Zindiya, Moseley

Chicken Tikka.  It’s really all I remember about the opening party at Zindiya.  Being a very short walk from my house I decided to attend for an hour despite being in a haze of tonsillitis and antibiotics.  I recall chatting to a nice man from a local newspaper when the food started coming out from the kitchen.  We both agreed that it was the best chicken tikka we had ever eaten.  Another man who has happened to win an award or two for street food came and joined us.  He commented on just how much it tasted of chicken, a rarity in the age of tasteless barn reared poultry, we all agreed.  Soon newspaper guy and I were raiding the kitchen pass directly, and I was being pushed out the door by my girlfriend with my coat pockets full of the stuff to eat at home.  It was a good night.

I’ve waited two weeks for that bloody tikka, so apologies for my poor manners in ordering it before our drinks request was taken.  It’s every bit as good as I remember; the marinade has broken down the proteins, the tandoor catching the edges so that they are charred and slightly bitter; the meat sweet and tender.  They tasted even better with a lick of lemon juice and a dunk into the thick vivid green puree that is the mint sauce.  You can stop at this point if you like, close down the window and go purely to eat this.  That’s okay with me – I wouldn’t blame you.  Or you can read the rest and see if anything else takes your fancy.

Zindiya isn’t the first of its kind to focus on ‘street food’ but it is easily Birmingham’s finest of this type.  Obvious care has been taken with every detail to ensure this is the case.  Beer is from Purity, wine from local merchants Connolly’s, and a stellar cocktail list curated by drinks legend Rob Wood.  The interior is a flash of colour with wall murals depicting the food markets of India.  The menu is mostly familiar and we order widely across it.  Fish Amritsari are morsels of firm white fish (pollock, I think) in a batter vibrant with cumin and ginger.  Chilli paneer see’s the pale cheese purely as a vessel for the pungent sauce – a good thing when the main ingredients best quality is it’s ability to take on other flavours.  The Papri Chaat here is probably the best I have tried anywhere.  Think of it as a wedge salad for the interesting.  The dough wafers are intact so that they can lifted from bowl to mouth with minimum fuss – get them loaded with both sauces, the red onion, and plenty of herbs and wait for the magic to happen.  It’s lighter and fresher than the Indian food we have come to know in this country, and is all the better for it.

Back to the tandoor we go for  charred lamb chops, still wearing the thick marinade like a winter jacket.  The meat is well judged to just beyond medium, the flavour good, if not perhaps the best example to be found in the city.  Personally, I thought it could have been a little more bolder with the spicing.  No such problems with the pani puri, which are as textbook as you like.  The shells are properly assembled and hold their own when sunk into the murky tamarind water.  Pani puri are the ultimate amouse bouche; a mouthful of everything that is good about Indian street food – how to take cheap staple carbohydrate’s like potato and chickpea and fuse them together with spices into something utterly bewildering.  The last dish to arrive is the chicken dosa, taking a break from tradition with a presentation more akin to tacos.  The filling is light and aromatic, with chunks of chicken in a coconut milk marinade that ties in nicely with a coarse chutney from the same fruit.  Throw in a sambhar that contains all of the flavour of lentils without the chalkiness and what you have is one of the better ways to spend £6.50 in the city.

I was being treated to dinner by a friend with an expense account, so we get stuck in to the cocktail list.  Put simply, it’s brilliant – an excursion through India’s different states, each pinned to the vast countries larder.  The pick is the vodka with the lime pickle cordial, worthy of a trip to try on it’s own, with the bourbon and masala bitters a close second.  Bravo, Mr Wood.  Bravo.  All of this combined makes for a rather wonderful experience.  I’ve often bemoaned the quality of food in Moseley at all levels below Carters, but Zindiya now joins Cheval Blanc in places I can grab a good bite to eat without breaking the bank.  This place is a class act in every respect.

9/10

A very nice man from Deliveroo paid for my dinner, so I’ll give them a little shout-out as thanks.  Zindiya are not on Deliveroo yet, though when they are grab some chicken tikka from them here; http://www.deliveroo.co.uk

 

 

Gusto, Birmingham

I’d like to think that places like Gusto are a sign of just how far Birmingham has progressed over recent years.  I don’t think it would have fitted in five years ago when the city was still finding it’s culinary feet, or even two years back when areas such as Edgbaston and Moseley were making massive indentations into antediluvian stereotype.  Now, less than six months after its opening, it feels like a staple of Colmore Row – rewarded by a full dining room whose attitude towards dining out is more open.  It sits underneath the Grand Hotel, right in the heart of the financial district.  Inside you’ll find one of the prettier dining rooms in the city, one that nods towards the 1920’s without ever compromising the simplicity of modern interior design.  Glance around and you’ll see slithers of stained glass and splashes of marble, with circular wooden tables that suit tables of four far better than just us two.  It evokes the dining rooms of New York’s Nolita district, a style that matches a menu full of the bastardisation cuisine that is American-Italian.

