Turtle Bay, Birmingham

Out of my close circle of friends, it is The Artist Formally Known as Craig that I have known the longest. Since meeting him in a dodgy nightclub when I was eighteen whilst wearing a see-through black shirt, we have had a decade misbehaving and chasing girls, followed by half a decade reminiscing of our glory days whilst being all grown up and monogamous. As the city has evolved around us, so have we: I have steered away from the dodgy fashion faux-pas and he no longer has his birth name; instead choosing to be legally known as something far more pretentious, hand-picked from a phone directory after a few beers, which I will spare him the blushes of here. He’s a good lad with a great heart and horrendous taste in food, which is why I should never have let him choose where we would eat as a final meal before he leaves these shores for Canada next week. He sends a text message to me suggesting “Turtle Head”, which I take to be Turtle Bay – a Caribbean restaurant on John Bright Street I’ve been meaning to try for some time. In hindsight I should have double-checked where he meant; perhaps I could have ended up with a dinner I would eat.

Inside Turtle Bay is a space of neon lights, corrugated steel and bare brick walls with murals of generic Caribbean imagery, such as the Jamaican flag. In truth, the interior is a success; it has warmth and cosiness despite the industrial girders and bare concrete flooring. The food is anything but a success, veering from being very average to very bad. Average would be the flatbread, overworked and dressed with limp rocket leaves. The very bad were the duck rolls, three pieces, each dry and cloyingly sweet. Served with this was a sour orange chutney which was essentially a bitter marmalade with added raisins that destroyed the already limited flavour of the poultry. I understand that on paper it should provide contrast, but really, someone from head office should try it before sanctioning it.  If I have ever eaten a more ill-judged starter it has been long banished from my memory banks.

Jerk chicken is a dish that I have loved ever since a holiday in Montego Bay ten years ago, where they cook it roadside on reversed metal bin lids.  At best the bird has depth and heat from Allspice and Scotch Bonnet which infiltrate the meat from a lengthy marinade.  Here they had succeeded in keeping the chicken moist, but I doubt the meat had spent long enough in the marinade as it was lacking in the flavour I have come to expect from good jerk cooking.  There were a portion of sweet potato fries which seem to have appeared everywhere, a clumpy red cabbage ‘slaw and an additional side of heavy and dried out fried dumplings.  The dumplings are yours for £2.35 to look at and wonder why you ever bothered.  Better was a browned chicken stew with rice and more of the tired dumplings.  The chicken having good flavour from the slow braise in the cooking liqueur.  Both main courses are a few pence under a tenner.  I can think of at least two places in the city where superior examples can be had for half that price.

I’ll try to be positive here:  They do good cocktails and sell Guinness Punch with rum that could fuel an army.  Its a nice place to enjoy a drink and they have Happy Hour everyday.  But that’s it.  I haven’t  anything positive to say about the food which is essentially New Generation Nando’s, only with better booze and Bob Marley on the stereo.  Our waitress, who, I should point out was utterly charming, asked how everything was.  I mumble “okay” because she was too nice to be told otherwise.  I’ll be sad to see The Artist Formally Known as Craig leave, though he can gladly take the terrible choice in restaurants with him.

4/10

 

 

The Pony and Trap, Chew Magna

The drive from the Jurassic coast back to Birmingham was always going to require a stopover. It’s not like the journey there, when the anticipation of the sea breeze takes over and five hours in rush hour traffic doesn’t seem too bad an idea. The trip back to reality is a gruel where work and bills and air pollution await. We needed somewhere that isn’t a Welcome Break to recharge our internal batteries. To take stock of reality. To bemoan that nauseating fool in the office who will ruin the holiday mood first thing Monday morning.

The Pony and Trap was our choice. Located nine miles away from Bristol in the quaint Chew Magna, it would split our journey in half. The food also promised much; chef Josh Eggerton is a Gordon Ramsay scholar with the pub holding a Michelin star and current number two ranking on the list of UK gastropubs. Inside is a mish-mash of woods, pale green panelling and off white walls. There is a dining area overlooking the pastures of Somerset, and a jukebox that ventured from Radiohead to Aaliyah via Andy Williams. We waited a length of time to order that would have raised eyebrows in the city, though here in the countryside it felt fine. It is impossible to be pissed off with service whilst “Music To Watch Girls By” plays in the background.

