Scott’s of Harborne, Harborne

On the lunch we visit Scott’s of Harborne the paint has barely given up its odour. It’s new, just five weeks old, with the glazed white tiles that mark the table tops and walls still gleaming and wooden frames unblemished. They built this place themselves, they would later tell us, and you can tell they are rightly proud. It looks great. I’ll even forgive the jaunty toilet seat that non-consensually bends you to an acute angle like a prison shower victim. It doesn’t let you cogitate, which is good thing when you only have one loo.

And they’re trying hard to succeed. Maybe too hard. Being usually a champion of generous portions I will go against my own words and say that they either need to reduce portion sizes or increase the prices. At present I fail to see where the profit margins are. Take the lamb kofta’s with hummus, grilled courgette, and sourdough flatbreads – its £4, less if you order multiples like we did. The lamb had been spiked with pine nuts, the hummus perfectly serviceable. It is a very clean tasting plate of food and a cheap lunch in itself, which is fine if you’re the frugal shopper. I personally think it’s too kind.

The best bits happen to be the most simple. Wedges of chorizo in lacquered red wine sauce, and square chips of potato with aioli and a tomato sauce. That tomato sauce would reappear throughout the brunch and needs more swagger, though is a good starting point for now. In some cases, such as the meatballs, the lack of punch allows the quality of the beef to shine. These three, squash ball in size, are another £4. It’s a very nice bit of food.

The only real let down is the baked eggs. That tomato sauce has sweet corn this time for company but it is not enough to stop it from veering into boredom. We save it by taking focaccia from the ever-excellent Peel and Stone bakery, dipping it in a little of the treacly balsamic vinegar and piling the egg and tomato on. Suddenly it has character. We finish up with a goats cheese and sundried tomato tart. The pastry crumbles in all the right places, the filling is plentiful. We take the rest home to enjoy later on.

Thirty quid buys more food than we need, when half of that could fed the both of us. It’s a lovely place with lovely staff and I desperately want them to be a local success, something that the full dining room is clearly in agreement with. But please make the most of these busy periods by putting cash in the till. Make the people of Harborne pay for something this nice. They can afford it.

7/10

Hen and Chickens, Jewellery Quarter

Claire has been banging on about the mixed grill at the Hen and Chickens since we met, which, if you’re either of our previous partners reading this, was seven lovely months ago and not a day before. We had come into the city centre with the intention of going to a vegan restaurant but sometimes tofu and quinoa just doesn’t cut it. Actually, never does tofu and quinoa cut it. We opt for the Hen and Chickens, beloved of my beloved on account of the mixed grill that is her benchmark for a mouthful of protein. And I’m happy with this. It’s a pub, I can drink beer and eat meat. I can pretend to pay attention to her whilst watching the football over her shoulder. Very happy indeed.

It’s hot in here. So hot Nelly wrote a song about it. The recent refit is a smart move towards bare brick walls, leather booths and dark wooden tables. It’s a close space and our table is initially a spill over area for those either side of us. We fallout over the size of the mixed grill, I want to spend the extra £4 on a large, whilst Claire wants a medium, which is not an analogy for our relationship. I win, which is an analogy for our relationship.

She was right, which is absolutely an analogy for our relationship. It’s massive, a group feed rather than just the two of us. It’s all good, some of it is spectacular. The green chicken is part of the latter; spicy with marinade seemingly full of chilli heat, it knocks spots off the more conventional chicken tikka and that is one of the city’s better versions. We love the chicken niblets, which are thigh drumsticks coated in a thick cornflour batter, and chunks of a firm white fish coated in a batter fragrant with garam masala. Sheekh kebab could maybe do with more heat, but chicken wings make up for it with aggressive spicing that penetrates throughout the meat. In short, it’s a monster feed for seventeen quid. The reason to come. If you’re not ordering this you’re simply missing out.

Stupidly, we order more food and it fails to hit the same dizzying heights of the mixed grill. Masala fries are as passable as frozen chips coated in garam masala will ever be. A chicken balti initially starts off as one dimensional until the spices slowly start to reveal layer-by-layer. By the time we finish we are chasing the last dots of sauce around the bowl with a very good garlic naan.

