Adam’s, October 2020

Given that I’m going to spend November confined to my four walls, I’m kind of pleased I had the ridiculous October that I did. I started it on holiday, went to several starred restaurants, filmed a showreel, helped launch a restaurant, started a business, and flew to Italy to eat in what’s widely regarded as the best restaurant in the world. I drank a lot of wine. A lot of negronis. I was living my best life, as the kids say.

Quite possibly the culinary highlight of this was a solo lunch at Adam’s. It was a happy coincidence; I’d planned on cycling into town for a meeting but blew a puncture on the way. I ended up taking a taxi in, had a glass of wine in the meeting, and decided to chance a walk-in for a nice bit of lunch at a place I’ve been meaning to revisit for over a year. They found me a table, I order a bone dry martini and away we go.

There’s an ease to Adam’s that feels special. The service is graceful and concise. Everyone, from the kitchen downstairs, to the front of house knows every dish inside out. Textbook gougeres appear alongside a beef tartare wrap full of ginger notes. Then bread, sturdy crust and crumb full of chew, and two spreads; one a whipped pork fat studded with bacon and another a butter I don’t cheat on it with. I can’t do that to bacon.

It’s clear that the present one star rating from Michelin isn’t enough for them, and if any restaurant within Birmingham is going to make the jump to a second star, it’s here. The precision that the guide look for at that level is everywhere. A salad of tomatoes arrives cloaked in a jelly disc that ripples like body parts under a duvet. It’s clean yet distinctly Japanese thanks to the shiso, ponzu, and dashi. Then a dish of eel, apple, and caviar which wouldn’t look out of place in Paris. Smoked eel bound in creme fraiche, discs of apple, dots of purée, and a fat quenelle of caviar. A sauce of finger lime needed to cut through all the richness. On the side is a tempura of eel dressed in teriyaki. A stunning dish that offers something different with every mouthful. Loved it, loved it, loved it.

Suckling pig is a big comforting dish of belly and loin, with a hash of potato, silky potato purée, spring onion, roasted onion, pickled onion, a gastrique, and a sticky sauce that they were happy to fetch more of when I took the bread to the last of on the empty plate. More impeccable cooking on the two proteins; one a pale pink, the other slow cooked to the point that the fat becomes the glue to bind skin and meat together. Completely different to anything I’d eaten prior in this lunch, yet rooted in the same faultless workmanship. It probably didn’t need the loin, but maybe that’s just me.

Given I’m the best part of two bottles in by now, dessert is a bit on the hazy side. It’s a cylindrical fig parfait, bound tightly in an orange jelly, orange sorbet, pistachios candied and as an airy El Bulli style sponge, figs, and a chocolate cremeux. I didn’t leave a scrap so it must have been good. Petit fours are washed down with more wine.

The bill is the wrong side of £150 for one and worth every penny, so much so I offer to take my girlfriend back the following day, though she turns me down as she has something called a job. It’s a simply brilliant lunch full of detail and flavour. Adam’s have come along way since I first had the roast chicken Bon Bon in a makeshift dining room on Bennett’s Hill. Eight years on and they feel ready to make the next step up.

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Staycations at Hampton Manor

Fast forward to the end of the first night of the staycation at Hampton Manor and we’re sat in the bar, whisky in hand whilst Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rumours’ hums away in the background. I’m on whisky number five, maybe six, each handpicked by Fraser’s impeccable taste based on my preferences. Salty, smoky numbers, I’m introduced to distilleries I never knew existed. In all we’ve had a great night; pre-drinks before dinner in their more casual offering, Smoke, then this. The food was tremendous, the setting even better as we found ourselves alone in the dimly lit vine house whilst others dined in the greenhouse and the bare-bricked Smoke to keep us socially distanced. Beetroot and goats cheese, then the softest shoulder of lamb with Dijon potatoes and hispi cabbage; all cooked in the wood fired oven which punctures the wall. Then, to finish, apple pie and custard, a bit like the one you get from the Golden Arches, only better. Washed down with paired wines of real interest. A pokey Pet Nat, a Malbec, then an iced cider. We turn down the chance to toast marshmallows over the open fire: I have whisky to drink, and drink whisky I do. At 9.50pm they give me a large measure of Lagavulin to take to bed with me. It turns out the whisky is included in the package, they just don’t make a song and dance of it. I love this place.

