Wickman Goes All Foodie - review of La Cloche at The Lion

Wickman, more usually found reviewing cricket teas, was at a loose end on Jubilee weekend. With the rain falling biblically and the hordes in London waving bedraggled Jubilee tat at well-heeled folk in fancy carriages there was nothing to do but head out for lunch.

Since the head man at the reasonably newish French bistro at The Lion in Teddington's Wick Road has generously decided to reward the Wick Man or Woman of the Week with a £50 voucher redeemable against food and booze a hungry Wickman decided to see what was on offer for the lucky recipients. Wickman used to live (naturally) in Wick Road and in times of less responsibility could be often found in its welcoming rear supping a few light ales.

Those days have long passed. The landlord but one - a sports mad Aussie who kept a sensational cellar and was a pillar of the community despite his dubious accent - had moved on. The owners gave it to a golf obsessed chap who was seldom there to run it and you could see that the place was gently sliding down hill. From time to time Wickman and Mrs W would weave up the road and eat - but towards the end the chef - whose food was lorried in by 3663 and re-heated - had given up the fight and his or her one contribution was to sprinkle chopped parsley over every dish - including the puddings. It filled a hole and you could feed the kids cheaply if Mrs W was out and didn't know any better. Gastronomy was there none. Eventually the Landlord went bust - probably as he tried a tricky chip on the 16th fairway at Surbiton while unlucky punters tried some tricky parsley covered chips in the eating area of his now doomed boozer.

Now - let me be clear - Wickman shills for no man in his personal life despite doing a lot of shilling professionally. You must take the following review at his word because despite the sponsorship mentioned above this review was always going to be honest. And despite the old Lion turning into a venue which did for gastronomy what The Bolsheviks did for royalty in 1917, Wickman retained a soft spot for the local boozer that nursed him through the long summers of having toddlers who would be refused entry into a Maccy D so loud were they in their constant keening if asked to sit still for longer than the time it takes to load a Peppa Pig DVD into the Doovde player. It was Wickman's Lion where he watched the 2003 RWC final and drank a vat of cheap Scotch and cried with drunken joy and any change was a baaaaad thing.

So on arrival finding that the boozer is now transformed into a bright bar and capacious restaurant stretching like a Narnian wardrobe back into what used to be a grotty function room Wickman was... Overwhelmed. Overwhelmed that it wasn't the same as ever but also overwhelmed that it immediately looked like a place where you would get good eats. The waiting staff were on to us quickly and courteously, found us a good table, rustled up some drinks and made sure Mrs W (who ALWAYS sees a table she'd rather sit at) was happy before explaining the menu and urging us to try various things.

The menu is French - but rural French. On a Sunday there's a nod to the British Sunday lunch but surrounded by classic rural French cooking too so if you were entertaining the gastronomically challenged (to his chagrin - that's a French word for bitter, bitter despair - the junior Ws who accompanied on this trip are about as adventurous when it comes to food choice as Paddington Bear) then both sides of the channel are catered for.

At approx £17.50 for two courses and £20 for three Wickman was pleased to see pan fried foiegras on the menu alongside some seriously garlicky looking snails (a perfectly acceptable use of parsley please note) but plunged into asparagus accompanied by oeufs en cocotte. For the uninitiated oeufs en cocotte are gently baked eggs with cream and in this case with something good and herby - memory fails Wickman but he's thinking it must have been feathery dill. The asparagus dipped in the eggs was magnificent. Lips were smacked.

Mrs C I mean W had of course decided to make life difficult. Many years ago she had supper with the model Marie Helvin in one of London's finest restaurants. Faced with some of the finest delicacies known to humanity Ms Helvin ordered something off menu like Elephant Eggs on a bed of Unicorn Testicle. This was produced somehow and the celeb then ignored it drinking only water that had been flown in from barrels rescued from the Titanic. Or something. This has spolied Mrs W ever since and she can no longer order concisely or from the stipulated choices. This did not phase our excellent waitress. Mrs W decided to order two starters, one as a main course etc etc and began with a goat's cheese tartlet on a bed of green things. It ooooozed perfectly across her plate and Wickman felt keenly that he might have eaten that as well had Mrs W not hoovered it down like a Dyson dressed for a day out.

The junior Ws looked on with a slight sneer while piling in enormous cotchels of freshly baked bread.

The wine list was excellent. Mrs W sipped demurely (post tart) at a glass of very reasonably priced and elegantly pale Rose... And Wickman discovered something to make him happy called a Pichet. This is not a wine - but the perfect measure of wine for a non driver. A 500ml carafe of seriously chewy Rioja arrived in time for him to enjoy it alongside a not at all chewy sirloin while Mrs W nibbled at gravadlax which makes her happier even than Mr W. Mr W had thought long and hard about perhaps confit of duck (delicious) and sniffed like a dog at human supper time as a beautiful beef daube (stew - fabulous herby, meaty stew) passed him on the way to another table.

The little Ws threw up a surprise. Not the eldest who plumped as per for pasta but the youngest demanded an omelette fine herbs - the gooiest thing filled with things like chervil and chives. This dear readers is the height of omeletty sophistication and just the sight of young W licking eggy juices from around her mouth seemed to make parenthood feel better after all those chicken nuggets of her youth.

There was time for Eton Mess and a Chocolate Mousse followed by some fiercesomely strong coffee. The Little Ws contentedly wolfed down ice cream and rudely played with their iPods. But no one minded. Despite the smart surroundings there was a relaxed vibe. The service was well informed, smiley and accommodating, the bill manageable. It compared very favourably with the rather arrogant and factory feel of The King's Head in Teddington. Mrs W decided that La Cloche was more enjoyable and the food was decidedly more authentic. She urgently entreated Wickman to get out and start playing cricket to man of the match winning standards. But Wickman sadly shook his head and informed her that Wickman is retired.

Wickman is not sure but he think he heard her mutter under her breath that she'd go and find a real man that would play cricket for her instead - like Clarky...