All this, a pint and a gin comes in at £36, and we leave with half the mixed grill in a bag which serves well for lunch the following day. The Hen and Chickens wasn’t one of the original desi pubs, but it did take the appeal of places like The Vine and stick them in a more convenient and appealing location. I liked it, it’s probably my favourite at this point in time. And that large mix grill is a reason to go in itself.

8/10

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The Plough, Harborne

It was three years ago, when this blog was in its infancy, I first wrote about The Plough. This was before the awards and the accolades, when the number of my twitter followers was lower than my sexual partners. It was the first place I ever gave a perfect ten to, but nobody read the blog, so frankly who cares. As the blog has grown I’ve continued to go The Plough and I’ve felt a tinge of guilt that one of the best places in Birmingham amassed a total of 600 views, whilst now a write-up of a shite brunch and subsequent fallout with a tv licence pilfering ‘comedian’ gets many multiples of that within 24 hours of posting.

So now I’m going to abuse my readership by jumping back on that Plough to churn up the ground once more. It’s still the best pub in Birmingham. The city continues to grow in its brilliance, with many excellent pubs coming since, and this little spot in Harborne continues to adapt and knock spots off them. I could bang on about the drinks, including a cocktail program curated by Rob Wood, a stellar whisky collection, and the damm right naughty wine list, but you’re here for the food. And quite rightly so.

A recent dinner proved they are much more than just pizza and burgers. Garlic bread sits in the small plates section, arriving dotted with mozzarella and ‘nduja, each cancelling the others more verdant qualities in all the right ways. It has now overtaken pork scratchings as my favourite partner to a pint. A tangle of pulled beef brisket with sweet potato is the dish I go to to find comfort. I break the yolk of the fried egg and load on to thickly sliced toasted bread. The meat is tender without being mush, and I suspect there is spice involved – maybe Worcestershire sauce – in the cooking of the hash. It’s rich, and it requires the apple chutney to cut through it all, but it’s also bloody lovely.

A fairly recent addition has been the Cubanos – toasted sandwiches to you and I. We have the chicken, smokey with paprika, with bacon and Swiss cheese. Much like the rest of the menu here, its unfussy in concept and massive in portion. It shares a plate with fries that we can’t get excited over, and a perky salad that we do thanks to the clever additions of black bean, feta, and avocado along with the usual suspects. Have this (or the pork, it’s equally good) and ask for all salad and no fries. This was not my suggestion if they say no.

I simply can’t go 38 months and not rave about the above pizza with ‘nduja and mascarpone. This has been on for about a year and is the dish we always order – the perfect balance of heat and cooling. The above picture is not from the recent dinner, but two weeks prior. Don’t @ me, whatever that means.

Looking back at what I wrote back then, it’s clear The Plough have mastered consistency – they still have staff that react to the smallest of gestures and yet know when to leave you alone. They still keep beer in impeccable condition and still only use the finest of ingredients. In short,they are still the best pub in Birmingham. Nowhere else comes close.

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Button Factory, Birmingham

I was late to our dinner reservation because I’d been singing Toto’s ‘Africa’ in a park with a group of strangers. Why, I’m not entirely sure, but I enjoyed it greatly even if my girlfriend moaned incessantly about the temperature throughout. Soon after we were cosied up within the bare-bricked confines of the Button Factory, me with a Smokey Old Fashioned and her wearing the disapproving look only a glass of diet coke induces. I’d go through many more of those before we end the evening and those looks would become more and more menacing. It turns out that standing in the cold watching your boyfriend channel his inner 80’s rock god and following it up with him getting wasted is not everyone’s ideal night out. You can’t please everyone, it seems.

Still, Claire ended the evening happy and replete. There is some genuinely good stuff going on at the Button Factory, like properly good in a way I honestly did not expect. From the small plates section comes some of the best hummus in the city. The key is the texture, smooth, with coarser chunks of chickpea mixed in for interest, and the dusting of nutty dukkah over the top. It never bores, and that is an achievement for a dish as universally bland as hummus. The same goes for battered calamari that are greaseless and cooked without any chewiness, and lamb kofta, smokey and delicately spiced that are lovely, moreish things. Only the ‘nduja croquettes fail to hit the spot, with not enough of the spicy sausage to penetrate the mashed potato.

