time of year, there's only so much asparagus and strawberries a gal can eat. 

Many have critiqued BBR for its quirkiness. Its pink-jacketed waiters. Its over-the-topness. (Is it, as someone recently told me, London's most expensive restaurant build-out?)

But that's what I love about it. There is the champagne button. And I will press it. I can order vodka by the glass–straight–and no one will look at me funny. I can gorge myself on quails' eggs, as they seem to come with every dish. And apparently, according to Bob, if I decide to dump all my beluga caviar down the bathroom sink, no one will care. (Just like no one blinked an eye when my friend Brian smashed his rhubarb gin and tonic all over the restaurant the other month.)

Ah, and did I mention that they've capped their mark-ups on wine? This is nearly unheard of in this country and in this business!

Running a restaurant is hard work. And financial success is an elusive game. I know this second-hand through my investment in the Rose & Crown in Great Horkesley. So I give BBR a lot of credit for doing what they do and doing it with a smile and so well. Long may then continue. Now if only I could convince Leonid (aka Bob) to open up a pelmeni joint…

I paid £39.50 + service for this meal, along with many other London bloggers. I think this is another reason why I love BBR. This was not one of those, "Come review my restaurant and I will feed you for free" types of events. But rather it was a "Let's organize a very fun dinner for many bloggers at a reasonable price and I hope you will like it and if you write about it, well, that would be kind of you" type of thing. Leonid gets it. This is good.

The post Veal Holstein, Bob Bob Ricard first appeared on Passport Delicious | Solo Travel Blog | Solo Female Travel.

Bob Bob Ricard
1-3 Upper James Street
London W1F 9DF

Date of Last Visit: Tuesday, March 16, 2010

The Victim: Me

The Damage: £50

The Background: Somehow, I don’t really feel the need to write this post. Because you know, my blogging comrade Chris Pople has said it all very beautifully right over here. (Favorite line: “The pickled herring and boiled potato was as good as I barely remember…” which is actually a compliment. You must read the whole post for context.)

But just like those people who throw that 12-bullet-point-PowerPoint slide up there and say, “I’m not going to read you all 12 points on this slide”–and then proceed to do exactly that–I am going to write this post. I am going to attempt–perhaps in vain–to communicate the depth (depths?) of my new-found love for the quirky goldenness of Soho’s Russian pleasure-palace, where the vodka is cold, the gin comes with rhubarb, and there can never be too much champagne.

Ah, herring! When I think herring, I am reminded of my Irish-American father, standing in the darkened kitchen with the refrigerator door open, fork in one hand, jar of herring and mayonnaise in the other. This is not an all-together pretty memory, but it’s a memory nonetheless. MY memory.

But at Bob Bob Ricard, the herring is not served in a jar, and there’s no mayo in sight. The fillets are FAT. Really plump. Salty and savory and served cold, this is the best herring I’ve ever had. (And having met my fair share of Swedish exchange students and their herring and knäckebröd, that’s saying a lot.) There’s a perfectly soft-boiled quail’s egg there, and a salad of beetroot and apple that I think about for days afterwords. (Beetroot! Beetroot which I have hated with a passion for nearly all of my life.) I think Bob Bob Ricard had ruined me for herring (and beetroot) forever.

And then there’s the crabcake. A dense, dense, all crab crabcake, served with another quail’s egg (sunny side up, this time). No potato filler anywhere to be seen. And it seems to be, to my untrained palate, all brown meat. Lush.

And then besides for the CHAMPAGNE BUTTON, there are the other things that people don’t tell you about. The butter is stamped with the BBR logo. There are coat racks built into the booths. (Perfect for neurotic New Yorkers like me who are always convinced someone is going to steal their Oyster Card.) There are booths for one. For one! (I have stolen a booth for four, myself.) Champagne is delivered within 90 seconds of me pressing the champagne button. (Although staff later admit that some nights, all the champagne buttons light up all at once and it can be hard to keep up.)

Downstairs, the floor is a backgammon board. There’s a chair that says Bob. And another that says Ricard. Upstairs, there is wallpaper (or is that carpet?) on the ceiling. The staff are all in deliciously delicious pink jackets. I’m thrown back to the Greek diners on Long Island, where the waiters wore tuxedos in the old days and called all us girls Miss as we downed our strawberry milkshakes and fries.

I inquire about wireless access.

It’s coming soon, they promise.

This is good, because I might just be moving in.

The Verdict: They’re open 13 hours a day. Surely, you can find some time to drop by. Look for me. I might be there. But I might also try to get out of paying the 50p surcharge for bread. 50p! WTF?

The post Bob Bob Ricard, Soho first appeared on Passport Delicious | Solo Travel Blog | Solo Female Travel.