Rewind eight hours and we’re checking in for the long weekend. There is sanitiser and face masks for plebs like us who have left theirs at home, and a warm welcome from a team who all have hospitality at heart. A quick drop off of the bags to the room and we’re back down the stairs for Afternoon Tea in the beautiful Nyetimber summer house. It’s here we have the sausage roll of all sausage rolls, fat scones topped with jam then cream (don’t @ me), delicate strawberry tarts flavoured lightly with basil, and chocolate brownies that we take home because I don’t want to ruin dinner. We wash it down with Nyetimber. Glorious Nyetimber. When in Rome and all that.

Saturday day is when the fun really starts. My whisky head wakes me up just in time for breakfast: eggs benedict and strong black coffee for me, full English and tea for the lady. They are both perfect in a way that hotel breakfasts never are. We plod back towards the walled garden in Smoke for a masterclass in chocolate with WNDR. Ninety minutes later of chuckles and intense nodding and I’ve made my own chocolate bar. Take that, Wonka. Then back to the room, pick up map and walk around the grounds, discuss moving to Hampton in Arden, decide it’s too far away from Couch, then back to Smoke for wine tasting. James’s love of natural wine is infectious, I’ve been drawn into it before, and I’ll never tire of it. We drink a white, something more adventurous, and a red. I still know nothing because I’m drawn into a room filled with people who are keen to try something different and learn at the same time. Absolutely WNDRful. Back to the room, I need a sleep but there’s no time; we have a Michelin starred dinner. Claire gets in the bath, orders Nyetimber. Maybe there is time.

This is the third occasion I’ve eaten in Peels and my favourite so far. Rob Palmer’s food now feels like it’s entirely his; the bits of other people’s styles you could see two years back replaced by his style which feels so heavily placed within the garden walls it could be a late Monet. Four courses upgraded to the maximum seven; paired wines with each because we don’t mess around. Nibbles include the best take on a cheese and pickle sandwich I’ve tried, then a first course of cabbage five ways with caviar, followed by the potato terrine with xo butter that I’ve raved about before. That potato dish is in my top ten dishes of the year. No question.

Wagyu tartare is diced a fraction too big for my liking and is a little lost in the onion broth, but this is me nit picking. No problems at all with the grouse which is a step away from the finesse and a big slap in the face of game, as it absolutely should be. The ragout of offal interwoven with barley will live long in the memory. Then the cheese course – a different one to the menu which I’d pre-ordered because I’m an arse – which is Colston Bassett on toast and every bit as good as I’d been told (thanks Fraser). Two desserts finish us off; nitrogen frozen raspberries with cream and basil lay-up for the slam dunk that is chocolate, Sherry, and vanilla. A version of this dish was on the menu when we first ate here. This version should never leave. Three hours of solid one star cooking. I order more wine.

We check out Sunday, after the repeat breakfast and another walk around the grounds. At a starting price of £390 per person excluding drinks this isn’t cheap, but it is the most fun I’ve had all year. Hampton Manor is far more than a one star restaurant. It’s the most polished luxury hotel experience, in the most beautiful grounds, from the most hospitable of people. It’s the chance to unwind and learn, whilst eating and drinking until the bed calls. It’s a little piece of paradise. If this awful year has any positives, one must surely be that the spotlight is on our green and pleasant land. Very few places personify that in the way that Hampton do.

Pictures by the very talented and okay company Claire

Ynyshir, October 2020

The bad news is this blog post is even worse than my usual crap. The good news is I’m back at Ynyshir in a few weeks to rectify it. And whilst I offer no apologies for getting in the state I did, I probably should have done it in the pub and saved myself a very large sum of money. We’d never been and shared a table with anyone other than ourselves, but we like Kyle and Lucy and they drink a lot, so it made sense. There were beers and wines consumed whilst getting ready, then gin in the bar before Kyle suggested double vodkas (no mixer) which seemed like a great idea at the time. Then wine. So many bottles of wine, five good bottles I think, with an interval of two rounds of Jaeger bombs (don’t ask). I’m well aware that usually my memory of dessert is hazy. On this instance I’m struggling to remember well before that.