The pork and chorizo burger has never left the menu here and I can sort of see why. The burger makes full use of the josper grill here, imparting a smokiness on the crust that works with the mixture. It fills a hole without ever becoming special in the same way other parts of the menu do, parts such as the flat iron chicken. That chicken, oh my, brined, cooked in the water bath and then blasted on the Josper, its salty and charred and as good as any chicken I’ve eaten in a very long time. For a minute or so we put everything else aside and concentrate on finishing the bird, only returning to the other plates once the task is completed.

Of the sides we select a take on kimchi with fennel that is a pungent thing which works so well with the chicken, and sweet potato dressed in a yogurt that soothes and occasionally pops with chilli heat. The latter is brilliant and laughably cheap at £3. We finish with an arctic roll, a dessert that I was eating when my girlfriend was minus six in age. It’s well made, with plenty of lemon sharpness, and the various raspberry elements all feel warranted. The dish was recommended to us with good reason.

The menu reads well and I had been wanting to eat here before, but holding me back was that nagging feeling that they would not be able to do justice to the Middle Eastern influence that runs through the menu. I was wrong. The use of spice is subtle, there to lift flavours and stop the smokiness from the Josper taking over. It’s all very accomplished. And in that chicken, I’ve found a go-to dish that I’ve already been back for.

8/10

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Peach Garden, China Town

I really hate the term ‘foodie’. I mean really hate it. The term has so many awful connotations of aspirational middle-class Nigella watching farmers market shopping tedium that I want no part of. I’m an adult, call me a gourmand if you want to accurately label my food obsession, or a twat if you just wish to accurately label me. Foodies play Mel and Sue vs Sandi and Noel Top Trumps for fun. They live on diets of flavoured rapeseed oils acquired from the latest food festival. And most of all they love, and I mean really fucking love, telling people where they should be eating. Me? I write about places and I say whether or not I like them. I don’t care for your stomach, you can do as you please, just as long as you keep showing up here and keep voting bi-annually for those sweet, sweet awards.

I say this because I get told where I should be eating a lot. Daily, in fact. Some are well meant suggestions by people who want me to eat well, and others are by foodies who just have to have an opinion in the same way they have to have an arsehole. And those two are often mutually exclusive. It’s the foodies that have sent me to Peach Garden. You must try the triple roast they say, it’s one of Birmingham’s must have dishes. Well fuck you, foodie, I have tried it and it’s about as much must need as your bastard opinion.

The roast consists of pork belly, which is gelatinous and underwhelming, and char sui pork which is better – a striking red which has a far deeper flavour than the belly despite being a leaner cut. These are joined by duck with a skin more flaccid than a male OAP’s appendage and a meat to bone ratio that is greatly in favour of the inedible bit. The meat is cold on top of warm rice, which I am sure is the correct way they do things, but a bit weird to anyone who has a faintly western interpretation of the word ‘roast’. One of Brum’s best dishes this is not, but it is a good feed for seven or so quid.

It fairs significantly better than the Szechuan chicken, which has little heat and bouncy chicken. Again the portions are massive, and this must appeal to some, but we have no intention of finishing it. The dish is gloopy, the sauce crying out for something to bring it alive. Lovely egg fried rice though.

They do something well and that something is a chilli oil full of fire and with the back note of, I think, dried shrimps. The bill is unaggressive, as cheap as the decor we are sat in, totalling a few pence under £20 including a couple of soft drink cans with straws in. Look, I’m sure this is some people’s idea of heaven, it just happens not to be mine. Peach Garden, I’ve listened, I’ve tried and it’s just not for me. And you bastard foodies, i’m never listening to a word you say again.

5/10

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Salt, Stratford-Upon-Avon

The last time we stayed in Stratford the head chef of the restaurant we dined at told us to eat at Salt. We come home and a blogger friend of mine (I do have them, they’re not all horrid) tells me I should go to this great place she went to called Salt. The Good Food Guide comes out and the newcomer of the year is a little place in Stratford called Salt. We get the hint and book Salt. Ages ago actually, so much so that shaggy headed giant Jay Rayner tells the world just how great Salt is two weeks before we go. We expect it be great. Of course we do. Everyone else thinks it is. Even the blogger, and heaven forbid she even paid to go.

