Jean-Pierre is a character I hope to do much more with that evolved from living in France for 12 years.

I love the country and the indigenous people, having taken the time to learn the language, I spent many hours drinking all manner of "Eau de Vie" (which directly translates to Water of Life) that actually means whatever Grandad brewed up in his cellar that both strips paint and effectively kills brain cells.

Funny how speaking a foreign language gets easier after a few drinks!

Franglais or Franglish?? It's so easy to slip in and out of the tongue you are using at the time. Some words you can guess as they are exactly the same, only pronounced differently. Sometimes you just chuck in an English word hoping that the listener will know what the hell you are trying to say.

Jean-Pierre is a French embodiment of an English culinary critic.

On this page you will find his unbiased and informative reviews on some of the establishments he's frequented.

Who knows where he'll strike next?

Le Dégoût: A Frenchman’s Foray into Pub Grub on the Isle of Wight

By Jean-Pierre Gaston de Fromage | International Culinary Correspondent for “Le Mangeur Tragique”

Location, Location, Lack of Expectation.

As a Frenchman on a noble global quest to critique the world’s edible oddities. I consider it my solemn duty to sample, survive, and then critique the local offerings.

This week, my wife and I ventured forth to a charmingly chaotic pub on the Isle of Wight, a place so exclusive, we mistook its full car park for a Michelin endorsement. We were deceived.

The Setting:

Overlooking a beach, boarded by a footpath congested by black bag carrying dog-walkers and foreign holiday makers, the pub proudly boasts rooms above, (ideal if you wish to be fully immersed in disappointment overnight), and all the architectural charisma of a Travelodge that lost a bet. Access is through a housing estate, a scenic route if you’re into pebbledash and recycling bins. It’s the kind of hidden gem that really should have stayed hidden.

Parking:

A joyless game of vehicular Tetris awaited us, as we circled the venue like hyenas stalking a disabled Wildebeest. Reminiscent of a Mario Kart level set in a cul-de-sac, locals park with all the grace of a distracted toddler playing bumper cars. The driveway was designed by a sadist armed with a short tape measure and too much time. The experience offered the thrilling risk of either mowing down pedestrians or being verbally abused by retirees in pink trousers.

The Welcome:

A blackboard greeted us with all the flair of a GCSE art project, offering “Specials” so special they couldn’t even be listed on the menu. Multiple versions of sea bass (boiled, baked, probably microwaved) and a mystery beer they’d been unable to fit on the drinks list, named after either a pirate or a yeast infection.

Décor:

Inside, the ambiance is a confused fever dream: half country inn, half lifeboat museum clearance sale, an ambitious mashup of Shipwreck Chic and "things my nan kept in the shed." Mismatched oars hang listlessly alongside dusty cider flagons and musty books, while imported, sea-themed paintings display unlikely seafaring scenes. The only thing more chaotic than the decor was our table placement, thoughtfully placed at the intersection of all known human foot traffic, ideal for those who enjoy being jostled while chewing or dining in the centre of Leicester Square in the summer holidays.

The Atmosphere: Death’s Waiting Room, With Views

The pub’s patrons seemed to have been bussed in directly from a mobility scooter showroom. The heavy scent of fish lingered ominously, prompting us to play the thrilling game: Is it the kitchen? The toilets or Gerald from table six?

Dogs Welcome:

As a dog owner myself, it's always good to find places that our canine companions are welcome, however  I don't believe public eateries should be one of them. The pub is dog-friendly. So friendly, in fact, that one nearby hound cleaned its nether regions with such commitment it deserves a Michelin star for flexibility and Olympic medal for perseverance. If your idea of fine dining includes eau de wet Labrador and canine genital Yoga, you’re in for a treat.

Starters: Broken Promises on a Plate

I ordered bread and olives, a safe bet, or so I thought. Crusty bread with some Balsamic vinegar in olive oil requires little thought, however, using a receptacle that doesn't need an entire baguette or mastery of bread origami to reach the Balsamic is essential. The delicate flavours, usually imbibed with some kind of creativity, must be sampled with the right amount of oil and a decent homemade bread which make these basic ingredients a delight to sample. Having to saturate the bread in olive oil from the small, bucket shaped vessel supplied, in an attempt to reach the Balsamic just defeats the exercise. Good quality olives are delicious but they should be pitted at the very least. Presumably there is some deal in place to keep local dentists in business.  The serving was most generous, if disproportionate to the oil and bread. As most of my teachers would mark my reports at school. Could do better.

My wife opted for a Korean battered cauliflower which had all the authenticity of a supermarket sushi tray in Stoke-on-Trent. The flavouring could have disguised any ingredient in the same way the Scots deep fry everything. Despite this she says it was delicious so I can only assume she is still suffering from the after effects of Covid.

Main Courses:

Crab is on the menu in several variants with a mention of mussels, bass and salmon. Lobster is also available for about the price of a small terraced house in Newcastle. Desperate to avoid anything that sounded complicated to eat, I settled on scampi and chips, a British classic, if you define "classic" as "available frozen in bulk from Bookers." The scampi was less langoustine and more shrimp sponge-in-batter.

The chips, however, were decent, the highlight of the evening, which is a bit like going to the opera and enjoying the seating.

Mushy peas accompanied my dish, despite never being invited, plopped on the plate as if someone shouted “Green!” and the chef panicked. Who decided pureed legumes pair with seafood? A war crime against flavour on a dish screaming Petite Pois!