Despite its star, there is no amouse bouche, no fiddly canapés, and no bread offered on this sunny Sunday afternoon. Its straight into the starter of mozerella and heritage tomatoes with basil. The salad is the first indication of what is to come; the tomatoes have a firm texture and flavour seldom found in this country. The basil as a dotted puree around the edge of the plate and also fragrant leaves. Its late June on a plate – as seasonal as Only Fools and Horses on Christmas Day. Only a jelly from tomato consommé felt misplaced, with the flavour muted and the texture unwarranted with the luscious mozzarella already providing the creamy mouth-feel.

The ethos here is “Field to Fork”, which was in full effect on the main course.  A slab of organic pork with a thick ribbon of fat, some roast potatoes, apple sauce, a cauliflower puree and gravy from the roasting juices.  It was an imposing plate for its simplicity; the pork, amongst some of the best I have ever eaten, blushing pink and tender, with a crackling full of crunch and salt.  On the side were a small pot of more veg and a substantial cauliflower and leek cheese worthy of a paragraph of its own.  The whole heads of the flower full of texture and a cheese sauce with the faint suggestion of mustard.  My girlfriend, who was tucking into a meat-free plate, commented that nothing fancy had been done to any of the veg to highlight the freshness and quality of the ingredients.  I agreed with everything she said.

 

Desserts maintained the high standards.  A  peanut mousse with a chocolate brownie-esque base was overshadowed by a salted caramel ice cream that had me scraping the textured black plate to a sharp shrill.  Better still was a strawberry and white chocolate cheesecake of ethereal lightness with a strawberry sorbet.  It was a day at Wimbledon a week early, only without the Pimms or screams of Come On Tim whilst Andy Murray plays.

Its impossible to dislike The Pony and Trap.  Even with the gaps between courses and the winding paths between tables, its an immensely likeable place.  The larder on their doorstep serves them well and they utilise it with skill and respect.  The bill placed on the table seems remarkably cheap for what we ate. I pay it and meander to the toilet to see they are doing an offal evening in November.  Bits of animal organs seems a good enough reason to return on its own steam.  We’ll be back and next time it wont be out of convenience.

8/10

 

Chung Ying Central, Birmingham

I’d like to think that my belly is the base of my knowledge. That with every shunned gym visit for a meal with friends that I am learning, little-by-little, more about the cuisine on the plate. Over time I have become well versed in the layering of spices of Indian curries and the balance of sugar, salt, spice, and acidity at the heart of Thai cooking. One country whose food I know very little about is China, partially due to the local Cantonese being relegated to our default takeaway, so when well-travelled friends of ours said they fancy some Dim Sum for dinner I took it as an opportunity to differentiate between Har Gow and Chiu Chow.

Of all the places to go for Dim Sum, Chung Ying Central seemed the obvious choice. From the third branch of the long established Chung Ying group they claim to serve the best Dim Sum in the city. Never mind pigeon-holing into it just the city or small dumplings, I would go so far as saying it is some of the best Chinese food I have ever eaten, though how seriously you wish to take that depends on how much you trust a man whose hangover meal is curry sauce and chips in a tray. All of the dishes we ordered sang of authenticity; a bold move in a country that has basterdised the food of every nation to suit our own primitive palette.  Every Dim Sum dish was a success, from the Chiu Chow’s translucent skin with a lean minced pork perked by rice wine and ginger, to the beef packed with ginger and spring onion.  These steamed pieces have a texture that may not to be everyone’s liking.  Its their loss.

They do street food equally well; Char Sui buns are little pillows of rice flour buns, hiding long braised pieces of unctuous pork belly that call out for regular revisits.  Crisp spring rolls filled with curried chicken is reminiscent of the roadside snacks we purchased for pennies on a recent visit to Ho Chi Minh.  Here, at £4.00 for a substantial portion, they are not much more and are far superior.

Yuk Shung with coarsely minced lamb is full of umami notes and aromatics.  The meat has bite in all the right places and is quickly piled high on to crisp sheets of lettuce which soon disappears from the table. A wonton soup had a stock deep with shellfish bones, soured with vinegar and tempered with soy.  The prawn and pork dumplings with good flavour and substance whilst never making the dish too heavy.

A couple of mains are ordered because we are greedy and also to satisfy my partners curiosity of whether or not Chung Yings chicken in blackbean sauce lives up to the dish she orders weekly as a takeaway.  It does.  The chicken is of higher quality, the sauce more complex.  She scrapes the plate clean.  Had we not been with friends she probably would have licked it clean.  Crispy chicken with salt and chilli is perhaps too restrained; it would be nice to see this with the brakes taken off.  Dishes like this should leave a mark on the soul, whereas this was a gentle hug of heat.