And guess what? It is great. Maybe the best £130 that I’ve parted with for two hours of fun since that stag party in Prague. Paul Foster has created a space with bags of character, where the only attitude can be found on the plate. It’s a star from the off, with smoked almonds that leave an imprint on the soul and impeccably sourced green olives that greet us on the table. Warm bread rolls first appear to be a little underdone though transpire to be a denser crumb with a nutty backnote. These are lovely; even better when smeared thick with butter so yellow it radiates warmth. For those who want it, there is a salt pot on the table. Of course there is.

The first of the lunch tasting menu is a belter. Pink fir potatoes wearing a coat of lardo, and a dusting of roasted yeast that echoes the taste of a jacket potato. It’s neatly layered in flavour, carefully controlled and ego free. The same applies to fillets of hake, flesh golden and just holding shape, sharing the plate with caramelised cauliflower puree and lightly dressed fennel. It is food that begs to be eaten as much as admired. We do both.

A bowl of carrots would be my favourite thing that I ate. Protruding out is a baton of bright orange veg slow cooked in chicken fat that I would be tempted to put a ring on, had I not wasted enough on diamonds already this year. There is a broth of sorts at the base cut through with a faint kick of vinegar, pickled carrots, a rye tuile, and blitzed crispy chicken skin for seasoning, because using only salt all the time must be boring for them. The result is a beautiful interplay of sweet and acidity, that is homely and comforting at the same time. It’s one of my dishes of the year, and I’ve been lucky to eat some seriously good food in 2017.

A pheasant breast would be the first time that it was obvious a sous-vide machine was in action, the meat cooked perfectly but lacking the depth that a slow roast provides. A purée of black garlic adds a fermented funk that needs the pickled shallots to cut through, whilst roasted yeast adds a deep savouriness. There is light and shade everywhere with only the cavolo nero and breast sitting central. It may not hit the heights of some of the previous courses but it’s still seriously impressive.

Desserts were on paper more challenging, though less so in reality. a brown bread ice cream was gummy in texture to the point that it clings to spoon and mouth, with a brown bread tuile, and sorrel granita hiding poached blueberries. I enjoy it much more than I thought I would, the sorrel and blueberry flavour seemingly lengthened by the ice cream coating the roof of the mouth. A similar story was had with a dark chocolate ganache, pumpkin cream, with chocolate tuille and shard of caramelised white chocolate for texture. Together it is a cohesive blend of soft and hard bits, working in unison with much more clarity than expected. The last mouthfuls are some of the best; choux buns with raspberry and Douglas fir oil. It is old school pastry work with flavours firmly rooted in the present.

The lunch tasting menu above totals £45 per head, which must make it one of the best value lunches in the country given the quality and volume of food. Despite its relative infancy, Paul Foster and the team have created a restaurant where seasonal ingredients are cooked with real technique. The accolades that follow will be just a matter of time. Every single recommendation for Salt has been justified.

9/10

Zindiya, via Deliveroo

December, a food lovers nightmare. Reservations are impossible to come by, and when they do happen, you’ll mostly find yourself dining from an overpriced set menu, surrounded by those who only get out once a year. The types who get pissed on two drinks and cop off with Martin from accounts in the toilet cubicle whilst you really need the loo, and clog the bar with orders for the entire department. I can’t take those pricks. Had I never had friendships that only survive on that one annual piss-up, I’d stay in all month, eating, watching Masterchef and pulling apart the plot holes in a two-thousand-year-old story about the alleged son of God and an intact hymen. I’m not buying it. I fail to accept that booking.com was down on the very day that they landed in Jerusalem, or that three men that rocked up with such useless presents could ever be called wise. At this time of year the only wise man I’m opening my door to is a Deliveroo driver bearing the gift of Zindiya.

Zindiya being on Deliveroo is a BIG thing. They’ve previously had no takeaway option and the increasing success means it’s harder than ever to get a table. What opened as a Moseley favourite is now a Birmingham hero, beloved of the lowlifes like me to Michelin starred chefs.

That delivery process hasn’t affected the quality. The chicken tikka is still in Birminghams top five dishes and tastes better than ever. The aloo tikki chaat still zings with heat and deft spicing. That bhel puri is still a textural delight.

We tried a couple of dishes that have incredibly still eluded us. There was a toastie of sorts that has the crunch of raw onion hidden under melted cheese and chillies that at £3.50 for two pieces doesn’t feel like value for the first time. It’s the Chole Bature that steals the show. The bread is delicate and airy, the perfect vehicle for the chickpea curry. Top it with a bit of the sev and nuts from the bhel puri and thank me afterwards.

