Art is, of course, subjective, but if I were choosing a restaurant on the basis of what was hanging on its walls, I doubt this tiny place would get a look in. Above our heads is what appears to be a child’s ancient, dismembered rabbit jutting out of a frame, like something from Neil Gaiman’s dark imagination. But then, Le Cochon Aveugle is altogether a curiosity, from the squiggle of pink neon in the window to the fusty little antique cabinet filled with intriguing gins.
I tried coming here before, when it was owned by Michael O’Hare of Leeds’ The Man Behind The Curtain (it was his second York outlet after The Blind Swine – geddit?), but it was closed for a private function. Peering in to see decor that could have been the blueprint for a tart’s boudoir – washing lines hung with bras – I took myself off with a sense of relief to The Star Inn The City and bread served in a flat cap. Now the site is co-owned by chef Josh Overington, here since it was O’Hare’s atypically traditional French-style bistro – all bouillabaisse, frogs’ legs and tarte au citron. And, left to his own devices, Overington has come up with something a bit special.
It’s a no-choice, regularly changing adventure of a menu, the diners’ only input to decide on wine and whether to have six or nine courses. As soon as bread arrives – the almost inevitable home-baked sourdough of bouncy, dark-crusted beauty, this one with their own cultured butter and a quenelle of whipped beurre noisette so light, so delicately nutty, it threatens to float off the knife – we settle in for what is clearly not about to be a bumpy ride.
Everything that follows makes us grin like eejits. (With the exception of a chocolate, sea salt and espelette pepper dessert that looks so unfortunately like a little poo that we hoot like hormonally challenged teens. It’s the evening’s only, er, bum note. And even that tastes glorious, once we get over our childishness.) There’s homemade saucisson from their own-reared pigs, reeking of porkiness and almost crunchy with glossy fat. Provençal-style panisses, fingers of fried chickpea flecked with herbs and as creamy as set custard. In a bed of hay comes an eggshell filled with fondant-textured yolk at the bottom, chive butter, a featherlight cream scented with citrus (satsuma? clementine?) and licked with Corsican honey; mildly bonkers, but it works.
One course comes in two services: a bottle of Byrrh is brought to the table, sloshed into chunky pottery bowls and topped up with venison consommé of astonishing clarity and meaty depth. The Byrrh adds bitter herbal and grape-musty notes to the broth; we drink it from the bowls, breathing in the aromatic steam. Then rye bread toast with venison tongue, ripe and rich, almost fudgy in texture and slathered with sauce gribiche, eggy and pungent with mustard. Or is it three services? Because next comes a dark, lidded dish in which is slow-, sloooooow-cooked venison topped with an almost moussey cap of smoked potato. This is so insanely rich, it sticks my lips together. I don’t object to this ingredient repetition: it’s as if they’ve scored a whole animal from a muddy wellied local, butchered it themselves and are determined to wring every vestige of goodness from its carcass.
There’s pumpkin and roast onion soup of celestial smoothness. Ice-creams, too, fragranced with nasturtium (with the soup!), and sorbet, silky with creme fraiche, to melt gently over local forced rhubarb and mint granità. This tiny, open kitchen is churning out wildly impressive stuff. That dismembered rabbit artwork, by an artist called Mister Finch, turns out to be a hangover from O’Hare’s regime – and, yes, even de-brassièred, the whole thing looks as though it belongs to a superannuated Phoebe from Friends. But as the beautiful meal plays out, it all starts to make a Through The Looking Glass kind of sense. This little piggy is run by individuals who have put every fibre of their being into it – the best possible kind of hosts; we’re waved out into the night by co-owner Victoria Roberts as though we’re old chums. And there’s nothing odd about the food – it’s simply excellent: classic technique garnished with playful creativity. Le Cochon Aveugle fits into York’s higgledy, cobbled streets with a quiet twinkle: it’s a small, unshowy work of art itself.
• Le Cochon Aveugle 37 Walmgate, York, 01904 640222. Open Tues-Sat, dinner only, from 6pm. Set menu only, six courses £40 a head, nine for £60, all plus drinks and service.
Food 8/10
Atmosphere 7/10
Value for money 8/10
