Bodega Bar and Cantina, Birmingham

I have been going to Bodega long before I started this blog, which I suppose is a recommendation in itself. I can’t say it’s ever been my favourite place to eat, but my girlfriend clearly enjoys it, which leaves me with little choice. To me its unique to Birmingham, though only because the second city doesn’t have a Wahaca on every corner like London. If Wahaca is specific to Mexico in its approach, Bodega takes a broader stroke to South America with familiar dishes like burritos along with the less common banderillas and cordero seco. And shame on you for skiving off Peruvian classes at school if you don’t know what cordero seco is.

I leave the girlfriend at home and take a much more ear friendly approach with my friend.  Even on a cold Tuesday evening the place is full and the service is warm.  It has a casual feel, with colourfully decorated walls and low lighting.  We settle on a selection of small plates with the intention of sharing – a notion that upsets me just thinking about it.  First up is probably the best dish of the night; a grease-less deep-fried soft shell crab, paired intelligently with a lime mayo and pineapple salsa that offer comfort and a little sharpness which both work well with the crustacean. The pineapple salsa showed up again on a plate on halloumi, the cheese griddled carefully though not an obvious match to the salsa.

Tapas staple of chorizo with peppers and a red wine sauce was next. Here the quality of the cured sausage was better than most, even if the sauce wasn’t reduced to the syrupy consistency that I would like. At its best it should gloss the meat like a lick of paint, not run all over the plate. Following this was the only time they got it really wrong. Papas chorreadas was a mixture of potatoes, tomatoes and onion which was lost under a thick ooze of what tasted like powdered cheese sauce which quickly became a unpleasant mix of nothingness

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Chicken quesadillas is a dish I’ve eaten a million times. Here was a good example; large chunks of poultry flavoured with chipotle and comforted with melted cheese. A similar success was had with the pulled pork tacos, which had good meat at its core and was accurately cooked.  Much like everyone else in the country I’ve eaten a lot of pulled pork in the last twelve months – these taco’s will be remembered more fondly than the vast majority.

The bill, with a couple of pints of Brahma, came in about a twenty quid a head.  Here, perhaps, is the key to Bodega’s obvious success; no one leaves Bodega feeling short-changed.  The food features ingredients of good quality for the price paid – certainly a lot worse can be had for more money in a close vicinity.  There are times when rich food and dainty portions become too much and what you go looking for is a healthy feed at a sound price.  Its at the these times I usually go looking for Bodega.  And that’s a recommendation

7/10

Carters of Moseley

Had Giles Coren tried the pork butter at Carters of Moseley I am confident that the recent palava over Birmingham restaurants would never have had happened. No doubt he could have found a similar blend of animal fat and skin within his intellectual confides of the M25 at the likes of Fera or The Dairy. I am sure that he could point you in the direction of somewhere in his beloved Kentish Town that also makes bread using a local flour that has a both a chewy crust and palatable interior. None though would have the same effect on the soul as the lightly whipped lard embedding with shards of scratching that I was smearing an inch thick on to this loaf. Ten minutes into an evening that would take nearly two and a half hours, it was clear that the attention seeking publicity stunt that made me seethe just a week prior would not have seen the light of day had Coren been to Carters.

But enough about him. The small restaurant at the end of a row of shops on St Mary’s Row is making its own tidal waves since it was judged to be The Good Food Guides Restaurant of The Year. Inside its all dark wood with a window it in to the kitchen dominating back of the space, whilst a glass wine wall to the side stokes conversation and envy amongst us. Bread arrives with that butter and we’re off: A chestnut broth enhanced by truffles reinforces that we’re in safe hands. It also sets the tone for the evening with Brad Carters style of cooking: Most chefs go looking for that extra ingredient; here he takes away until it’s an uncluttered and concise plate, often with just two or three elements. Nothing jars. Everything is there for a reason.

A play on risotto tastes better than it looks. Underneath the powdered black trumpet mushrooms is a loose mound of grains, seeds and diced cauliflower. Its all textures until slivers of more trumpet release a little of the pickling juice and the whole dish lights up as intended. Roe deer loin relies on just two purées; one of quince for acidity, another of squash for earthiness.  A sprinkling of seeds add bite and a deftly judged red wine sauce finishes it off.  Its as brave a piece of cooking as you are likely to encounter.  See, I told you the boy could cook.

Desserts continued to impress.  Aerated sheep milk was the perfect foil for the juice and segment of blood orange that seemed more intense due to the sweet pop of fennel pollen. We save the best for last: A salted caramel mousse with poached pear and gingerbread works on every level as both the spice and salt elevate the dish, for the pear to cut through and give balance. Little chocolate bars flavoured with cardamom were gladly eaten at home once the fullness waned.

Service from Brad’s partner Holly was personal and attentive in a way that put shame on any other restaurant manager in Birmingham. We leave a fair tip because they deserve it, if only for having the balls to not put on a service charge after treating us so well. Carters is that kind of place; for a couple so relatively young they have nailed what it takes to be the ideal neighbourhood restaurant. There are people in Moseley, in Birmingham and even further afield that say Carters is the future of modern British cuisine. Those people are wrong. What they have is very much the present.

9/10

MinMin Noodle Bar, Birmingham

Soon I am off to Vietnam for a well earned holiday. For three weeks we plan to do a whistle-stop tour of Hanoi down to Phu Quoc, with stops in all of the usual places and a seventeen hour train ride thrown in for good measure, just because her-indoors knows how much I despise train journeys. With any luck I will return bronzed ready for our one week of Summer, with a cheap suit barely holding its shape and two stone lighter due to the inevitable food poisoning. I will throw myself into the local cuisine and let it do its worst. Onwards and upwards. Inward then probably quickly outward.