Now, you may, or may not, be aware that Gusto is a chain.  Whether that bothers you or not depends on how much time you like to spend shouting at birds in the street.  Me, I couldn’t care less, it obviously works or else they wouldn’t have sloped down from the north to Birmingham.  The first thing I ate happened to be very good indeed.  Torn shreds of braised pork, with gnocchi and cherry bell pepper, all dressed in light rocket pesto.  The gnocchi is light and lends itself well to the rest of the plate.  There is heat from the peppers and plenty of robust seasoning.  It quickly disappears.

Duck comes medium-rare as requested, on a warm salad of pulses and roasted winter veg.  It’s succeeds in being lighter than it looks, simultaneously fresh and earthy, though we welcome additional carbs in the form of fries dusted with parmesan and truffle. Lamb Cacciatore is a traditional Italian Easter dish of slow cooked ovine, here presented as a gutsy stew rich with tomato and red wine.  Like everything else we try, it’s considered and well cooked, the working muscles of the lamb cooked until they offer no resistance to fork nor teeth, with a dollop of pesto to cut through some of the richness.  Portions are on the American side of large and we find no room for dessert, despite a mischievous sounding Nutella calzone.  I’ll be back for that, don’t you worry.  The bill, with a nice bottle of Barbera, comes to a very fair £63.00 for the two of us.

I go back a few days later whilst waiting for a phone screen to be fixed in the Apple store.  There I have a pizza with cured meat and chillies that sits amongst some of the better pizza to be had in the city centre.  The base is thin and crisp, the toppings generous and of a high quality.  It makes for an ideal dinner for one with another glass of red wine too cheap for its quality.

Pasta, pizza and so forth; without ever mentioning the word Italian, Gusto have served up some of the better examples to have in Birmingham.  Yes, I know it’s not authentic; it’s immigrant food galvanized on the East coast of America, but it happens to be a damn sight better than the generic paint-by-numbers tosh we have come to accept as a given by more established Italian restaurants.  It is a welcome addition to the city; stylish, affordable and with a clear identity.  If only every group had the same high standards as Gusto, I would welcome them all with open arms.

8/10 

 

 

The Wilderness, Birmingham

I don’t believe in fate, but if I did, I’d use The Wilderness as evidence as to why. The restaurant is a forced move; previously Nomad, a concise space where nature and provenance were key, short-lived when the lawyers from New York’s NoMad started stamping their feet. Nomad is now long gone, existing only as a tattoo on Chef Patron Alex Claridge’s arm. I won’t dwell on bygone times, but I enjoyed its clear linear and identity. Fortunately the new offering takes it to a higher level. It’s evocative. It’s bat-shit crazy. It’s pretty much perfect.

The association with nature is still there. Living moss pads the walls of the tiny 22 cover restaurant, whilst a tree seemingly rises from the floor to the ceiling on one side of the room. In direct juxtaposition, the floors are concrete, tables a glossy black. It is comfortable in it’s own skin.  We take the Saturday lunch food and drinks flight and are asked if we would prefer to swap the duck for venison – of course we do.  Snacks (2017’s amouse bouche) are a celeriac remoulade on a linseed cracker and a delicate tuile with crab meat and scorched corn.  The former cleansed the palate, the latter punching it straight in the gob with a whack of the sea held in to check by the corn which had the sugars heightened by flaming the edges.  There is dense sourdough with a butter seemingly lightened with crème fraiche.  The two make for a good pair.

I think what set this lunch out so far apart from anything I’ve eaten in the last year is the complexity of Claridge’s  cooking.  We are going through a period of minimalism in cooking; two or three elements on a plate as way of showcasing an ingredient is in vogue .  The cooking here could not be further from that.  With every mouthful something new evolves, another flavour announces itself.  A slab of trout is first, which I forget to take a picture of before dismantling it.  The skin is crisp, the fish correctly medium.  It is elsewhere that the fun is at – little pops of dyed herring roe for the whiff of the salty sea, a tassel of fried moss to pull it back on to land; the two flavours that echo the dashi stock which is poured tableside before we tuck in.  A loin of Iberico pork is blushing pink, advertised with artichokes as discs, puree, and crisps, pickled mushrooms, and buds of wild garlic.  The stuff not on the menu are the clever additions; hazelnut’s, which reinforce the nutty characteristics of the animals diet, a luxurious port sauce, and a fish sauce dressing that sends the dish spiralling out East.  I told you the cooking was complex.  It’s a conversation killer.  A sit down, shut up, collection of things on a plate that stop you dead in your tracks.

