A restaurant that probably holds the record for the longest time on my restaurant hit list, today, Le Relais de Venise was finally ticked off, and all it took was a lieu day and dragging The European out of her office to visit it.
Popularly known as ‘L’Entrecôte’, Le Relais de Venise was founded by Paul Gineste de Saurs in Paris, and other ‘Venice Inns’ have popped up across France and indeed the world, with three doing very well indeed in London. The one in The City, on Throgmorton Street, is perhaps the most famous of the three, mainly because its traditional appearance and menu fit very well with its locale. Bankers, beef, butter sauce and Bordeaux. What else is needed?
L’Entrecôte is known worldwide for its menu, which consists of one starter, one main course, and a million desserts. A green salad with walnuts dressed with a mustard vinaigrette will see you into the main course of steak-frites; an entrecôte or contre-filet steak served with fries, with second helpings offered without prompt or awkwardness. The steak is slathered with a tremendously rich brown butter sauce, whose composition is a finely guarded secret:
“A few years ago, Le Monde revealed its ingredients, which, in addition to copious amounts of butter and thyme, allegedly included blanched chicken livers. Mme. Godillot, the owner of the Paris location, denied Le Monde’s claims, telling The Independent, ‘Our secret remains intact.’ On a recent evening, a waitress divulged only that the sauce is imported in a concentrated paste from France.”
The New Yorker, 31st January 2010
In the City, where workers like my other half have less than an hour for lunch when you factor in swift but hairy journeys to and from the restaurant, dodging bikes and taxis when navigating the harum-scarum streets of this most ancient part of London, the streamlined menu makes perfect sense. You can’t book, so you queue. If your party isn’t complete, you’re made to wait in a corridor outside the restaurant until the stragglers arrive. On a grim and rainy late November afternoon on a day that I took off to do some early Christmas shopping and enjoy lunch with my love, we could walk straight in, bypassing the line of half-parties.
Despite it being a quieter day, and barely noon, once we went in we found L’Entrecôte to be packed, with diners left, right and centre, sitting shoulder to shoulder. Nevertheless, we are shown to one of the better tables, with a wood panelled wall to the left and a decent gap to another table to the right. The place is full of Cityboys, with a sprinkling of Citygirls. The demographic is painfully clichéd. There are suits everywhere, deep, self-assured guffaws, and more than a few single older gentlemen in tailored attire and colourful accessories such as bright socks, ties, and braces, reading, yes, you guessed it: The Financial Times.
We’re greeted swiftly and asked if we’ve visited before. Whether or not you answer in the affirmative, you only have to answer three more questions: allergies, what you want to drink, and the temperature of your steak. Two bowls of salad arrive seconds after we’re sat, with our two glasses of red wine and some water following a whisker of a moment later. Plain slices of baguette are set down straight after, without butter. We save them for mopping steak sauce. As soon as the salad is demolished, the bowls are removed and the steak-frites are served. Water is topped up. We savour the food but eat it fast, and as soon as our plates are down to the last ribbon of steak and a couple of fries, the waitress arrives and silver-serves second portions, and the dance begins again.
Inside, in the fleeting moments where you are given no attention or food isn’t being served, it’s easy to enjoy the surroundings and believe for more than a moment that you’re in Paris, eating in a traditional brasserie. You’re people watching on very bistrot-y wooden chairs at very bistrot-y wooden tables, adorned with paper tablecloths that will be covered in steak sauce and blood by the time you leave, sipping water from tiny wine glasses. Service is rapid but amicable, provided by waitresses in black dresses and white aprons. They’re around when you need them and not when you don’t.
You can’t fault much about the food. The salad is a perfect starter. It’s quick to eat, sports crunchy leaves and the vinaigrette pairs well with walnuts to freshen up your palate and elevate the dish to where it needs to be. The steak is excellent – for the price point, it can’t be beat, not even by Flat Iron – and the servings are generous. Though you might be telling yourself you don’t need seconds, you will welcome them with open arms when the time comes.
The frites are unseasoned but are among the best I have eaten in town, and I’ve eaten more than a few. They’re fresh, French, and all they need is a dusting of salt and pepper. Whatever is in the sauce, it’s divine. It’s a little on the heavy side which will not be to everyone’s taste, but it’s buttery, rich, thick, and peppery, coating every last morsel of like its life depended on it. Any last remnant of the sauce is removed, courtesy of the bread. The house red carried everything along wonderfully.
The desserts – made in house apparently – all looked great, and my profiteroles, though being (suspiciously) a little too chilled for my liking, were fluffy, generous, and covered by the richest of rich chocolate sauces that even The European couldn’t resist.
L’Entrecôte was a cozy, affordable, and perfect lunch. We ate in the softly lit dining room, watching the rain fall outside and passersby looking in. By the time we left, there was a fair old queue; it has taken us this long to visit partly due to us not being bothered to line up when it’s busier, for example in the evenings or at the weekend.
Recommended to me by my housemates who worked in finance back in 2007, my first year in London, it’s a meal sixteen years in the making, but somewhere I could visit again within sixteen days. L’Entrecôte put me into a food coma that meant not muchthat very little Christmas shopping happened that afternoon, but It was so worth it and so simple, that it warranted the day off from work in its entirety. And the last time I did that was when we visited El Celler de Can Roca.
Visited on 27th November 2023.
Starters, mains, two glasses of wine, a dessert to share, and two espressos, came to just over £seventy.
The food thing. 
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