Over a lunch at Brasserie Constance in Fulham, west London, eating my main course claypot chicken with barley while surrounded by smiling diners at other tables, I got a glimpse of how it must feel to be Kim Jong-un. My journey to Fulham Pier had been odd enough, but now I was in my Great Dictator era.
Actually, maybe I should wind back a little. Even finding Brasserie Constance had been a bit of an issue, not least because this new “neighbourhood restaurant” from the well-loved chef Adam Byatt is not quite what’s advertised. Constance, the website says, is on the banks of the Thames, “where the river’s beauty is on full display”. It is a restaurant named in tribute to the mid-20th-century florist, potter and cook Constance Spry, a doyenne of domestic bliss who is the inspiration for this classy brasserie where coronation chicken paté en croute, potted duck with damson and Devon split with mead and greengages are on offer. So far, so dreamy.
I had not previously heard of Fulham pier, but this sounded like a joint designed to snare the long-lunch, deep-pocket River Cafe faithful with the likes of day-boat skate wing with lovage and baked alaska for afters. One thing Brasserie Constance certainly does not mention on its dreamy, quasi-pastoral website is that it is essentially a souped-up corporate box inside Craven Cottage, Fulham Football Club’s ground. In fact, your first clue to that fact will probably be when the taxi driver turfs you out by the ticket kiosk. Signage guiding you from there to Brasserie Constance itself, however, is non-existent. Nada, zilch – not even a timely Post-it note stuck to the ticket office door; even the Craven Cottage staff seemed not to have heard of the new restaurant’s existence.
My lunch companion and I wandered around inside the club’s marketing suites, opening doors into corporate boxes and just looking for lunch. Eventually, we found an opulent, no-expense-spared room that looked for all the world like the private dining option on a luxury liner. Why not just say upfront that Brasserie Constance is a fancy restaurant designed for the prawn sandwich brigade whom Roy Keane once so famously scoffed at?
We sat at our table in a deserted restaurant. The warm, knowledgeable staff seemed rather shocked to see us – two actual midweek lunchtime guests. Soon, a flurry of management huddled in a corner, no doubt mumbling to each other that a critic was on the premises. We ordered a bowl of hot, crisp fried skate knobs with tartare sauce and a round of delightful corn and green chilli tarts. Both lovely. We demolished an outstanding Dorset crab vol-au-vent with curry remoulade, a showstopper of sweet, flaky pastry with beautifully dressed crab meat. We waited for a slice of that coronation chicken paté en croute, which was a tad dry by the time it arrived, because its sauce had all but evaporated into the cold, pastry-encased chicken. Brasserie Constance is everything you’d expect of an Adam Byatt restaurant: fine produce, meticulously deliberated over and, largely, cooked with serious aplomb.
Then something odd happened. The table next to us filled up with a group of twentysomethings and, soon after, another table did likewise, then another, until there were five jam-packed tables around us, all merrily going through the motions of having lunch, although, curiously, none of them seemed to have been offered menus or had orders taken. In fact, on closer inspection, not much food was on those tables, either. It was almost as if they were miming having a meal.
The claypot chicken, a sharer for two, was presented to us in its pot for inspection, then whisked away, carved, shredded and mixed with a herby barley sauce. A side of carrots in sunflower seeds had crunch and vigour, while a Russian salad was a joyous cacophony of new potatoes and green beans. We moved on to a hulking-great slice of delightful and moist treacle, date and walnut tart, complete with a generous jug of pouring cream, at which point the penny finally dropped.
“They’re not having lunch!” I said, pointing at the next table. “They’re just pretending to for us!”
“Oh my god, yes!” my guest replied. “They’re probably all from the marketing teams who work on this floor.”
We stared at the fake customers, who studiously pretended not to see us. As we finished dessert and I paid the bill, each table emptied one by one, all seemingly chuntering “Rhubarb, rhubarb” as the extras – sorry, diners – wandered back to their offices after a fictitious lunch. “This is how Kim Jong-un must feel every time he leaves the house,” I said.
Brasserie Constance is easily the weirdest restaurant experience I have had in spring/summer 2025. But autumn/winter is all to play for.
Brasserie Constance Level 1, Fulham Pier, Stevenage Road, London SW6, 020-3002 5221. Open lunch Tues-Sun, noon-2.30pm (4.30pm Sun); dinner Tues-Sat, 6-9.30pm. From about £60 a head à la carte, plus drinks and service.
The next episode of Grace’s Comfort Eating podcast is out on Tuesday 30 September – listen to it here.