We move on to the best venison dish I have ever eaten.  The same precision cooking of protein as before, with a squash puree, broccoli and a venison jus took to the deepest of places with the addition of stout.  A word on the drinks pairing for this – the old fashioned heightened with sake was the perfect counterbalance for the venison.

The first of the desserts was rhubarb sorbet, with poached strips, gels and puree’s.  The only sweetness on the plate coming from Italian meringues flavoured with a little vanilla.  It’s a bold plate of food that shows considerable skill in showcasing an ingredient at the height of its power.  We finish on a course as detailed as any served prior.  Chocolate and cherries.  Oh, and that familiar dessert addition of cep mushrooms – how can I forget that?  Silly me.  It’s a dish I can comfortably say I wasn’t looking forward to on account of not really being a fan of chocolate desserts, and less of a fan of mushrooms in my sweets.  But what do I know?  Absolutely nothing, apparently.  The cep powder never bothers with the front row, choosing to sit at the back and call the shots.  It gives the chocolate more length, it stops the cherries from being too sweet.  Throw in a chestnut puree that occasionally makes everything go a bit Mont Blanc, a splash of salted caramel which works a little too well with mushrooms, and what you have is a dessert that could have come from the mighty David Everitt-Matthias.  And I mean that with the upmost of respect:  When it comes to chefs I can think of none finer than the man who works the stoves at Le Champignon Sauvage.  We finish with chocolate skulls, sprayed gold and filled with salted caramel, which I assume is a nod to the present menu entitled ‘Things Fall Apart’.

I liked it.  You may have gathered that by now.  The Wilderness put on a show over two hours of some of the best food I have eaten in a very long time.  This is top-end cooking, delivered with theatre and exacting execution, undoubtedly worthy of a Michelin star come October.  I haven’t given a ten since September 2015, but The Wilderness leaves me with no choice. A restaurant this exciting deserves nothing less than top marks.

10/10

The lunch tasting menu with drinks pairing should have been £70 per person, though I used the Independent Birmingham card offer to reduce this to £50.  For more details on them please see http://www.independent-birmingham.co.uk

The Yew Tree Inn, Bunbury

The entrance to The Yew Tree Inn proudly lists the various awards they have won in recent years.  Rural Pub of the Year?  Check.  Cheshire Pub of the Year?  Double check.  Cheshire Dining Pub of the Year?  Double check again.  There’s more, too.  Prior to our visit they were recently awarded their first AA rosette, had another mention in the Michelin Guide, and secured a place in the Top 50 Gastropub list.  All of this points towards a rewarding lunch as we work our way back to Birmingham after a long weekend in Cheshire.  Yet I’m sceptical of these awards.  I know all too well that the best man doesn’t always win after losing out on a Food Bloggers award last year to a discount card that could be described as a blog if you took the boundaries, tied them to the back of a car, and drove them off a cliff.  I’m not saying that these awards are not important, because they clearly are, but what I am saying is that there are many factors other than the worthy winner, such as popularity and PR intervention.  And I say all of this fully expecting to win said award this summer.

 Now lets move away from my ego and back to the pub.  Is it worthy of all of these accolades?  No.  Not by a long shot, based on my visit last weekend.  It started well enough with chorizo croquettes from the snack section.  The outer was crisp, the filling full of the spicy sausage, with a chilli sauce that clings and heats.  These are worth four quid of anyone’s money.  A ham hock terrine starter was rustic and comforting, the meat chunky, with the occasional bite of carrot set within the aspic jelly.  It works well with a not overly pickled piccalilli.

We also like the wellington of roast vegetables, the ratatouille covered in an upturned field mushroom and lattice pastry.  It is the kind of vegetarian cooking I admire, a change from the usual half-arsed pasta offering, and enough to make an ex non-meat eater turn the protein down for a day.  And she was pleased, which is more than I have managed this year.

