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Service with a grimace. What a shame since this independent and interesting bar has so much to offer and yet falls so far from expectations. Le Quecumbar is an interesting idea, 1930’s Parisian Gypsy Swing Jazz in and South London setting. Unfortunately this ‘brassiere’ is more confused bar than exclusive dining experience
The interior simply reeks of past French opulence. Sadly, like the real place, the interior is crumbling and in desperate need of some proper redecoration. Lighting is atmospheric, perhaps too atmospheric with laughable battery operated candles. Everything about this place is covered in thin coat of paint which when scratched away reveals a heart of self inflicted French arrogance.
The house wine was an embarrassment for any London bar with J.P. Chenet at £14 a bottle. “Would you like it as a bottle or in a box?” Why any establishment would expect patrons to order a 1 litre box of some of the most abysmal wine this side of the Atlantic is nothing more than a disgrace. Of my guests this evening, a restaurant critic and a wine merchant, I hastily opted for a Sauvignon Grenache which at £17 was actually a fairly good find and helped to save my reputation.
It is simply not possible to pay for food or drinks individually. One is not encouraged to open a tab but forced. I was told in no uncertain terms by the bar tender that this was a restaurant. Is it a restaurant or a bar? Maybe it should be called Le Quecumwhat?
Once we had swallowed this little oddity, we headed to the garden which to the bar/restaurant/brassiere’s credit, has been done very well. An interesting selection of patio shrubbery, expensive cast iron tables and a sprinkling of real hurricane lamps adds a slight touch of elegance to the setting. The walls are all decorated with mock French friezes and cleverly dated adverts for well known French beers. Regrettably patrons are not welcome to sit, drink and chat in the garden. This was confirmed by a bewildering array of angry French expressions. Perhaps we were not the guests they expect, though I might beg to differ if an Army Officer, Surveyors, Solicitors and a selection of ‘trendy’ media types looked out of place in a SW11 brassiere.
Some of us ventured inside to attempt to order food. After we had spotted the black board, which disappeared and reappeared more than the Cheshire Cat, we put together our orders and waited for the waiter. We continued to wait and wait some more, until some 30 minutes had passed. Eventually the grimace was back, this time with a shrug and accompanying sigh. Orders taken for two ostrich burgers, a steak and ale pie and sausage and mash, we got back to the task of waiting. This time we waited 40 minutes before even a glimmer of hope appeared though accompanied with an attempted apology and a few characteristic shrugs. Finally after an hour some food arrived and what a selection it was of Traditional British, South African and French cuisine. Slightly tepid and decorated with limp salad and strange dollops of condiments, I wondered where in fact we may have been transported to. That is not to say that at the quoted prices this food was not adequate, in fact I would add that we all finished our food, well anyone would after 90 minutes of waiting for it.
To add insult to already injury, the bill arrived. This was accompanied with the usual selection of sigh and shrugs. The experience was certainly beginning to feel authentic. Looking through the bill I found a service charge. This was a bit of a shock, a shock that we were expected to pay for the frankly abysmal service. I questioned this addition as politely as possible and after a brief explanation of my reasons I was met with an angry, sarcastic and typically French reaction. Having finally persuaded the bar staff to remove the charge, I had to have a discussion on the original issue, what was this venue? The bar staff were certain it was a restaurant with the feel of a brassiere. I’m convinced it’s an over hyped, poorly run bar with exceptionally realistic French service.
I wouldn’t recommend this to an Englishman for fear he would never go to France. I wouldn’t recommend this to a Frenchman for fear that he might have understood, like me, the French insults that followed me out of the Le Quecumbar. Avoid this place like snails on a garden path.
The interior simply reeks of past French opulence. Sadly, like the real place, the interior is crumbling and in desperate need of some proper redecoration. Lighting is atmospheric, perhaps too atmospheric with laughable battery operated candles. Everything about this place is covered in thin coat of paint which when scratched away reveals a heart of self inflicted French arrogance.
The house wine was an embarrassment for any London bar with J.P. Chenet at £14 a bottle. “Would you like it as a bottle or in a box?” Why any establishment would expect patrons to order a 1 litre box of some of the most abysmal wine this side of the Atlantic is nothing more than a disgrace. Of my guests this evening, a restaurant critic and a wine merchant, I hastily opted for a Sauvignon Grenache which at £17 was actually a fairly good find and helped to save my reputation.
It is simply not possible to pay for food or drinks individually. One is not encouraged to open a tab but forced. I was told in no uncertain terms by the bar tender that this was a restaurant. Is it a restaurant or a bar? Maybe it should be called Le Quecumwhat?
Once we had swallowed this little oddity, we headed to the garden which to the bar/restaurant/brassiere’s credit, has been done very well. An interesting selection of patio shrubbery, expensive cast iron tables and a sprinkling of real hurricane lamps adds a slight touch of elegance to the setting. The walls are all decorated with mock French friezes and cleverly dated adverts for well known French beers. Regrettably patrons are not welcome to sit, drink and chat in the garden. This was confirmed by a bewildering array of angry French expressions. Perhaps we were not the guests they expect, though I might beg to differ if an Army Officer, Surveyors, Solicitors and a selection of ‘trendy’ media types looked out of place in a SW11 brassiere.
Some of us ventured inside to attempt to order food. After we had spotted the black board, which disappeared and reappeared more than the Cheshire Cat, we put together our orders and waited for the waiter. We continued to wait and wait some more, until some 30 minutes had passed. Eventually the grimace was back, this time with a shrug and accompanying sigh. Orders taken for two ostrich burgers, a steak and ale pie and sausage and mash, we got back to the task of waiting. This time we waited 40 minutes before even a glimmer of hope appeared though accompanied with an attempted apology and a few characteristic shrugs. Finally after an hour some food arrived and what a selection it was of Traditional British, South African and French cuisine. Slightly tepid and decorated with limp salad and strange dollops of condiments, I wondered where in fact we may have been transported to. That is not to say that at the quoted prices this food was not adequate, in fact I would add that we all finished our food, well anyone would after 90 minutes of waiting for it.
To add insult to already injury, the bill arrived. This was accompanied with the usual selection of sigh and shrugs. The experience was certainly beginning to feel authentic. Looking through the bill I found a service charge. This was a bit of a shock, a shock that we were expected to pay for the frankly abysmal service. I questioned this addition as politely as possible and after a brief explanation of my reasons I was met with an angry, sarcastic and typically French reaction. Having finally persuaded the bar staff to remove the charge, I had to have a discussion on the original issue, what was this venue? The bar staff were certain it was a restaurant with the feel of a brassiere. I’m convinced it’s an over hyped, poorly run bar with exceptionally realistic French service.
I wouldn’t recommend this to an Englishman for fear he would never go to France. I wouldn’t recommend this to a Frenchman for fear that he might have understood, like me, the French insults that followed me out of the Le Quecumbar. Avoid this place like snails on a garden path.
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