Le Garrick

Authentic French Charm Meets London's Heart

Le Garrick, that little slice of Paris nestled unpretentiously in the bustling heart of Covent Garden, lures you into its cozy clutches with promises of Gallic charm and rich, comforting flavors. It seems to perpetually hum with lively chatter, akin perhaps to dialing the soirée charm to eleven, regardless of whether God's penchants have been a little too generous with the patron seating arrangements downstairs. The rustic décor is well-accented by a whispered promise of tantalizing riches to come, channeled by some delightfully eclectic French tunes circling overhead like culinary muses threatening particularly fetching sonatas. Service, largely fluent in le français, does indeed charm its way deftly through the maze of tables, occasionally swaying to dodge elbows as fine as any waiter from a Parisian bistro.

The menu is pretty much as Madonna might croon—deeply French in material and mien and restlessly so—we dine then on dishes that answer less to "What’s new?" and more to "What’s always?" With offerings as sacrosanct as Beef Bourguignon and Confit de Canard making repetitive yet pleasing cameos, authenticity is garnered if never presumed. The sidewalk canvass distractions lend a playful authenticity Swiss Miss could only hint at; the tastes speak not to pretenders but practiced hands simmering beneath a spell of heart and home, despite occasional trifling faults such as over-conversation in the mussels department. Let my advice mark your map: a whispered tip os finnesse from the espresso machine proves an amicable au revoir to Le Garrick’s fragrant embrace, whether under hustle or languish, theatre-bound or yearn-bound. I intend to return afore bien, each taste teasing nostalgia right here to stay. — Penelope Savory