So what can I tell you? I tell you that they’ve had a makeover. The exterior white walls are now a dusky grey, the fire pit is gone, replaced by a all-weather pit which fits seamlessly into an indentation of the facade. Inside the bar has been taken out for more seating, and there is a vending machine now to get pickled onion Monster Munch, Pom Bears, and booze from. I can tell you the tipis were ready, and that due to the unusually warm weather we were one of the first people to stay in them. Log burners and big cosy beds inside, outdoor seating and soon-to-be barbecues outside. Two of the party lay on the grass for hours after dinner watching the shooting stars in the clear night sky, and one of those caught a cold for doing so. I was tucked up in a lovely warm tent under a duvet at this point.

Food-wise it now starts the second you check in, being taken through the chilled contents of the fridge. A5 Hida wagyu from Japan, tuna belly from the Bay of Biscay, caviar, English wasabi root, a dozing lobster on some ice. Foreplay for a meal you simply know is going to be great. The first courses are now served in the bar; squid tempura, all puffed and ethereal, with sweet chilli sauce, then skewers of warmed through tuna belly doused in teriyaki. Gareth’s Geordie sense of humour with raw lobster in Jim’s Nan’s sauce (for those at back it’s a feisty take on Thai condiment, nanjim), which is an alien texture at first but ends up a firm favourite. Then shrimps in Thai green sauce that has only been slightly cooked using the kaffir lime juice in the sauce. It’s all very minimal intervention and Asian flavours. I love it.

Not sure what I can add to the rest of the meal. I remember the chicken katsu is now a deboned and rolled wing, breaded and covered in the sauce, and that the chilli crab has had similar treatment to the lobster in that it’s been frozen in a minus 80 freezer so that the shell can be removed without cooking. The use of the minus 80 freezers appears to be fairly groundbreaking, apart from an ex-girlfriend who used it on her heart many years ago. I remember one of the wagyu courses is now a maki roll of beef, caviar, wasabi, and tuna which made me emotional, and that a dessert of strawberries and cream had a similar effect. I think a slushie machine was involved at some point, but I can’t be certain.

I came into breakfast to Gareth grinning at me. ”You were fucked last night”, he laughed. I apologised and he doesn’t care because it’s our money we don’t remember blowing, and also because I’m fabulous company when pissed as long as I’m not rapping. It was over the obscene ’Mach Muffin’ that we realise that none of us had really taken many pictures. I’m an awful blogger and I don’t care. For a night we were enjoying every second, able to share great company in our favourite place. This blog is important to me, but it isn’t life or death. I’ll try to do it properly when we return for the 8th time on Claire’s birthday early November.

8, Birmingham

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8 is a restaurant which needs to be seen rather than read about. On paper the 16 seater restaurant where all of the 8 courses are based around the number 8 might seem a little gimmicky, until, that is, you are on one of those stools, with those plates in front of you eating some seriously good food. It is here that you see a chef unleashed; his own food and ideas on a plate, following a career of cooking to other people’s briefs in high profile restaurants.

Cards on the table, I have had a tiny amount of involvement in the restaurant. I arranged a couple of launch events – one for chefs, the other for press – and gave my opinion at a drinks tasting, and I suggested the services of someone to make the mixed drinks a little better. I’ve received payment for some things and have done others purely out of wanting to see them succeed. The meal you are reading about is from a press night I helped organise. Whilst it’s important to establish facts, it’s also important to remember that I’ve been critical of dishes before they reached this stage. I’ve eaten almost all of them in isolation, though this is the first time I’ve had them as one cohesive dinner.

But first the dining room, which is unlike anything in Birmingham and has very few reference points outside of the city. A kitchen table of 16 seats, each lit individually by a spotlight that beams on to the logo set upon the oxidised concrete. To one side of the room is a neon infinity wall, to the other a large screen which plays the media for each course. It’s ballsy and in your face. It’s full of talking points. It’s the room which is going to be all over your social media for the rest of the year.

Spelt bread arrives first clad in a sticky apple caramel glaze, to be torn apart between two and clad in butter. Then ‘V8’, the first course proper and named after the juice, a tart of mostly tomato and beetroot, with a warm consommé from the same veg. Delicate pastry, almost sweet filling offset with parsley. It’s a cracking start. It’s followed by ‘oxidised’, a fairly classic tartare of dairy cow with mushrooms, truffle, and a gooey yolk, set between two discs of pressed brioche. Well balanced and rich, it continues to set a high standard. ‘Square Root of Eight’ sees a cube of roasted celeriac share a bowl with a dice of the same veg pickled and a broth of the off-cuts, with little more than a grating of hazelnut for adornment. It comes alive thanks to an incredibly clever drink pairing that contains bourbon, Hungarian sweet wine, and toasted barley oil. I’m biased, but those drink pairings are up there with the best in the country.

