Rustique nailed

ON the night that the report into the Eurostar fiasco offered very good reasons never again to leave dear old Blighty – or at least not to tunnel out – we ate at a French place in Richmond.

As they may never have said when in a state of subterranean semi-suffocation, it was très bon.

Eurostar still owes us a free journey, come to think, following a minor debacle last summer. At least on that occasion the outward train had the good grace to conk out at Ebbsfleet International and not 20,000 leagues beneath the sea. Whatever the language, it still didn’t say much for efficiency, or for engineering, either.

Opened last summer, Rustique is half-hidden down a little arcade off Richmond market place, the second in what they hope may become a chain. The first opened in York five years previously. It’s probably never going to challenge the Anglo-French empire building record, but as no doubt they say over yonder, Rhone wasn’t built in a day.

The bistro-style restaurant seems to have had several recent incarnations, including an Italian-themed place run by a genial chap called Morris Pastorello – whatever happened to him? – who’d also had The Crown at Brompton-on-Swale and did very good meatballs.

It was a cold night – aren’t they all?

– a Calor gas heater helping defrost the froideur, but with a general warmth and conviviality about the place that was helped by almost every table being taken. We’d booked; it’s probably wise.

The accent is on fresh, robust, accomplished but generally uncomplicated dishes; the furnishings might have come from a street café in Paris but without the ever-present danger of inhaling several hundred cubic litres of Citroen fumes or being plagued by internet bandits trying to interest you in their etchings.

The manager is French and does a passable impression of Napoleon Bonaparte, the rest of a cheerful crew appear either English or Scottish.

The floor’s flagged. The music machine played something of a street accordion sort, though after a while it began to sound like the Trumpton town band (which, it may be recalled, only knew one tune.) We sat beneath an enticing picture of Cannes, as in do, all blue sky and golden sands.

Olives and decent bread precede the starters, joined by a bottle of Leffe Blonde – excellent, aromatic, Belgian beer – and a large glass of Rioja from a lengthy wine list that doubtless will appeal to francophiles.

She began with a sturdy and fullflavoured fish cake, nicely presented with chopped leeks and things, followed with what the French simply call moules frites and what a County Durham lad might reckon is mussels and chips. When in France, she eats little else. If these were not the frites of her life, then they were very good – hot, crisp, carefully cooked and exactly timed. The mussels – fat mussels, she said, as if watching a Popeye cartoon – were fine, too.

I’d started with a thick French onion soup with a cheese crouton – the onions may have been off Richmond market but there was a definite French connection – followed by lots of pink lamb with crispy, garlictinged, delicious dauphinoise potatoes, red cabbage and rosemary gravy.

All this sits very comfortably between what the French call paysanne food and haute cuisine.

Another Blonde sat there, too. Gentlemen prefer them. Adds to the atmosphere.

I finished with a lovely, tangy rice pudding with what effectively was a creme brulee lid and a blackberry compote. She had a classic tarte citron.

Good, strong coffee, too.

The bill, including drinks, was £64.

We thought it a wholly enjoyable experience.

Tunnel in.

■ Rustique, Chantry Wynd, Richmond, North Yorkshire, DL10 4QB (01748-821565). Two-course set menu Monday-Thursday, noon to 9pm, Friday and Saturday, noon to 7pm. Three courses £13.95.

Lunchtime specials on the blackboard.

LAST week’s column noted the closure, after what must have been 50 years, of the Kwai Lam restaurant in Durham City centre – you remember, the one with the entrance said to resemble a knocking shop.

It stirred memories for John Todd in Barton, near Richmond, of Sixties student days at Bede College, where formal dinners were held every Thursday – “suit and tie required or face a fine”. The rebels would stroll down Gilesgate to eat at the Kwai Lam where the dress code, shall we say, was a little more relaxed. The improvisers would still turn up for the college dinner.

“I remember plenty of students arguing with the tie police that the handkerchief or belt around their neck was, in fact, a tie,” says John.

Sometimes, however, the Kwai Lam wasn’t best suited, either. “I recall a table of students, hopelessly inebriated, querying the bill and generally being obnoxious,” says John.

“Calm eventually descended, but the staircase of the establishment was graced by a guard of kitchen staff as they left.” He doesn’t say, sadly, whether the guard was armed, and with what.

THEN there was reference in the piece on the Croft Hotel at Croft-on- Tees to gatherings of the Darlington Pig Group. Clive Sledger reports that they now have a hot meal after every meeting, the chef allowed to cook anything he wants so long as it contains pig. “He’s hardly done the same dish twice. We’ve had some real belters,” he adds.

SANDHUTTON, a village about five miles south of Northallerton, also had an airing in last week’s column. It prompted a note from David Walsh, in Redcar.

“I was surprised you dined out at Sandhutton without mentioning the esteemed and long-gone Sand Hutton Light Railway – a rich man’s garden toy line which ended up a serious freight carrier.”

So was I. In truth there are two Sandhuttons, the one between York and Beverley – home of the 18-inch gauge railway – more usually spelt as two words.

The railway ran between 1920-32, joined the York to Beverley line at Warthill, had extensive sidings, four locomotives, 75 trucks and a single passenger carriage that was 31ft long and had three compartments, one of them for the nobs.

Sir Robert Walker, the fourth baronet of Sand Hutton, also had his own fire brigade with three engines – new meaning to the phrase home and hosed – and a family with a reputation for hospitality.

A Colonel Childers, it’s said, arrived at Sand Hutton Hall for a month and was still there when he died 25 years later, never having understood the phrase about outstaying your welcome.

The wonderful railway closed after Sir Robert’s death. Whatever happened to the rest of it, the passenger coach made a first class cricket pavilion.

A REMINDER that the admirable Darlington Snooker Club, on the corner of Northgate and Corporation Road, has a real ale festival from this Thursday evening through the weekend to mark the 95th anniversary of the club’s opening.

Beer’s 95p a half on Saturday evening, not much more at other times, and just a tanner to the first 95 who pay with an old sixpence.

Great pie and peas, too.

…and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what’s small, brown and fluffy.

A toffee that’s been in your pocket for four weeks