The above, including the delivery charge, comes in at £27.00. That chicken tikka is £7, the aloo tikki chaat £4, the Chole Bature a couple of quid more. It’s astonishing value, some of the best food in the city for really very little. Deliveroo have landed big with this and I for one will be making the most of it. In our household, Christmas really has come early.

Deliveroo supplied the credit for this meal.

The Oak Room at Ettington Park

The long driveway into Ettington Park could be straight out of a movie. The road slowly bends around as the trees begin to disperse and the mansion looms majestically at the back. The side profile, being the first full look, is impressive enough, though the gothic turrets and dramatic arched windows really come into their own from face-on. It’s a handsome building within beautiful grounds, the ideal romantic getaway. Oh, and it’s allegedly the country’s most haunted hotel. Given how the weekend would pan out, a ghost would be the only thing going bump in the night in our room.

The proportions here are of those built a long time ago with little care for budget. Staircases unwind into large receptions, drinks are enjoyed in drawing rooms larger than some homes. Our room is functional without being flash, spacious without the excess the rest of the building has. It has the benefit of a view across the sprawling grounds that succeeds in making me want to leave it and explore. The bed is deep and provides a good night sleep before breakfast the following morning.

The restaurant here is The Oak Room, a beautifully appointed space of dark woods and low light. It is exceptionally romantic, an ideal space for two people to relax and enjoy the two AA rosette food. Except I am here alone. My girlfriend is in bed, laid low with the finest that the Indian water sanitation system could send her back with, just 24 hours from landing. It’s not an ideal situation, though a bottle of good red from a top-heavy wine list proves to be an adequate companion. My mood does not improve with the amouse bouche, a goats cheese mousse with crouton and cherry. The first mouthful is great; the crouton is buttery and light, the sharp sweetness of the cherry an ideal counterfoil, but once they go it is just three more spoonful’s of goats cheese on its own. It needs a rethink in how it is plated.

A pork cheek starter is sat on a dice of celery and apple that gives a subtle nod toward Waldorf. There is a smear of cauliflower purée and a charred floret from the same brassica. It eats well, but once again we have issues with proportion; not enough of that tender cheek to go with all that veg.

And then fireworks happen. Monkfish loin rolled in spices, with picked carrots and cauliflower, and a bowl of dhaal full of smokiness and gentle heat. Yes, the dish is very obviously inspired by Purnell’s winning fish course on GBM, but frankly who cares when it is this good. I’ve eaten both and this probably pips it on the basis that the flavour is more pronounced. I love the additional tangle of fried onion that they call bhaji and I am calling paradise, and the yogurt dressing which tempers the heat when liberally applied. It’s a super bit of cooking.

The same applies for dessert, a beautifully worked homage to the apple. At the base is a silky smooth set cream, blanketed in a sharp jelly and balls of macerated fruit. On the side are two perfectly made cinnamon donuts. It’s apple pie without the scalded mouth. The flavour is fantastic, each layer pronounced and overall cleansing rather than too sweet.

The meal may have improved with every course but the service was polished to a high gleam throughout. They have a smart operation here that is seamless in delivery; wine is effortlessly topped up, dishes nudged in and out of place from acute angles. It works as a restaurant on its own, not just as a facility for a hotel. I want to return when we can enjoy for what it is, not when I am sat bullseye in the room, with a room full of couples wondering who the weirdo on his own taking pictures of his food is. But that’s fine with me. I return to the room, where I find the TV on and madam fast asleep. Ettington Park is a beautiful place to spend a night or three, she too will understand this one day soon.

7/10

Our stay at Ettington Park Hotel was complimentary, and they subsidised a proportion of the dinner bill. The stay was arranged by Shakespeare’s England. Www.shakespeares-england.co.uk

Cappadocia, Jewellery Quarter

Google tells me that Cappadocia is a geological oddity in a semi-arid location, with homes carved directly into rock faces by Bronze Age cave dwellers. It sounds just like Dudley. And just like the Black Country’s finest, I wasn’t overly enthralled by the thought of going. It was another night of eating out, and I had a job interview the following morning and blah blah blah you don’t care for my whining about going out too much and quite rightly so. I know that I should really be thanking that God who doesn’t exist for my life of excess, not moaning and bitching and choosing to ignore the pain that starts across my chest and travels down my arm. And so I have made it out, sat in a lovely new Turkish restaurant in the Jewellery Quarter with a waiter who has taken a real interest in my name. I’m going to enjoy it. Really, I am.