From here it gets very, very good. ‘Lucky 8’ is a naughty double mouthful of bread, pork liver parfait, a riff on a famous pickle, cheddar cheese, and lardo. It’s big and moreish. A very famous chef may have eaten three of them. Then a light tartare of scallops and apples, bolstered by a bonito infused cream, which forms the ‘8 Days A Week’ course. We finish the savoury courses with ‘Resurrection’, a venison Wellington studded with foie gras, sauce and that’s it. It doesn’t need anything else. Stellar work, it’s up there with my favourite things to eat in the city. On a side plate is pastry ends. What’s pissed off a kitchen of chefs only adds to the happiness in the dining room.

The first dessert happens to be the first dish that Andrew learnt to make. ‘8-10-2006’ is the date he started as a chef, knocking out carrot cake for afternoon teas. This carrot cake is given an upgrade; one between two, with cream cheese and carrot jam. It’s a stunner. With this a drink that contains carrot vodka. Turns out I like carrot vodka. Last course is ‘8.01’; After Eight, if you like. There’s a chocolate ganache with a puddle of minty chocolate grappa, covered in a spikey alpine of chocolate tuiles. Given the complexity of the work gone into the previous courses, it’s nice to finish on something more simplistic.

The price for the food is £88, more if you go for the drinks pairing, which you really should. I dined in 8 three nights in a row this week prior to the official launch today, and already I have seen minor tweaks and improvements. Given that Andrew describes these as “the eight courses of his career”, it only seems fitting that the dishes continue to evolve, much like him as a chef. As far as experiences go, 8 is as cinematic and widescreen as Birmingham has ever seen. It’s bolshy and ambitious. It demands to be experienced.

You’ve probably correctly guessed I didn’t pay for this.

Better pictures by Where is Claire. Best taxis by A2B.

L’Enclume, Cartmel

It’s fair to say that L’Enclume changed the way I looked at restaurants. Eight years ago I’d been to maybe five or six one star restaurants, but L’Enclume would be the first real journey, 3 and a bit hours up the M6 to Cartmel, for a meal. It was, at the time, ‘the place’; a one star restaurant who people were talking up as the UK’s next 3* star, with Simon Rogan owning that year’s Great British Menu, and Mark Birchall on the pass, fresh from a stint at El Cellar Del Can Roca. The meal was great, a four hour study in local terroir. Afterwards I understood the hype of the place completely grounded in the ingredients of its landscape. That year they bagged a second star, a position they have kept since then.

In the elapsed period of time since, almost every restaurant has followed suit to an extent. Who doesn’t have an allotment/garden/roof terrace to grow their own veg/herbs/honey? The fingerprint that Rogan has left on the UK dining scene is permanently stored in the DNA files.

The restaurant has changed a little, I think. If memory serves me correct, there once was a bar area that’s now more seating, and I think the anvil from which they take the name has gone. The corridor where junior front of house would pass food to more senior members is now an open kitchen. The food feels familiar, but maybe that’s because everyone else is now doing it, though it is certainly more refined than I recall. After a broth of something cold and beetrooty, we move on to the only dish still in place; a deep fried bon bon of smoked eel and pork, it’s outer crisp tapioca coating dotted with fermented sweet corn. We do as we are told and dredge it through the lovage purée it nestles upon. It’s meaty and dense and everything I remembered it to be. It’s also the weakest course of the day. A loaf of good bread between the two of us has the options of cultured butter and whipped pork fat topped with crispy pork skin. You know which one I chose. The fat had that depth of slow roasting, like the pale brown wedges of fat on the scratchings from your local butchers.

From herein it gets real good. Courgette is compressed and has the funk of dried shrimp which I’m assured was toasted yeast, covered in a whey sauce with burnt chive and perch roe. It’s skill is in being unable to pinpoint the central point of the dish, with it all coming together to be one vegetal, umami hit. Then various local mushrooms and romaine lettuce; the latter brined in marjoram and roasted in brown butter. A purée of pickled walnuts and a truffle cream. Deep, nutty woodland flavours. More umami. This is the cooking we came for.

