Camille, London: ‘Very French, in a way that we don’t have enough of in Britain’

The first error was trying to ride a Lime bike after a martini – do not do this – which means I turned up to Camille nursing a newly cracked rib. The second error was going to Camille with my friend Clee, who had somehow also cracked his rib that week, although he did it in a far less embarrassing way (he was running across a small bridge and tripped on his own foot, then landed rib-first on his own wrist). The third error was forgetting that Clee is quite literally the funniest person I know, so every time we laughed (or turned slightly too quickly in our chairs, or stood up abruptly, or inhaled a small piece of spring pollen and sneezed), we were both rendered mute with agony. Those were the errors.

But I am calling Camille “the best decision I made that week”, and with good reason. Camille – nestled in a low, beautiful building in the easy evening bustle of Borough Market, lighting its candles and chalkboarding its menu long after the daytime rush of people taking photos of their tubs of strawberries while standing in the most annoying spot in front of me possible – is very French, in a way that we don’t have enough of in London or, arguably, Britain. Let them invade again, maybe, a bit? A cheeky dynastic takeover, maybe? It is perhaps a spicy take after we’ve all finally got used to calling him “King Charles”, but 30 little years of Norman rule again would really sort  us all out.

Anyway. In this instance, “French” is taken to mean: the tables are rammed into a tiny cosy dark-wood-and-soft-linen restaurant as if it’s a storage unit owned by a deranged chairmaker. “French” means: the wine list is French and the ingredients come from fine British growers, but there is a rustic threat of lentils, hearts, brains. “French” means the bread is really good. “French” means the wait staff have white shirts and white aprons and handsome ties. “French” means flickering intimate lighting and seeing if Clee fancied cheating on his wife with me (no).

We start with basically every starter, which it turns out is my second best idea of the week (it is Friday). Today those were: puffed pig skin with smoked eel and tarragon, obviously; a monkfish liver parfait, obviously; the ox-tongue and smoked eel terrine, obviously; a nettle and wild garlic sausage that came with a tangy wad of mustard. An oven-browned baguette with a blob of butter that may as well have been clotted cream was eaten alongside all of these, and truly we should have had two of them, because every sauce deserved to be wiped clean from every plate (add it to the error pile).

It feels like particularly British behaviour, to only have one plate of good bread in case you “fill up on bread” and “ruin your main”, and again I call upon the houses of Polignac, of Montmorency, of La Rochefoucauld: pull an army together, stomp across the water, correct us on this. I’ll learn a bit of French, I promise. I’ll wear more linen shirts, I’ll smoke more little cigarettes!

A small interlude to get stuck into a bottle of Montesquiou and gird ourselves for the offal part of the night. Camille’s approach to eat is “right up to the edge of confrontational”, which I like. St John sort of did nose-to-tail to completion in a way that makes everyone else slightly afraid to do sweetbreads any more, and beyond that moment a couple of years ago when restaurants remembered liver was nice it doesn’t feel like menus want to use words like “tendons” anymore. Not here, in this France.

Calf’s brain turns up fried tempura-crisp, sumptuously still-got-bite-but-softly-greasy, and soaked in loudly curried Café de Paris butter; a deep richly smoked cassoulet (“This is how I imagine cowboys’ baked beans tasted when they stirred them in a metal kettle on the range”) has a gelatinous snout nestled on top in a way that I can only describe as cheeky. We veer away from the chalkboard with the steak specials on – for some reason, both of us nursing our chests, we feel uncomfortable with the idea of red meat on a bone – so opt for a lemon sole with a pleasingly capery Grenobloise instead (delicious, though – and I always forget this – too damn bony!)

We have by now completed today’s specials board, so the waiter shakes our hands in awed admiration. We have a coffee, an eau de vie, and a stiff little wedge of burnt milk tart that I know felt extremely satisfying to cut with a sharp knife.

I want to pull the cork out of a bottle of natural wine with my teeth and cycle everywhere and have a strange boy as my president. But what I like about Camille is the small, purring confidence of the place. There’s a sporting analogy that I thought was really common and widespread, but might have accidentally been invented at the pub by my friend Tom: “The net is an ocean.” The net was an ocean for Michael Jordan between the years of 1988 and 1998. The net was an ocean when Wayne Rooney was scurrying around Euro 2004 in his dark navy shorts. And the net is an ocean now for Camille’s chef Elliot Hashtroudi whenever he gets a big food-grade storage crate full of offal. Get down there and go and admire a chef in hot form.

Camille, 2-3 Stoney St, London SE1 9AA, 020 3794 8958, camillerestaurant.co.uk

Entrees £15-£22; Mains £26-£49; Desserts £9-£12; Wine from £9 a glass / £48 a bottle

Sophia Evans