It turns out that not enjoying it is not an option; the place is a total joy, one of those meals where you look at one another and the eyes say it all. At some point whilst stuffing my face with kebab I think I called one of the best finds of 2017, which I’m sticking with on the proviso that you stick to my suggestions . Top billing goes to a plate of loose hummus topped with crispy bits of lamb, complete with cooking liquor the deep brown colour of unapplied fake tan. Someone realised that hummus would be better burnished with meat juices and they are right. Find this man and bring him to me for further interrogation immediately. It is up there with the very best ways to spend £8 in Birmingham. I want to be preserved in this when I kick the bucket.

Prior to this we try some cold starters with flatbreads that fold easier than a Philip Green owned BHS. We love the baba ghanoush with fat chunks of aubergine that is so smokey it should come with a public health warning. Less love for the strained yogurt and cucumber which I am reliably told reaches ‘peak dill’ by my companion, but really doesn’t taste of much at all, and we’re back in the good books with a spritely Russian salad, though I am unsure what provenience it has here. Perhaps holding an airbase in Turkey has given them the right. And they make their own chilli sauce, a smokey pungent blitz of burnt vegetables and lots of chilli. It goes well with the halloumi and spiced beef sausage starter that is exactly as it sounds.

I admire the mains because they are intended to feed, not be photographed by idiots like me for Instagram. Both plates consist of bits of sheep and poultry, some rice and some bulgur wheat, and an attempt at salad. Everything we eat is a success, mostly because it tastes of what it is supposed to, which is animal, salt, and smoke. Best are the minced kebabs; the spiced lamb sheekh and chicken sibling which we tear apart with hands, douse with the chilli sauce and load on to the flatbread below that have soaked up the good bits.

If they do desserts I never saw them, though this is no bad thing. My suggestion is simple; book here and have the lamb and hummus for starters and follow it up with the minced kebabs combination. Throw in a medium sized glass of wine and your bill is under £25.00. Tip them. Thank them with all your heart for the meat sweats. Ask for some of that chilli sauce to take home and don’t look too disheartened when they say no. Go home and tweet me to say thanks for bringing it to your attention. I will probably ignore you. Do all of this and you will find a rather lovely Turkish restaurant. I can’t promise it will all be brilliant, but parts of Cappadocia are as good as it gets.

8/10

I was invited to dine at Cappadocia

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Masdings at 1000 Trades

Let’s talk battered pickled spicy pineapple rings. A hybrid of the fritters at your local Chinese takeaway and frickles, those battered fried pickles you’ve ordered at The Meat Shack. They are sweet and acidic and hot and more addictive than a Tetris session on Hillbilly Crack (not that I would know. Honest.). They are just one part of one burger at Masdings, providing a sharp astringency and some sweet, sweet love. And they are also available as a side. I tried one on the burger and then ordered more as a side. I expect you will do exactly the same.

That burger is called The Heizenberg and it is what you should be ordering when you get to 1000 Trades this December. At it’s core is an 8oz hockey puck of a beef patty, robust in flavour and cooked just a little past the medium rare they promise. It comes with bacon that has been cooked in Maple syrup and chipotle mayo. It is utter filth and a substantial feed for £8. With the lamb burger sold out on our visit, we order a Smokey Robinson that has a similar offering to The Heizenberg, only with the addition of smoked cheese and minus those battered pineapple rings. My heart may lay with the the former, but I’m happy to kept the latter as my dirty little secret.

A portion of chips with halloumi and chorizo is perhaps the closest we get to Masding’s other business, the Mediterranean influenced Kebabylon. These are brash and a hearty lunch by themselves at £4.50. Indeed, all of this feels like really value with the food elements coming in at £22 and the evening’s beers far more than that. I can find very little to dislike at Masdings other than that awful abuse of apostrophes which hurts to these chubby fingers to type. The residency is on until the 22nd of December and is well worth a visit.

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