They bring a teapot out for the next course. From it is poured a fennel tea onto a course of cod with crispy kale. The genius is in the addition of dried shrimps that bring a hint of darkness to the otherwise politely mannered dish. Texel lamb finishes off the savoury courses. First dainty slices of rare meat with crisped up fat, some practically raw green beans, discs of nasturtiums, and a fig leaf sauce that I drank direct from the bowl. In a bowl behind lay little cubes of potato cooked in lamb fat, leeks, and a miso foam. I think I preferred it to the loin.

On paper a dessert of gooseberry and sweet cicely does nothing for me, though the reality is it outshone the signature ‘anvil’ which followed. It had perfect balance of fresh herbal notes from the custard, with sweetness coming from a beautifully light sponge underneath. The anvil looks great but is lacklustre in comparison. The tried and tested combination of apple and caramel works but lacks the complexity of everything else we eat. We share an all British cheese board from the ever-excellent Cartmel Cheeses around the corner and finish up on a very generous serving of petit fours. The last time I was here they were three ice creams made from vegetables. In that respect they’ve improved greatly.

Service is some of the best around, with Thomas Mercier able to exude more charm from behind his mask than most pre-pandemic General Managers. The pairings, too, are fantastic; interesting and ideally suited to a style of cooking that leans on verdant dishes etched out with subtle acidity. Given that we indulged in the pairing options and the four extra glasses of wine on top, and the cheese and the four glasses of sweet wine, we spent a mortgage payment on lunch. But it was worth it. The legacy of L’Enclume is that it has provided the backbone of cuisine in this country for over a decade. It’s great to see them continue to drive that on.

Lake Road Kitchen, Ambleside

We start dinner as we usually do; me knocking back a negroni like I’ve never seen one before, my more delicate other half nursing the most expensive cocktail on the list, this time a £19 mixture of champagne, aquavit, and bitters. From our centrally positioned table we can hear Chef Patron, James Cross, speak to the table next to the pass. “Any chef who tells you he has invented something is a liar. We are all borrowing from something. Most of my techniques are 700 years old”. I like the man already.

Four hours later we leave, stumbling back to the hotel discussing one of the best meals we’ve eaten in recent years. Lake Road Kitchen might look unassuming from the outside, but this is one of the best in the UK. The techniques of pickling and fermentation and cooking over flames may well be as old as time, but here they have taken them and stamped their identity on them to produce dish after dish of winners, each bringing a distinct narrative to the central story. The thin sheets of ham with gossamer ribbons of fat have little to do with the course of barbecue quail tacos other than they are both delicious. I could eat a hundred of those tacos. In between these comes possibly the UK’s best bread with an almost cheese-like butter. Again, another hundred portions, please.

Then prawn toast happens. Or prawn Kiev, whichever way you want to view the starting point of the dish. Should we make it to the end of 2020 – which is doubtful at present – I’ll look back and see this as possibly the year’s best plate of food: plump prawns bound in a mousseline of the same shellfish, itself set within a casing and a pocket of garlic butter. Pick up slice, dunk into tomato ketchup. Regret nothing.

The langoustine in a light tomato broth which follows lacks the same punch and is more a study of floral notes and gentle spice, before a beef and onion broth that works as a bread-less French Onion soup with the gratings of Beaufort that mingle and add much needed layers of fattiness. A risotto of pine nuts rich in saffron – and slightly too high in salt – is funky, umami driven, with raw slices of button mushroom and slithers of 7yr old parmesan. We tilt the bowl to get the last out of it.

Gigha Halibut cooked to a gelatinous texture somehow, served with a beurre blanc sauce that pops with trout roe salinity, is the only time the food doesn’t feel original. I’ve had similar dishes at several restaurants in the last twelve months. Then pig, specifically an entire chop of Saddleback for two. First as a singular slice of glistening meat and fat, with carrots both puréed and pickled, pickled onions, and a sauce studded with pickled ransom capers. Then a second plate this bearing the rest of the chop, complete with bone. Some of the best pork I can remember eating; the meat glaze on the outside almost sweet, bathed in bright acidity throughout. Pretty much perfect work.

We finish on three dishes which take us seamlessly from savoury to sweet. Herbaceous, almost hay-like, woodruff ice cream is followed by a blackberry marshmallow ice cream and cassis with the most incredible viscosity that will live long in the memory. Final course is baked cheesecake reminiscent of La Vina, light and creamy in texture, with apricot compote and ice cream. It’s fun and original, a rarity in fine dining.