With a bill that works out at approximately thirty quid each, including beers and a cocktail or two thrown in for good measure, Chung Ying is exceptionally good value.  It transports the true essence of Cantonese cooking from China Town into the heart of the city centre, never flinching from its roots for fear of alienating its cliental.  Our dining companions had not long returned from Hong Kong where they were fortunate enough to eat the very best Dim Sum the city could offer.  Their opinion of Chung Ying Central?  “We’ll be back”.  That tells you everything you need to know.

8/10

Amantia, Birmingham

The first thing I notice about Amantia is the dining room. The bright and airy space. The clean lines. The palette of maroon, pale grey, and black. From our circular table near the window looking out on to Bennetts Hill, I can see every corner and every polished surface of this smart newcomer just off New Street. I can see all of this because at half three on a Sunday afternoon the place is empty, save for the waiting staff outnumbering us three-to-one. I hate seeing restaurants empty, it is a waste of produce and wages. I comment that everything appears in working order; they have an appealing menu of Mediterranean dishes leaning heavily on Spain, keen pricing and smartly turned out staff. There must be an underlying problem. Perhaps the PR company hasn’t worked hard enough at making them known. Perhaps they aren’t just very good.

 

It turns out that the food is generally of a good standard. Habas Fritas are a moreish bar snack, the broad beans finely sliced, deep fried and then salted, with the final product having an almost meaty flavour: Think pork scratching for the veggie generation. Berenjenas con Miel – deep fried aubergine chips to you and I – were the best things we tried all day, the batons deep fried to a crisp exterior and drizzled with honey to interplay the sweet and the savoury. Another dish using the same ingredient would be a let-down in comparison. A crepe savoury with aubergine, mascarpone and sun-dried tomato would have a soggy texture throughout and very little flavour. It would be the only time we reached for the salt shaker in the centre of the table.

King prawns in white wine with chilli and garlic sings of summers abroad, the dish surprisingly spicy with a cooking liqueur that demands mopping up with the complimentary sun-dried tomato bread baked in-house. More of the bread is called into action with chorizo in red wine. The quality of the sausage is not up there with others in the city, though the sauce is a majestic thing I would swear had been thickened with blood had the menu not said otherwise.

It was at this point the restaurant filled.  Two large parties from Spain, who happen to take their Sunday lunch a little later than their English counterparts, sit down and order sangria by the jug load.  Service went from slow to almost non-existent as we waited for the rest of our dinner to appear.  Luckily the Croquettes were worth the wait with a good creamy filling of Picos de Europa and spinach.  They were clean tasting with a strong flavour imparted from the blue cheese.  A similar success was had with filled filo pastries.  The slightly greasy outer casing containing a chorizo paste and goats cheese that was both gutsy and flavoursome; the smoky meat counteracting the soapy cheese nicely.  Triangular slices of Manchego finishes the meal off.  The nutty sheep’s cheese contrasting against a red pepper jam that bordered on too sweet and fried almonds.

It is always going to be hard for a sharp dining room in Birmingham’s business quarter to fully evoke the sensations of good Spanish food, though Amantia try their best, and for that we should be grateful.  Service is slow and at times it takes itself too seriously, but this will, we hope, improve with time as they find their feet in a city not short of culinary options.  For a family business they have aimed high and for that I wish them well.  The dining room is a place that came alive as it swelled with people, only time will tell if they can maintain that level of business.

7/10

Adil’s Balti Restaurant, Birmingham

The good people of Britain are in debt to Adils. Way back in 1977 when a Findus crispy pancake would be classed as an adventurous dinner, a family arrived from northern Kashmir, bringing with them the very first Balti to these shores. From this small restaurant on a residential street in Stoney Lane led to the famous Balti Triangle, as well as a national obsession of going for a curry, with or without the seven pints of lager beforehand in the pub. I, like many others, am prone to waking up on a Sunday morning with a sore head, curry on my shirt and stained fingers. It’s my badge of honour, earned over many years of king-sized naans and table-top renditions of songs from The Little Mermaid. Going to Adils would be my Jerusalem; the place I could dip my daily bread into the hallowed pressed-steel Balti dish.

The recently refurbished dining room has succeeded in making it look like a spruced up version of all the other curry houses in the Triangle. Whatever they have done has worked; an hour after its opening time they are already turning tables and we see others waiting through the partitioned glass wall that separates the booze-free bar and thickly carpeted dining room. Crisp popadoms fill a hole whilst the starters are cooked. Grease-less vegetable pakora, delicately spiked with turmeric and cumin, are a large portion for the bargain two pounds.  Being the heat freak that I am, the very sight of green of green chilli bhaji on the glossy menu made me twitch down below.  What came was five complete chillies, seeds and all, each adorned in a light batter that added more spice to the mix.  It was an addictive whack of heat, lip numbing and life affirming.  I took two home in a box with the intention of eating them for lunch the following day.  They are still there.  I am too scared.

