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