Service is great and the wine pairings – almost all leaning towards the acidity of alpine regions – is excellent value at £70. It’s a meal that stands out for it’s singular vision; James Cross’s CV starts at Simpson’s, before moving on to a 3* in Rome and a lengthy period at Noma, yet none of these appear on the dishes in an obvious form. Lake Road utilises the best of its Lake District larder and turns it into something unique which has it’s own identity. It’s without question one of the best restaurants in the land.

The Coach, Marlow

I started the week convinced I had COVID, which is regrettable in every way apart from the symptom of lack of taste and smell, which I was intrigued to experience so that I can know what it’s like to be other food bloggers. It turns out I don’t, which is a result given that it was my birthday weekend and tracking would have been a nightmare. Last week we did the Rishi thing, then the pre-birthday drinks in the cocktail bar, then the other cocktail bar, then the hotel cocktail bar because everywhere else is closed. Then the birthday trip away, then back for the birthday dinner with my mate, before the inevitable trip to a couple of pubs. Sunday went back to the pub, and the cocktail bar, and then the different pub. Then Monday night it’s like, okay, this doesn’t feel right at all. If anything it’s made me realise that I should slow down at the moment. Less groups of people over less locations and time from now on for me.

The trip away started with lunch at The Coach. Marlow is a pretty place with pretty ex-London faces spending pretty sums of money on pretty much anything. There are houses that sit on the banks of the Thames with boats just for the hell of it, and butchers which promote their wines of the week for the paltry amount of £40 a bottle. It is a mix of old Buckinghamshire money and new London money with the common denominator of money. Tom Kerridge has a two star pub here which I’ve been to before, and a one star pub which I’m about to write about. To call either the Hand & Flowers or The Coach a pub is a statement I’m not going to back-up with substance here.

It’s a nice spot. Cosy and well appointed, the palate of Victorian green and white so de rigueur, to join the small plates menu that is a very easy way of scaling up a bill quickly. Knowing that we have dinner in a few hours time we keep the order small, and it proves to be a wise choice.

I can’t pretend to love everything we eat. A venison chilli is a wholesome bit of cooking, but is a bit gritty and over seasoned, whilst the caramelised onion and Ogleshield cheese scotch egg is technically sound but the Parmesan veloute it sits in is underwhelming stuff. If it sounds like I’m giving it a hard time, I’m not, but this is a pub with one Michelin star that is presently ranked no.5 on the Top 50 Gastropub list.

When it’s good, it is so very good. The strongest dish of the day is chicken from the rotisserie. Brined and cooked until it’s borderline done, it comes swathed in opaque sheets of lardo and crisps of Jerusalem artichokes. Hidden underneath the lardo is a scattering of seeds and finely chopped herbs, whilst at the base of the dish are a dice of the Jerusalem artichoke bound in, I think, a purée of the same veg. It’s cohesive and rich, the poultry an ideal companion to the earthy, buttery tones of the veg. A chicken Kiev relies on the same meat and one veg (not me, stupid) tactic, using courgette this time as the foil. A courgette purée spun with basil is the highlight of a very nice plate of food.

A word on the chips. I’ve said for years that I consider the chips at Hand and Flowers to be the best chips I’ve ever eaten. These are better; chunkier, with a different cut that benefits the triple-cooked process and gives more potato. You might sniff when I tell you they are £7.50 for a portion including bearnaise sauce, but we’re paying and you’re not. And I’d pay it a lot more frequently if I was local.

Dishes are mostly over a tenner and all under £20, and whilst we escape with a bill under a ton, slightly bigger appetites should allow a bit more including wine. Overall I enjoyed it; the standard is similar to that of Kerridge’s other pub, and the menu is appealing. The best dishes are very good indeed. And those chips. You have to try those chips.

The Crown at Burchetts Green, Berkshire

I’d like to think that a place like The Crown could only exist under its own circumstance. How the unconventional approach of having chef patron Simon Bonwick completely alone in the kitchen allows him to play out the Escoffier tribute without another chef whispering otherwise in his ear. How the front of house, made up of a third of his nine children, are able to talk through the tiny wine list, haggle on the extra bottles on the blackboard, and explain the eccentricities on the menu like a ‘rather nice sauce’, or that day’s ‘nice’ dish. Right down to one of the team jokingly telling us that their Dad would not be happy to see a prawn topple from a main course, it’s an experience which defies convention in its usual sense.