 

But we are here for the Balti, lets not forget.  Two of them, each ordered from the chefs special menu would test both ends of the spectrum. A garlic chilli chicken was tame in heat compared to the starter, whilst a Makhan chicken owed more to a traditional butter chicken than a Balti, with its creamy texture and almond powder. Both had small pieces of pre-cooked poultry with a spongy texture and a complex level of spicing garnered from forty years of cooking the same dish. I’d like the recipe for the garam masala at the root of these dishes. A peshwari naan was superb; light, supple, and not overly sweet.

 

 

With the dessert menu looking like a fine collection of freezer favourites, we pay the twenty-five-quid bill and leave. Is it the best Balti I have ever eaten? No, not by a long shot. One in Bearwood immediately comes to mind which I will one day get off my arse and share with you about. But it is a good example, cheap and in pleasant surroundings. Adil’s call themselves the Balti pioneers, which seems accurate. Indian food has evolved since they took up shop four decades ago, though there is always room for the originators, provided the passion is still there. Adils is still firing on all cylinders. Here is to another Forty.

7/10

 

 

Lasan, Birmingham

Few restaurants garner local adoration like Lasan. Since a young and ambitious Aktar Islam swept to glory on Ramsay’s F Word five years ago, we have seen his elaborate cooking style develop and timekeeping skills worsen over two series of Great British Menu, amongst many other cooking programmes. Lasan has become synonymous with transporting the curry away from the Balti Triangle and in to more refined parts of the city, taking with it a fresh approach to the cuisine, from improved ingredient quality to elegant presentation.  Ask anyone local for a recommendation of where to eat and Lasan will inevitably come up, regardless whether or not they have actually been there.  The city of Birmingham likes to claim the curry as our own; its only natural we want one of our local stars to sit amongst the higher echelons.

 

The cavernous space Lasan operates in is a muted wash of Farrow and Ball neutrals. The heavy wooden tables are bare, the chairs ornate and comfortable. Everything functions, though, in all honesty, it is a little tired looking. From our elevated seat on the balcony we agree that it is nothing that a lick of paint here and there wouldn’t solve. Pani puri arrives, the crisp spheres filled with vegetables and a piquant water.  Its Indian street food spun through the fingers of a spice wizard; chilli heat, sweat and sour notes from tamarind, crunch and earthiness from the chickpeas and potato.  It is about as good as one mouthful gets.

A tasting of quail showed Islam’s long term vision for Lasan is rooted firmly in fine dining territory.  A marinated supreme which still retained its delicate meatiness was only overshadowed by a beautifully poised quail egg kofta . It was an ambitious plate worth commending with only a roast leg failing to delivery. The little amount of meat lost in the sweet molasses.  Salmon Tikka was faultless, the fish more than standing up to the marinade of tomato and red pepper that grew and on the palate whilst being tempered by lime acidity.

 

 

 
A duck main had perfectly pink breast atop of braised cabbage and lentils.  The meat was well timed, though it needed the killer south Indian style sauce to bring everything together.  The coconut bringing a subtle sweetness against the bell peppers.  Another sauce, this time a Rajastani style gravy, would fight for star billing on a lamb main that nod towards Lasan’s Achilles Heel.  Whilst the aubergine and shoulder rilllette had more flavour levels than Tetris, the coriander crusted rack was undercooked.  The meat, cooked sous-vide and then roasted, had spent too long in the water bath and not long enough in the oven, resulting in a rare rack with fat that had not rendered down.  It highlighted that the modern cooking techniques had not been mastered as well as the primitive tandoor cooking in complete juxtaposition.  Much safer ground was a chicken tikka masala, of course not referred to here by its common name.  The large chunks of poultry were charred and flavoursome, the creamy sauce complex with a restrained hand on the heat.

 

Breads were predictably brilliant, as was a dhal which ranks as the best I have eaten.  And then the price.  With mains hovering around twenty quid, a share of the sides and bread that is insisted on as required (its not), a meal here can reach the same dizzying heights as its Michelin contemporaries.  Is it value for money?  I would say so.  Its occasionally brilliant, consistently entertaining and infrequently frustrating, though never through lack of trying.  A bit like the Aktar Islam I watched on telly.  This is his show; a study of taking a cuisine that we expect to be rustic and refining it to something far more beautiful whilst still retaining the soul of the cooking.  And a bit like the Aktar Islam I watched on telly, it’s a fascinating bit of viewing.

8/10