Food Critic Richard McComb tracks down a fugitive Frenchman – in a Kings Heath kitchen.
8 Poplar Road, Kings Heath. T: 0121 444 8167
I’ve sought him here, I’ve sought him there, I’ve sought that blasted Pimpernel everywhere.
He used to tour Harborne and Edgbaston in a post-war market trader’s van last serviced around the time de Gaulle was given a hero’s welcome following the liberation of Paris.
The Scarlet Pimpernel, also known as Cydrick Tachdjian, operated a mobile French deli service in the way the United Nations stages aid drops in disaster zones, delivering the city’s bankers, accountants and gynaecologists emergency supplies of artisan bread, terrines, olives, patisserie and Reblochon. The produce tasted authentically French because it was, either sourced from the Republique or made with ingredients from the mother country.
Cydrick picked up his nickname because customers were never entirely sure where they would find him, or when he would turn up. Typically French, again. Impressed by the chiming music played by Mr Whippy and Co, Cydrick toyed with relaying the amplified crowing of a cockerel from his mobile deli. The idea, unfortunately, was shelved. It remains one of popular culture’s great lost moments. I, for one, would have loved to have heard Edgbaston’s perma-tanned housewives telling their hubbies: “Darling, the Frenchman’s cock’s gone off.”
And then Cydrick vanished. Le Pimpernel disparu. Au revoir Roquefort. Bonjour tristesse.
I feared we might never meet again. And then my family recently made a spur of the moment visit to Maison Mayci in Kings Heath for an early evening meal. The place, which opens for dinner on Friday and Saturday nights – it’s a cafe for the rest of the week – is run by brothers Remi and David Faveau, French-trained chefs, from Grenoble. The setting and the food is as French as Edith Piaf and ferry port blockades.
We had been in the place for 30 seconds when a familiar face poked his head out of the kitchen. And there he was. “’ello Richard,” he said. ’Twas he, mon ami. The Pimpernel.
Cydrick explained he had gone into partnership with the brothers Faveau. And the van? “It blew up,” he said. The trio appear to take it in turns in the kitchen, a French cooking version of Total Football. It is mini-bistro fare, totally uncomplicated and totally appealing. It is a keenly priced formula followed in towns and villages throughout France but somehow us Brits usually seem to get this sort of thing horrifically wrong. When we do it, the food becomes corporate, impersonal, clinically dull and loses the attraction of what made it so appealing in the first place: straight-forward, tasty cooking.
So blow a raspberry at these places and go instead to Maison Mayci, where simply prepared, rustic cuisine is served with a satisfying sprinkling of under-stated Gallic charm and insouciance.
The idiosyncratic reservations policy means bookings are only taken for tables of five and over. If you don’t want to make an unnecessary visit, ring in advance and the boss will tell you when a table will be free. Or get there soon after it opens, which is what we did, although that’s 6pm, and not 7pm, as we were told. Best to just go with the flow.
We sat at a wooden bar-type table. There are art nouveau posters of the south of France and pretty glass chandeliers. Cutlery is wrapped in paper serviettes and tap water comes in old wine bottles. The atmosphere is relaxed, cafe-style, mildly bohemian without being Boho.
Maison Mayci (name after David’s eldest daughter, Mayci) doesn’t have a booze licence but Asda, handily, is just round the corner. I snapped up a bottle of £6.30 Burgundy because to drink anything other than French wine would have been crass. The same bottle would have cost £25 in a restaurant – and put almost 20 quid in the owners’ pockets.
We split a couple of meat and veggie platters to start, served with toasted breads, olives and gherkins. It’s good munching stuff, good quality. The meat selection had cured ham, saucissons, chorizo and Italian coppa (£5.80). The veg platter (£5.75) consisted of ratatouille, tartar baby potatoes, beetroot, grated carrot and green beans.
A selection of salads is available for health-conscious diners, including a classic salad Niçoise and a salad of pear and Roquefort, and there’s always a quiche of the day.
Clearly, it would have been madness to have quiche, so I had the ribeye steak (£14.95), served with garlic butter, chips (as in frites, not those amputated soggy fingers arranged in daft building blocks) and vegetables. The latter was carrot and cauliflower with snippets of chive.
It was one of the best steak and chips I’ve had in many a disappointing night.
And here’s a thing: provenance and traceability is important and I like to know that my steak, when it had four legs, munched on lush grass, enjoyed rain on its back, was humanely dispatched, expertly butchered and dry aged. A farmer once told me the name of the cow I was eating. Very tasty she was, too. But all this counts for nothing if the chef hasn’t got a clue what he, or she, is doing.
Thankfully, the grilling and pan-frying of steak is part of the national curriculum in France, together with making a decent roux and tasting Cognac. Cydrick has been schooled well. Medium rare means medium rare here, the meat having sufficient fat for a bit of a chew.
I told Remi the steak was very good and asked him where he sourced it. A bloke at Birmingham wholesale market, he said. That’s it. Brilliant.
We also tried the cord-fed chicken breast, which was good – moist and flavoursome. The green peppercorn sauce was so moreish I requisitioned it for my steak.
The other mains included a salmon fillet with a leek cream sauce and a Provencale vegetable risotto. It’s not ground-breaking, but it’s not meant to be. I love the honesty. It’s cooking with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders.
The huge advantage of running a cafe is that there’s a ready-made selection of desserts. Maison Mayci excels at patisserie. There are few places in Brum (I can think of one, the Bread Collection in the city centre, run by another Frenchman, Gilles Zidane) that can compete. The pear tart and the raspberry custard tart were exemplary. Best of all though is the coffee. It’s heavenly. You will not find better coffee anywhere in the city.
Forget AA rosettes and Michelin stars: Maison Mayci gives all-comers a roasting.
* Budget for £20-a-head. Roughly.
