Bataclan

When Monsieur and I asked the hotel receptionist to help us book a favourably-​reviewed restaurant for our last Sardinian supper, she frowned and shook her head. No, I don’t recommend that place, she said, it’s very fancy, very, very expensive. BUT (her face brightened) I can book you into a restaurant where you will receive very special service and where all our guests are happy.
When we walked into Bataclan, it was with high hopes which were soon dashed. The restaurant was almost empty and it was nearly 9pm on a Friday night. This didn’t look good. The décor consisted of splashy washes of orange or lemon yellow on simple, plastered walls, against which gingham covered tables sat and our waitress wasn’t really with it. The owner, however, alerted to our arrival, fawned over us like long-​lost relatives and removed the menu which had caused us to consider leaving and trying somewhere else. He wanted to serve us off-​menu. Did we prefer meat or fish? Fish for me, meat for Monsieur. That registered, he suggested starting with antipasti plates before moving onto ravioli stuffed with a fish paste for me and onions for my carnivorous companion. Then, he added mysteriously, we will see how you are getting on.
The antipasti plates — fish for me and cured meats with pecorino wedges for Monsieur — were very good indeed. We enjoyed our ravioli, swapping plates half-​way through. Then the waitress offered us coffee and dessert or the bill. I didn’t know what to say. Perhaps I’d misunderstood the owner’s Italian? But no, my fears were allayed when he appeared from the kitchen to say the mains were on their way. That’s when we wished we knew what sort of meat would be served to Monsieur, because we’d earlier spotted horse on the menu. I have a real issue with eating horse.
Once more, we worried for no reason. My sea bass was delicate and Monsieur’s lamb cutlets disappeared in silence, but we were now exhausted after a full day on the road and just wanted to sleep. We asked for the bill and waited. And waited some more, and just as we were about to get up and go to the cashier to ask again, plates of homemade ice cream drizzled elegantly with chocolate sauce appeared in front of us. Well, then. It seemed we’d be at Bataclan a little longer.
The whole degustazione menu prepared for us by the owner came to Euro 40 each. He didn’t charge us for the three large bottles of water we drank whilst there (we’re trying to cut down on the wine!)and compared to many places we’ve eaten in Italy, this was good value for 4 courses of fresh, local produce, cooked to order, with specialist attention. The other good thing was that a little while after we arrived, the empty restaurant filled up with hungry locals. By the time we left, there were only two other tourists there, and they were escorted by a local who knew the owner. It was an unexpected pleasure to dine in a place where tourists were not the norm, although the décor could do with a bit of spit and polish and the regular menu is depressing to say the least. I’d recommend that if you go to Bataclan, put yourself in the hands of the owner or not at all.