And then it all falls to pieces.  A stone cold pie takes an age to return to the kitchen.  When it returns it is passable, but not much else.   The beef is a touch tough and considering that the word ‘pepper’ makes a third of its description, it is woefully under seasoned.  A hockey puck masquerading as a beef burger has an odd soggy texture throughout that breaks down the brioche bun it sits on.   It’s tough going, though we take solace in the bacon and fried egg being decent.  I bet they do a good breakfast here.  Chips on both dishes had the back note of fat and were far from crisp.

We order a hot chocolate and salted caramel because the next tables reaction as it oozed across their plate merited one.  Ours was overcooked by several minutes and ended up more akin to a Rolo than the liquid dessert expected.  I assume that the wedge on top of this was honeycomb.  I assume this because my teeth would let me nowhere near it, in the same way they couldn’t crack the spun sugar decoration on top of a rhubarb and orange tart.  In that case the pastry was good, the filling bland.  We should have seen the signs and quit long ago.  We only have ourselves to blame.

Service was pleasant, though slow and there is no apology offered in any way for the cold pie.  The bill for the sits around £30 each, hardly a fortune, yet still disappointing given the expectations.  And there lies the problem; rightly or wrongly these accolades do come with expectation, expectation that they fell well short upon.  I could list a dozen pubs nearer to home more deserving in my opinion.  But that is all subjective.  What matters is we had a lunch that was littered with errors, where nobody left satisfied.  And that simply is not good enough.

5/10

Sticky Walnut, Chester

I’m not sure what I expected of Sticky Walnut, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t what we got.  I don’t want to it to sound like I wasn’t happy; on the contrary; the small team here delivered an almost flawless meal from start to finish.  It’s just that the place’s reputation conjures something more exuberant and flashier than the reality of a small bistro in a suburb of Chester.  The décor is basic; bare tables and chairs, a blackboard, and a bookshelf adorned with some serious cookbooks.  Staff wear jeans and aprons, looking and acting like they enjoy being there.  It’s all a bit of a revelation to how dining can be with the stuffiness completely removed.  As much as I enjoy donning a suit and tie to have dinner at Le Gavroche, I’m enjoying being here on the basis that they don’t care who I am provided I am not being a twat.

Maybe the root of the adulation is the menu that reads like a prose.  It is skilled at speaking to the customer in a language we understand, with a basic desire to feed, and to feed with a collection of ingredients that sound like they should be together. After deciding that one of everything is not an option, we order bread and olives and cocktails and wine, before taking some more time to peruse.  The focaccia is gorgeous stuff; light and packed with the flavour of olive oil.

We get started properly and instantly I am in love.  Mozzarella is blasted with direct heat and nestled on lightest of romesco sauces packing the biggest of flavours.  Across the top is a charred calcot, a slightly milder spring onion, that adds a warmth and sweetness.  It is impeccably balanced.  A chicken liver pate is all technique, the offal seemingly sieved and sieved and then sieved again until it’s smoother than the tones of Barry White.  Pickled rhubarb the perfect foil to cut through the richness.

In all of the time I have been eyeing up here the Jacobs ladder has never left the menu, so it makes sense that we should now try it.  The beef short rib has been long braised until it is just holding it’s shape, sat on polenta so creamy it could have been mistaken for Joel Robouchon’s pomme puree.  Honestly, I’m not mad on the anti-presentation that see’s the meat mostly covered by shallot petals braised in red wine and crispy bits of fried kale, but that is about as much as I say as negative comment.  It’s seasoned to an inch of its life.  It’s cohesive.  It’s absolutely fucking brilliant.

Do I need to tell you that another main of merguez cassoulet was of equal standard?  Probably not, but I will anyway.  It’s a dish that owes the flavour to time and patience, with the ham hock and lamb sausage unified by a robust tomato sauce.  There are wedges of carrot and butter beans to remind that the fun is elsewhere on the plate.  A puddle of vivid green parsley oil is the clever addition.  It’s a splash of light amongst the dark and heady flavours it rests beneath.  Fat chips with parmesan and truffle oil are prime examples of the best use for a potato.

We do desserts because we know what is good for us.  Rhubarb reappears poached and as a compote, with shards of green tea meringue, blobs of lemon curd, and a yogurt sorbet, all for additional freshness.  It’s light and harmonious, a refreshing way to end a meal.  On the other end of the scale is a sticky toffee pudding, lighter than it looks but no less naughty.  We finish with a pre-ordered birthday cake, a bargain at £25.00 given that it could comfortably feed ten.  We take the thinnest slices possible and box the rest.  The cake is mostly chocolate mousse, garnished with a little honey comb and some honeycomb ice cream.  The remainder would serve us well for the rest of the weekend.