Madame went for a seafood salad that was essentially a smoked salmon duvet wearing a prawn cocktail hat and covering a bed of mixed leaves. Exoticism was provided in the form of pea shoots, a garnish that tries so hard and yet accomplishes so little. Luckily she enjoys salad but I struggled to see any culinary effort going into what was a most basic dish.

Dessert:

We dared not look. I strongly suspect the highlight would’ve been a scoop of supermarket vanilla masquerading as gelato or Angel Delight. One lives in hope of a decent Crème Brûlée. One continues to live in disappointment.

The Verdict:

This was less a meal and more a sociological experiment. An already basic menu was further diminished by choices one usually only makes in the aftermath of a nuclear winter. We paid the optional service charge not out of joy, but pity, our server was polite and efficient, the human equivalent of a lone trumpet playing on a sinking ship. We paid the optional service charge as a tribute to their bravery.

In summary, I find myself in awe that an already basic menu can be made even less appealing by combinations normally found on near empty supermarket shelves.

Final Rating: 1.5 out of 5 Mackerel

For the chips, the brave waiter, and the dog’s commitment to grooming.

Le Dégoût: A Frenchman’s Foray into Asian Fusion in Winchester.

By Jean-Pierre Gaston de Fromage | International Culinary Correspondent for “Le Mangeur Tragique”

Location:

In my relentless, Sisyphean quest for edible joy in this soggy archipelago’s sea of over-hyped and under-seasoned eateries, I found myself, somewhat involuntarily, in Winchester. Yes, that Winchester, tiny city, big ego. A historical gem clinging tightly to its Georgian grandeur and full of people who say “artisan” with a straight face. My expectations were low. Tragically, they were about to be exceeded.

The Setting:

Perched rather unglamorously beside a road that seems to have confused itself for a motorway, this establishment tries very hard to pretend it isn’t inhaling car fumes. With three modest pavement tables huddled under a canopy that has seen better decades, the façade whispered, “leave now, it’s not too late.” I stayed. Against my better judgment, I stayed and much to my culinary dismay, this was the correct decision.

Parking:

Centrally located in an underground shopping centre car park, the kind of place where you expect to be followed by someone selling knock-off perfume, the parking was... adequate. For Winchester, which charges you the GDP of a small country for anything over four hours, it’s a minor miracle. The aggressively cheery "Park and Ride" signs can do one. This was fine. Efficient even. Ugh.

The Welcome:

I must admit, and it wounds me to say this, the welcome was disarmingly pleasant. A humble A-frame sign outside promised pan-Asian delights with the understated confidence of someone who knows they can deliver. The exterior, giving strong “British seaside rock shop meets Thai massage parlour” vibes, did not inspire confidence. But stepping inside? The transformation was almost spiritual. I was met with calm lighting, a pleasantly aromatic atmosphere, and a waiter so genuinely nice I nearly asked if he was lost. “Sit where you like,” he said. And I did, almost smiling.

Décor:

The décor is what happens when a 1970s Tokyo hotel lobby mates with a Kyoto teahouse during a blackout. Think low lighting, dark wood dividers, and tables that wouldn’t be out of place in a Bond villain’s retreat. Against all odds, it worked. It was oddly soothing, like being gently slapped with an origami crane.

The Atmosphere:

We dined during that socially awkward lull between lunch and dinner, too late for one, too early for the other. The “I’m not hungry but I’ll eat anyway” hour. The music was inoffensive pop, occasionally overpowered by a chef laughing at something on his phone. Distracting, yes. But in fairness, if I cooked food that good, I’d be celebrating too.

Dogs Welcome:

No. Blessedly, no. Not a single Pomeranian in a handbag nor Labradoodle in a bandana. A restaurant that understands food and fur should not share a sentence. Five stars just for this.

Starters:

Here’s where I admit something deeply uncomfortable: the Thai BBQ spare ribs were, brace yourself, sublime. I ordered them out of curiosity. I devoured them out of lust. Smoky, sweet, charred in all the right ways. My wife’s chicken Gyoza were no less impressive, soft, tender, clearly handmade by someone who’s taken a solemn oath to defeat frozen dumplings forever. I should have hated it. I didn’t.

Main Courses:

Crispy Shredded Beef: a dish usually reserved for culinary disappointment and dental injury. But this? This was art. Golden slivers of actual beef (I checked), not just deep-fried lies, wrapped in a glaze that whispered, not shouted, its sweetness. Balanced, textured, and dare I say, refined. My wife ordered the chicken mango salad, which sounded like the kind of dish Instagram loves and your taste buds do not. It was divine. Tangy, fresh, sweet, spicy, annoyingly perfect. I began to resent the chef. No one should be this competent.

Dessert:

Look, I have standards. And I simply refuse to eat three courses at 3pm unless I’m legally required to by the French government. That said, based on everything that preceded it, I am now haunted by the thought of what I missed. I imagine angels cry softly into bowls of ice cream that aren’t as good.

The Verdict:

This is the worst kind of review to write, the positive one. I wanted to be underwhelmed. I planned to be smug. Instead, I left begrudgingly impressed and comfortably full. The variety of menus caters to all, from indecisive lunchers to fussy children (with their own adorable “Ninja” menu, which I will never admit to finding clever). If you're anywhere near Winchester and not entirely joyless, eat here. Just don’t expect me to say it twice.

Final Rating: 5 out of 5 egg noodles, and yes, I’m as surprised as you are.