A Night Out at Bentley's Oyster Bar

I like my fruits de mer do I, as does the missus, a recent aim being to eat our way around the platters of the world. (A bit like the, o my sides, seafood diet.) In truth we only hatched this plan as we sat outside the restaurant in their heated tent and supped a sauvignon and a pinot, buoyed with excitement for the food ahead. Dead posh it looked too, what with the top-hatted doorman sirring and madaming us welcome. Inside? Bit cramped, to be fair, a line of tiny 2 seater tables on one side, bar seating on the other. Fair enough, what is says on the tin, and it's all about the food, innit? So, in we squeezed and loosened our stays. Menu? Easy, we had looked online earlier, definitely the Royal Platter: oysters, prawns, langoustines, crab and lobbie. Bottle of Entre Deux Mers? I should coco. A brief look to the side, clocking our neighbour eating a steak was of some concern, but not for long.

Our platter arrives, a single tier rather than the high rise developments beloved of the french, the crushed ice and obligatory seaweed a comforting bed for the feast. With 3 natives and 3 pacific, we had to barter for our favourite oyster; personally I prefer the smoother tasting and more rugged looking  ones to the rounder, tougher ones. I had 1 of the former and 2 of the latter, gent that I am. (Note I have carefully avoided making myself look more foolish than you know by remembering which name applies to which type.) On to the prawns, 5 tucked in at the top. Are they deliberately provoking marital discord here or what, especially with 3 langoustines lurking beneath? Do the math(s). Regardless, let me report the former were the sweetest and softest I have ever tasted, the latter nearly as such, beaten by the whoppers we had in Paris a month ago. A delightfully dressed crab needed bread, strangely absent thus far. I think an oversight, it arriving swift enough on prompting, with both butter and a mysterious  gloop, maybe seaweed or samphire infused butter, available. Fabulous bread, interesting spread. The crab? Stunning, with the melt of brown accentuating the fibrous strands of white. If the wine had been anywhere within reach, I would have toasted this crustacean. Sadly it was over the other side of the room, on a window sill, it being the sort of gaff where you cannot be trusted to drink at your own pace. Hey ho. Realising we had been eating at such speed that conversation was impossible, now came the pinnacle, requiring my by now standard litany of never really quite "getting" lobster. I know, daft, isn't it, but it is the truth. I have never been convinced as to the price and promise of these oversized shrimps. Had never been. Barely dipped into its boiling bath, this was an exquisite morsel, the flesh the texture of a ripe avocado, just a whisper ahead of being soggy. Like an ointment in the mouth, it melted with a release of a flavour I now suddenly got. Yup, can do this again, methinks. A brief whimsy about a cheeseboard was swiftly dismissed by the reality of our distended bellies, not to say the prices. Cheeses came individually, each at the price of a selection elsewhere. So, having retrieved our wine, and craved permission to keep it with us we slowly reflected and digested on our repast.

Which was when the fun started. By now our neighbours had changed, replaced by 2 large european matrons of indeterminate age, one of whom had a voice that made Peggy Mount's seem a whisper. Bellowing in first french and then german, she invaded every inch of what little space we had. With a vacancy on the other side of us, we shifted bottoms across to that empty table, explaining this to the next couple down as we slid alongside them, to their amusement and then their horror, as the foghorn upped her game another notch. Clearly our action was outwith  protocol, our waiter coming over to chastise us for this unscripted move. It may be that someone was awaiting this, possibly a favourite table, he suggested. (See picture above? Nope, don't buy it.) And we were not "nice" to do this, despite our explanation, mimed and otherwise. Maybe he couldn't hear us above the din, but he let us stay, albeit reluctantly, his grievance obvious on his sleeve. Not even when another couple came in, ate their bread and left, again on account of the bilingual monologue to their side. Because we were now seen as not "nice", I confess to behaving in type. No bread, distant wine and a ticking off did not seem worth the discretionary 12.5%, so this was crossed out on our bill, together with a handwritten explanation. All credit to our waiter, he accepted this without comment, putting the diminished amount through the machine. Indeed, this seemed almost too well practised, making me rue any previous awful experience anywhere else, all those biting my lips and paying those discretions in full, my only recourse and revenge being a mental note never to darken such doors again. (So thank you, Bentley's for unleashing a loosening of my upper lip.)

So today, in the cold light of day, do I feel bad? With hindsight, no. Yes, the food was as first-class as either of us have had of this sort, but the room was overcrowded and customers squeezed in, with a palpable sense of maximising turnover. That left a taste that was decidedly not as "nice" as the shellfish. Would we go again? Maybe for lunch, if it were the only place in town. But it isn't and we already have a pact to visit all the others.


Addendum: Spellcheck update of the day- when typing Entre Deux, be careful, as Merseyside is the challenging sounding preference offered. That'll be the wine of Port Sunlight I guess, or Brasso as it is better known. (Did Lever Bros make Brasso?)