As if anymore reason was needed to go, the wine list is almost entirely under £40 per bottle and prices dip down at lunch to a totally irrational £16 for two courses.  We overdo it on everything over two hours and struggle to hit forty quid each, including that birthday cake. It’s fantastic to see the group expanding – an additional two already, with a fourth lined up for Liverpool.  The truth is they deserve to be everywhere.  Accessible and affordable; ingredient led cooking with precision.  Sticky Walnut is as good as a bistro gets.

9/10

Porta, Chester

Chester strikes me as a place not difficult to find good food. Walking inside the city walls I was struck by the amount of independent bars and restaurants, each of them seemingly thriving in this rather lovely city. Had I not been so obsessive about planning every meal one month in advance, I think we would have been fine finding our own feeds by carelessly meandering about, casually looking in windows at menu’s. But I am that obsessive and the idea of careless meandering is almost as much of nightmare to me as lunch with Piers Morgan. I dig out the Michelin guide, consult the family as to what they want, and decide that we are having tapas for our Saturday evening dinner at Porta, even if Porta don’t know it yet, because this is 2017 and they don’t take reservations.

We arrive at the reasonable time at half six and the place is heaving.   It’s a split-level restaurant; galley kitchen and waiting area through the doorway, eating levels both above and below. Our projected waiting time of thirty minutes ends up being half of that, and we are swiftly moved to a congested area on the bottom level where lighting levels are more suited to owls than humans. We order widely across the menu and watch the frantic service from the back of the room, as dishes are weaved between tables and to our barrel table by eager staff.

The first dishes to arrive are staples of any tapas restaurant.  Tomato bread is exactly how it should be; toasted and lightly flavoured with garlic – the tomato on top a mush of natural sweetness.  It tastes even better with drapes of Iberico ham, full of depth and intensity, which dissolves slowly on the tongue.  A tortilla is one of the better examples I have had in this country – the egg mixture properly seasoned, the texture only just set and the potatoes properly cooked through.  We are divided on the pickled chillies with some of the group saying that they taste only of vinegar.  They are wrong.  The chillies have lost some of the heat during the pickling process and have picked up an acerbic quality.  I quickly finish the jar.

There were a couple of dishes that never worked as well, so I’ll mention these in the middle as part of the proverbial ‘shit sandwich’ that RBS managerial training taught me so well.  Prawns.  Fat ones that looked far juicier than in reality, marginal overcooked and bathing in a garlic butter fragrant with parsley.  They are nice but unmemorable.  Equally pleasant are croquettes that have nailed the texture but are lacking in pig flavour.  Another plate has young broccoli with a romesco sauce that bullies the veg off the plate with a whack of garlic and pimento.  As much as I love the red pepper condiment, the dish is out of sync with its components.

But then it all goes brilliantly again.  Ox cheek has been long braised, with the slices finished on the plancha so that the Malliard reaction reinforces the bovine flavour throughout the spoonable meat.  Picos de Europa is liberally topped with honey, sultanas, and caramelized walnuts, all of which gentle caress the pungent notes of the blue cheese.  Dish of the night is the shoulder cut from an Iberico pig, served medium with a little salsa verde that cuts through it all with herby acidic notes.  A confession; we shared much of the food, though I anticipated eating this alone on the grounds that pink pork would not be everyone’s taste.  I was wrong.  The plate disappears before I get to the third slice.

There is more.  Of course there is; I am a glutton and the food is too good to turn down.  We have more thinly sliced charcuterie with glistening fat, and potato bravos which would turn out to be a better home for the sauce that came with the broccoli.  Lentils with chorizo would be a fitting way to finish.  The dish was earthy and intense.  We practically lick the bowl clean.

The price for all of the above and a fair amount of booze comes in at under £125.00 – I don’t need to tell you how much of a bargain that is.  Porta is a fantastic place which highlights the best of Spanish cooking.  The very best dishes live on their simplicity; they have nowhere to hide and nor should they – this is vibrant food with soul.  I would urge you to book a table and try it for yourself.  Except you can’t book a table – this is 2017, after all.

There is a wine bar that backs on to Porta which also merits a mention.  Covino may be a month or so old, but the owner Chris exudes the sort of confidence in grape knowledge that makes you feel like your intelligence has improved just by being in his presence.  It was recommended by one of the team at Sticky Walnut and was so good we went Friday, left with some wine for back at the house, and went again after our meal at Porta.  Go grab one of those twelve seats and thank me afterwards.  The place is a wine lovers dream.

8/10