I can’t remember the last time I went to a restaurant with candles on the table. I don’t mean the feeble flicker of a tealight, but tall, tapering candles in proper Dickensian holders, the sort that cast a Kubrickesque glow and make everything, and everyone, look just a little more interesting.
“Well, this is charming,” Larman notes, as we step inside. “Never mind north London, we could be in the Marais…”
He’s not far off. I’m curious how a red brick former pub in ‘norf Landan’ might become a quintessential Parisian outpost, but Bistro Sablé leans fully into the aesthetic: white tablecloths, art nouveau flourishes (sourced from countless trips to Parisian flea markets, I’m told), waiters in long aprons and a handsome bar set in the round that gives the room a convivial centre of gravity. It’s transportive without feeling contrived, the kind of place that, within moments, has you wondering whether London is still just outside the door.
We’re seated by the fire, which proves a welcome gift on an unseasonably chilly spring evening. On a chalkboard above the hearth, scrawled above the specials, something catches my eye: a £5 negroni.
“A proper one?” I ask. “”Absolutely. It’s not half size,” our waitress assures me, “and, yes, it’s a negroni. It’s just a great deal.”
I’m tempted but since we’re going French, we stay the course, hence apéritif over apéro. A ‘French’ martini for me, with Grey Goose, Chambord and pineapple juice (listed as jus d’ananas, naturally), proves unexpectedly elegant; and a French 75 for Larman made, pleasingly, with G’Vine Nouaison. Even the gin is French. They’re both a good match for the crudités and aioli, not what I’d usually elect; even the aioli, something I’d almost avoid, provides a welcome note as we consider the menu.
Which, it must be said, could hardly be more French. It’s a canter through the classics; moules, souffle, tartare, bavette, bourguignon, bouillabaisse, and I’m in seventh heaven. The mood is set. We exchange glances, as if we both know what we’re in for. So, snails – ahem, escargots – and positively doing the front crawl in garlic butter, are inevitable, and there’s an entertaining moment negotiating them before we found the tongs, Larman impotently prodding at the shells. “But you’ve got a fork,” I point out. He’s in safer territory with the pâté en croute. A slice, simply served on a monogrammed plate, sharpened by wholegrain mustard and cornichons. “I love Paris,” I mutter under my breath, and he gives me a look as if asking if I just said that.
Wine, thoughtfully, is offered in 75ml pours, a detail that encourages a certain curiosity. We hover between a Mâcon and a Beaujolais before sensibly outsourcing the decision to our sommelier, Alex; the Mâcon it is.
For the main, from the chalkboard, côte de boeuf arrives sliced into ample wedges, à point and fanned around the bone, accompanied by a generous tray of frites. Sauce au poivre is a given; but Larman insists on béarnaise, too, ‘for the chips’, he tells me. “Getting into it, too, old boy?” I quip.
A Corsican Calvi, served in carafe, of course, feels just so alongside this; eminently quaffable, and perfectly suited to the occasion. This is a meal that’s not defined by plating flourishes or inventive flavours; we’re not here to fawn and swoon over Michelin-worthy turns from the kitchen, this is purely about contentment, comfort, sheer sybaritic delight. I don’t want it to end.
So, linger we do. The candles burn lower, the room softens further, and for a moment the daily grind feels very far away. Out front, a small terrace hints at what’s to come as the season turns; longer evenings, another carafe, perhaps fewer decisions made with restraint. It’s easy to see this place coming into its own in the summer light.
Dessert follows. Tarte tatin, “for two,” though that feels optimistic. It’s the size of a dinner plate. It arrives generous to the point of excess: thick, bevelled-edged buttery pastry topped with apples lacquered in a deep, mahogany caramel. Rich, unctuous and indulgent, it’s the sort of dish that renders conversation briefly unnecessary. Suffice to say, the other half comes home with me.
But first, unfinished business: the negroni.
It arrives without ceremony and delivers exactly what’s promised. I should have had it at the start. “That’s not worth five pounds,” I offer to the waitress, “it’s worth considerably more.”
We leave reluctantly, for the trudge back to the tube, sated, but somehow lighter on our feet. It’s been a delight of an evening.
Bistro Sablé doesn’t just borrow from the bistro playbook, it understands it. There’s confidence in the simplicity, warmth in the execution, and enough charm to make the whole thing feel like an escape rather than an imitation.
And the negroni? Still the best deal in the room.
Bistro Sablé, 63–69 Canonbury Rd, Islington London, N1 2DG. For more information, and for reservations, please visit www.bistrosable.co.uk.
