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Fine dining is always a treat. And as a travel writer, I get to try my fair share of fancy restaurants. That’s not a brag; I’m setting the scene. Crisp cloth napkins, too many forks, hushed voices and a low-level anxiety about where exactly I’m supposed to put my wine glass as a left-hander. There are few fine-dining restaurants I can truly relax into, and that’s completely on me.
The other day, that experience was turned upside down. An email came in with another invite, another restaurant visit kindly offered by those who want their food noticed. But this one had an air of quirkiness that I simply couldn’t ignore. And as a quirky person myself, how could I turn down such an opportunity. So I turned up, purposefully flying blind in anticipation of something I could tell was different.
I’m talking about Bisou. A self-described ‘simple and sexy’ modern French cuisine house tucked away in a small dead-end lane just off Soi Lanusan. For full disclosure, this was an invite and I didn’t have to pay. But there was no expectation of a write up or review. My experience, however, must be shared, because my goodness… I think I'm in love.
Starting with a peck on the cheek
Stepping inside, the dark, red-gold hue of the restaurant welcomed me in. No bright lights, no white gloves. Music in the background played a curated loop of funky house and party beats that felt more at home in a bar. Although not too loud to drown out my voice, it helped keep conversations to the table – especially important given how close each seating was to your neighbour. Anything quieter and things would have been uncomfortable.
The night started with a complimentary sip of clarified tomato juice – spicy, smoky and almost aphrodisiacal. The cocktail menu followed suit, presented by sommelier Théo Lavergne who had more the air of a fun-loving bartender than a stuffy wine connoisseur. With the taste of the welcome sip still on my lips, I followed through with a similar clarified interpretation of a bloody mary, served martini style.
Once my lips were pleasantly flushed, I was ready to eat. The music picked up, tables around me popped champagne and the in-restaurant bar got busier with the sound of ice in shakers and shouts of orders to the kitchen. The menu, as creative as the cocktails, flirted with me at every turn of the page.
A steamy dinner date
By now, Bisou had me exactly where it wanted me. The music was louder, the wine was flowing and the appetisers started landing. First, French toast topped with a foie gras cream and smoked eel. Second, a lighter sea bream tartelette with a yuzu dressing that tightened the palate.
The beef tartare took things firmly to second base, served over a perfectly crisp potato millefeuille. Before I could wipe my lips, Théo reappeared, bottle of wine in hand and a delightfully boozy recommendation for what to pair with the next. Obviously I obliged.
Then came the butter. And good lord, the butter. A towering cone of pure butter imported from a northern France farm where the cows graze along the coast. Naturally salty as a result, I would have eaten it by the spoonful if only the bread wasn't equally as good.
After a refreshing cleanser of Ikejime hamachi ceviche flavoured with yuzu kosho, calamansi and grapes came an heirloom tomato carpaccio served with a tangy gazpacho sorbet. Then the signature main appeared. But not before a story.
The French kiss
French food still rules the roost, but Bisou’s menu goes far beyond the classics and even appropriates dishes from across the channel. While I can’t speak to the huge amount of signatures and mains – from full french pigeon, seafood platters, homemade pastas, wood-fired dry-aged steaks and saucy mains – my climax was encased in puff pastry. They clearly got the memo. I’m a Brit.
Head chef Freya Nowack, led by founding Chef Antoine Darquin, appeared and set the scene. ‘Sure, beef Wellington may be thought of as English,’ she says. ‘But here, we stuff it with foie gras, so it's essentially French, right?’
I couldn’t agree more. I also loved the casual approach to introducing food. Zero faux spiel about techniques or long-winded explanations that go over the head. Just a chef eyeing up their guest and knowing exactly what they want.
I couldn’t help but think, if only all fine-dining could be so frank and carefree.
Lost in the metaphorical eyes of Bisou, it felt like only a moment before a warm, steaming parcel of sirloin beef, foie gras and mushroom duxelles appeared before me.
Slicing in, the foie gras looked almost as thick as the steak and, for the first time all evening, a red flag appeared. Foie gras isn't my favourite, particularly in heroic quantities. Had Bisou and I moved too fast?
Apparently not.
The knife glided through the pastry and, one bite later, I stood – or rather sat – corrected. Instead of overpowering everything around it, the foie gras melted into the beef, the whole gloriously rich affair held together by crisp, buttery pastry.
I sigh audibly, my sound of happy relief covered only by the sound of Jazzy and Chris Lorenzo’s Invisible. I look up. Apparently Bisou wasn't finished with me yet. Dinner was turning into drinks, drinks were becoming shots and giant magnums of house-made limoncello were being paraded around the restaurant.
Dinner was far from over, but the afterparty was already beginning.
A sweet smooch for dessert
To pair with the limoncello, a plate of pomelo, yuzu and kaffir on a bed of whipped creamy yogurt arrived – surprisingly light, tangy and just what I needed after the heavy petting of the mains.
As energy increased, I moved to the bar where bartenders were shaking a conveyor belt of drinks ordered by tables clearly planning to stay long after the plates were cleared. Freya joins me for a chat, between the pass, where we muse on British comedy and the rule-breaking dishes she happily sends out from the kitchen.
As I regretfully signal my departure, a goodnight kiss was served in a small wooden box. Six pink macarons, each stamped with a suitably suggestive pattern. I thought to myself, ‘let’s take these home,’ and then proceeded to eat the lot.
Like all dangerously good first dates, I spent the next few days thinking about when I could do it all again. Thankfully, Bisou isn't playing hard to get. She's there seven nights a week, and I'm already puckering up for another date.