The overall effect is a timeless restaurant that focuses on the roots of fine dining as opposed to the ever changing colours of the leaves on its many branches. The endless towers of cookbooks which litter the bar area have each served a purpose to take the restaurant to the heights of a Michelin star, via a special recommendation from the same guide the previous year. Not bad for a space of just six tables and one chef.

A little canapé arrives alongside the champagne we start with; a delicate thimble of pastry holding a purée of chickpea, lemon, and smoked almond, then a cup of chilled squash soup with clusters of seeds and a hint of spice. Bread is a hot pillowy affair, a little dense, served with slivers of butter pinned together with spikes of lavender and rosemary. A trick we’ll be stealing for dinner parties in our home.

For starters we take a huge cylinder of dressed white crab meat, thatched with batons of apple and a solitary tomato petal. There is a dressing of something sweet and acidic, and a few spiced cashews for good measure. The result is up there with the very best crab dishes I have ever eaten, a tribute to the beauty of the more subtle white flesh. A terrine of pork belly studded with lentils is lovely yet not on the same level. Acidity to cut through the fatty pig is everywhere; a blob of something mustardy, a teeny quenelle of chutney, or the bite of the pickles. They all work.

A beef main is ‘cooked on a string’ and, I’ll be honest, I’m still none the wiser as to what that involves. My guess from the texture of the fillet, is that it is both poached and steamed, resulting in an excellent piece of meat that is very rare but not the slightest bit bloody. With this is spud squared; a fondant and the most buttery of mash with a little confit garlic, some spinach, and mushrooms cooked in plenty of butter. But what makes it is the sauce, reduced so heavily you could varnish a fence with it, and so glossy it could serve as a mirror. Full of bovine notes and with something piquant lurking in the background, it reminds me of the sauce I had with beef at The Ritz, only better.

If I’m launching into hyperbole it’s because we were both having the best time. There is something magical about being somewhere so at ease with itself. The other main of halibut owes much of its majesty to the Breton prawns it shares the plate with, being some of the freshest and tastiest I can recall eating. Like the beef it has the mash and the spinach, though this has a verdant pesto and a little tomato concasse to bolster the summer flavours it speaks of on the menu. A really outstanding dish.

Saint Marcellin cheese gives me happy memories of Mere Richard in Lyon, so when it’s on the menu as cheesecake, I’m ordering it. In truth it’s the one dish I’m not mad on. The cheese flavour comes through nicely, but it’s a little dense and the base is a little chalky. Lovely raspberries though. But frankly who cares when they have steamed syrup sponge as good as this. A light, pillowly bosom, sweet and unforgiving to the hips. A proper dessert. I get a macaron with a candle in because it’s my birthday. It’s a good macaron and a great birthday.

Starters and desserts sit mostly in the teens, whilst the mains above are £40 and £44 respectively. The total bill of over two hundred for two including wine isn’t cheap, but it is worth it. We simple loved The Crown. It defies trends and fashions to serve the food which they are comfortable with, in an environment which they have curated to suite them. With the exception of a few other favourites of ours, it stands out for having a true identity. I can see many other visits happening in the future.

Craft, July 2020

I booked a table for one at Craft with the best of intentions. They had launched a new menu with a ‘picnic’ section that I wanted to try; £25 for five small plates seemed a bargain lunch, throw in a glass of wine and I’m back within the hour, fed and watered for £35. Sign me up. Except life doesn’t always go to plan. Let’s be honest, it never goes to plan. Well not mine, anyway. I turn up, take to my table, and two of my friends, who I had no idea would be there, do the same. They offer a seat at their table, I take the seat and that in and out quickie ends up five or six bottles later, with a headache that keeps on giving well into that weekend. I still need to try the picnic meal.

I knew the food was going to be good. The two weeks we do ‘Craft At Home’ over lockdown turn out to be two of the tastiest meals we have. Two pies; one ox cheek with a deep gravy, the other a chicken, ham hock and leek number which is at once creamy and rich, with notes of fennel from the seed and tarragon. Is this a sign of a simpler new direction? No, not really. The only new direction is the entrance, which comes straight off Brindley Place, through the ‘garden’ that houses the pods, past the bar and down the steps into the restaurant. Inside there are less covers, the space more intimate. It’s leaner. Lockdown has done them good.