And yet, despite the holiday rapidly approaching, I am still to try authentic Vietnamese food. I read up the staples and familiarised myself with a few recipes online: Pho mostly, which is in the most basic form noodles in a broth made from pork stock. I appealed on social media for a good Pho; one friend offered his mothers services whilst another suggested MinMin, a lucid coloured cafe at the back of Birmingham’s Arcadian. If you’ve read this from the top you will know which option I took; after all the post isn’t titled The Home of Trung’s Mother.

MinMin is a canteen-esque expanse of lime green and white glossy plastic. It is deceptively simple, which is more than can be said of the menu; a vast bounty of dishes with pictures for the more usual offerings and just words for the less enticing pigs ears and chickens feet. We started with chicken spring rolls that avoided both greasiness and any real flavour. It was a subdued start that needed the sticky chilli dipping sauce to some add punch and heat. Mixed skewers came coated in panko breadcrumbs and deep fried, the pick being a large juicy prawn, opaque in the centre. There was another of a white fish that neither we nor the waitress could recognise and some veg that included a clumpy slice of red onion.

Crispy squid was well executed with the batter offering a little yield and the cephalopod still tender, the dish benefitting from the extra seasoning from the noodles dressed lightly in soy. A giant bowl of spicy broth was filled with noodles, pork belly and roast duck. The broth was key; the lingering heat eventually giving way to a delicate meatiness which found its way onto every strand of noodle. The cubes of pork belly were tender with crispy shards of skin; a treat, which is more than can be said about the duck.  I feel bad for leaving any animal unconsumed, especially duck, but I am not going to put my dental plan at risk by chowing down on a mixture of gristle and bone.

Twenty minutes into the soupy noodles I gave in, leaving enough in the bowl for at least another person and meaning that dessert was well out of the question.  In my pre-conceived mind I wanted to love MinMin; it came recommended by people I trust to offer a style of food I am not massively au-fait with.  Shamefully I have used Wagamama as a reference point, with the food here being no better than there. Let’s hope that Vietnam fares a lot better.

6/10

Restaurant Gordon Ramsay, London

It was impossible to go to Restaurant Gordon Ramsay without expecting it to be a great meal. In this last twelve months The Good Food guide have scored it the perfect ten – one of only three in the country to score this – along with it being one of only four UK restaurants to be bestowed with the maximum three stars from Michelin. Everything was pointing towards perfection, though expectation is the root of all disappointment; the mother of all frustration. By building a pre-set ideal based on another’s opinion surely I was setting myself up for a fall.

And then you push through the heavy door of the bijou building on Royal Hospital Road and all is fine. The greetings from an army of staff detract from its beige interior that borders between boring and serene.  Here, amongst the four walls in loaded Chelsea, is a world where handbags require stools, toilet roll is pointed into triangles after every visit and French haute cuisine is King.

Lets start with the bits before the real food arrives.  Excellent gourgeres disappeared from the basket instantly; the ethereal choux loaded with a cheesey bechamel that put shame to the ones at any of Ducasse’s restaurants.  An amuse came in a egg shell precisely trimmed and sprayed gold – I pity whoever has this as a job.  Inside a baked potato mousseline marbled with yolk and topped with a sliver of Perigord truffle that was both comforting and elegant.

A dainty dish of agnolotti had al dente pasta with a filling of roasted pumpkin, softly flavoured with sage.  Transparent slices of guanciale ham coated the mouth with fat and let the flavours take over, whilst amaretti crumbs provided texture.  I wont eat a better dish all year, I’m sure.  Roasted beetroot had a salad perched prettily in a mound of smoked goats curd.  My partner declaring it not quite on the level of a similar dish that she had at The Square last year whilst practically licking the plate clean

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A fillet of plaice was sensational; the fish, still fresh and retaining its flavour, was enhanced by a pokey taramasalata, tender strips of razor clam and a beurre noisette, which proved that everything tastes better when basted in brown butter.  Rabbit, a meat I seldom eat due to it always arriving overcooked, had a perfectly timed loin, seasoned by the salty bayonne ham it was wrapped in.  Confit leg lay proudly on tender lentils, whilst teeny racks served as a remainder of the animal on the plate.  The sauce, a deep glossy thing of dreams, held everything together and pickled mustard seeds popped and provided heat and contrast.  It was cooking of the highest order.

Desserts were a highlight in a meal of highlights.  An assiette showcased all five of the sweets available on the a la carte menu, the stars being a lemonade parfait with sheep milks sorbet and a smoked chocolate cigar with blood orange and cardamom ice cream – both of which could grace any table, anywhere. A peppermint souffle of perfect consistency arrived with a silky dark chocolate sorbet, the two combined echoing After Eights.  There was a faultless mini version of the Ramsay signature tarte tatin, and a carrot cake that didn’t taste much of carrot.  All of these made my dessert, a dainty custard tart with blood orange and mascarpone sorbet, seem a bit of an afterthought.  A bit of whimsy finished off proceedings as clementine ice cream dipped in white chocolate was served in bowl overflowing with dry ice.

The service was even better than La Gavroche, which is a phrase I never thought I’d say.  It was both friendly and concise, with the level of professionalism you would expect from a restaurant with such accolades.  A meal here doesn’t come cheap – between the three of us it would be mortgage payment back home – but nor should it; the brigade of staff (a total of thirty, as opposed to 42 diners) and the raw produce come at a price.  Both Michelin and The Good Food Guide consider it to be the countries finest and I have to agree with them.  Restaurant Gordon Ramsay is up there with the very best.

10/10