We start with a croquette specifically requested from the picnic menu, full of smokey chorizo notes and cauliflower. Then a millefeuille of crab and apple, with precise pastry work and lots of brown crab flavour cut through with acidity from the fruit. Two courses in and it’s clear that the flavours are stripped back; two or three core ingredients, strong technique which allows them play off each other.

For main I have pork and pineapple. The loin is beautiful, blushing pink and tender, as is the belly that has been braised until the layers of fat and meat amalgamate. I find a pineapple caramel on the sweet side – the cube of the same fruit provides enough contrast for the rich mangalitsa breed. The mashed potato is glorious. I get to try a lamb dish which is superb. Deep and smokey from aubergine and black garlic, the loin and belly cuts treated with care and attention. Apricots reinforce an almost Middle Eastern feel to the dish. Andrew Sheridan can really cook. I mean really cook.

By now the three of us are on bottle number four and I’m really regretting skipping breakfast. A creme brulee Cambridgeshire burnt cream is spot on for luscious texture, whilst donuts with coffee ice cream hit all the right spots. We leave the table happy and head outside for more wine.

The supreme pontiff of the trio offers to pay the bill and this drunk accepts, meaning I have no idea what the bill is. Craft is lovely, slowly taking things up a gear to the high level it now operates at. I’m a big fan of what they are doing; how the drinks are all British, how the focus is on affordable premium dining using the finest of seasonal ingredients. And I gather there may be a few twists in store for later on in the year. With prices starting at a little over £20 and with them utilising the Eat Out to Help Out scheme, now is the ideal time to check them out for yourself.

Pictures by Conrad because mine were awful.

You can’t drive after drinking this much so we take an A2B

Staycations at Hampton Manor

If the intention of this press trip was to get bookings for the staycation then they succeeded before we left. At midnight after a fair amount to drink, a whole lot of fun, and a severe beating at pool, we succumbed to the inevitable and asked if we could book a stay for September. I’m already excited about it.

Hampton Manor has that effect on us. It almost certainly will on you, too. The way the drive meanders through the estate and the manor comes into sight on the right-hand side, before it fully reveals its majesty direct and to the left. How the scale of the house becomes immediately apparent when you step into the reception hall, with ceilings that could house a beanstalk and the most immaculate of interior design. It helps of course when the very small party are being watered on Nyetimber magnums.

We are given a tour of the new Nyetimber summer house, a beautiful space where the staycation starts with the afternoon tea on arrival. Then a walk through the extensive gardens where much of the produce is grown, through to the smokehouse, another new area which is where we are having dinner tonight, and is the dinner location for the first of the two nights in the package. The old stable building is transformed, with a large communal table and wine on tap, its shell still its beating heart with bare brick walls and stone flooring. We have two starters from the Michelin starred Peels restaurant, both vegetable led with fish used mostly for accent: first tomatoes with sourdough crumb and turbot roe, then a roast potato with xo butter and garden herbs. The potato is good enough to make lockdown worthwhile; absorbing the curry and crustacean notes of the butter with sharply dressed salad of fennel, dill, and chervil adding layers of intrigue.

Whilst eating these our mains cook in the fire in front of us. Rolled pork belly, barbecue lentils, broccoli, and apple sauce. Looked great, ate better. Washed down with a lot of natural wine from a team who are clearly passionate about grapes crushed in a particular way. Dessert was toasted almond cake, raspberries, and ice cream with an almost indistinguishable note of lavender. Simple and delicious. A description that’s also my Tinder profile.

So what’s the craic with the staycation? Two nights, £360 per person. Your money gets you afternoon tea on arrival, dinner in the smokehouse, a bed, breakfast in the morning, craft/wellbeing/food workshops, wine tasting, five or more courses over dinner in the 1* Peels restaurant, the same bed, breakfast in the morning, and a wave goodbye. They operate an honesty bar in the day, and if like us you have no idea when to stop, the midnight hours can be filled in the new pool room, in the bar listening to vinyl, or sat at the whisky bar. It’s not a small amount of money, nor should it be; this is luxury. We’ve debated booking it since they announced it a month or so ago, but after last night decided that we should go and make a weekend of it with friends. I’d spend that amount getting abroad for a couple of nights, we deserve the break.

This was a press event and as such was complimentary. The subsequent booking will be paid in full.