One of my favourite things about popping into London is the chance to get dinner with one of my favourite people, Milly. Today, we’ve taken a recommendation from Jeremy (a genuinely comforting move) and gone for Osteria Angelina, a restaurant that combines Italian and Japanese cuisine - an absolutely winning move in my books, as two of the best to do it. It is totally unclear just how much we are meant to order from a large number of categories, each with limited options. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m begging for someone to explain the concept to me. We make our best guesses, and our waiter doesn’t pull a face, so that seems to be fine. A slice (or, realistically, slab) of the Hokkaido milk bun starts us off, with some gorgeous burnt honey butter and jam, each element in this something you’d expect to be sweet but actually works really nicely as a savoury starter. We pick a crudo and a fritti, just one of each, as our first proper course. I’m sadly talked out of the tuna by Milly, but it’s in favour of thinly sliced scallops, with roe and a blood orange jus, floral and biting and elegant all at once. The fried courgette flower with a miso-infused ricotta is a revelation, delicately fried rather than stodgy, a hint of walnut setting it off. Our main course consists entirely of pasta, two very different dishes - one, a veal and rabbit ragu over pappardelle, crisped over with breadcrumbs and cheese and topped with a soy-cured egg yolk, thickly rich but well-textured, an unmistakable presence on the table; the other, a interwoven cylinder of tagliolini coated in a light matcha sauce (and then drowning in it for good luck), with a quinelle of raw tuna (I won out in the end in some way) and caviar. Where the ragu was thick, this is thin, not over-egging the pungency of the matcha but instead letting it almost float there. We don’t even get to the grill or sides before being full enough to only be able to handle dessert. A chocolate tortino - or for the less civilised amongst us, a chocolate fondant - with a soy butter gelato is divine; I’d have maybe, if I am really, really quibbling, asked for a little more cakeiness over meltiness, but I certainly wouldn’t turn a second or seventeenth down. Delighted to find that their low/no-alc selection includes the Feral 0% wines that Alasdair and I had at Bulrush last year. As ever, a wonderful catch up over excellent food. I’ll be returning, I’m sure.
I’ve got to accept the lesson that most of the time, fried chicken is just not going to agree with me. I do, though, think more of the fault lies with Lucky’s Hot Chicken. It falls apart that tad too easily for it to be properly cooked, I should have known. Even that aside, the coating is quite slap dash, and not massively memorable. The crinkle cut fries are homeopathically seasoned, but the comeback sauce does the job well. Not the finest Seven Dials has to offer.
It is altogether too hot, but the service was charming, and there are a surprising number of comedians here we didn’t realise would be coming, so it’s a good day already. Inevitably the timings are completely off, but eventually we are eating. There’s a fine deli platter for the tabele (with Alasdair and Oscar getting their own mini vegan platters), with much in the way of cheese, cured meats, and cream cheese-stuffed peppers. The main, which I had completely forgotten I’d ordered, was a poached salmon (as Tom says, sounds so mucb better than “boiled”) with a perfectly serviceable cream sauce and potatoes. I’m quite impressed by the dessert table, with some properly good brownies. I cannot believe the best (non-my-own) brownies I’ve had this year were from a wedding caterer. And I mean the plural of brownies, I absolutely went back for more. Great stuff.
The plan for finding somewhere nice for brunch went completely out the window the moment Alasdair heard at checkout that breakfast was unexpectedly included in our rate. Knowing that weddings are unpredictable in terms of food timing at the best of times, we make sure to aim late and aim large. And, you know what, I was genuinely quite impressed. I mean, it’s still ultimately just a chain hotel breakfast, but the sausages had some heft to them and the hash browns were really good. Baked beans are baked beans, and the scrambled egg was mediocre, but I can live with that!
Alasdair and I are up in Stockport for the weekend for our friends’ wedding, and I have been tasked with finding us a place to eat the night before. Straight to the Michelin guide and I’m thrilled to find that there’s a Bib Gourmand restaurant to patronise. How quaintly refreshing to find that this is a straight-down-the-middle “snacks, starters, mains, desserts” kind of place - not a tasting menu, not a small plates concept, just some good dishes enjoyed in a predictable order. You love to see it. We inevitably order some olives without hesitation, and when somehow they have run out of bread and butter on a Friday night, we are gratefully steered towards the panelle, a chickpea fritter which absolutely outstrips that description. With a smooth texture and a spice profile not dissimilar to an onion bhaji, it’s a real hit with both of us, especially with a quick squeeze of lemon. For a proper starter, I have the baccala mantecato, a lovely bit of salt cod served with polenta. The main event, though, is a fennel sasusage ragu with peccheri - good, large, thick tubes of pasta with a thrillingly rustic white ragu filling and covering it. It is hearty and filling and exactly what I need after a long day. There is a bit of a miscommunication between front and back of house that would have been well styled out if I hadn’t been able to witness the whole thing in the reflection of the window at our counter seating. Where a tiramisu for me was ordered, the vegan dessert was brought out for Alasdair instead. Once we’d pointed this out, and the aforementioned attempted styling out ploy was discussed, it was hastily explained to us that the kitchen “didn’t want [Alasdair] missing out” and that the tiramisu would be out in a moment, which would have been more believable were it not then another 10 minutes. Still, points for trying! And oh boy, when that tiramisu did finally arrive, it was worth every second. A delirious scooping of the stuff, charmingly and deliciously not fully set, so rather than a neat slab, it was practically falling over itself. As was I on eating it. A promising discovery in the Greater Manchester food scene!
In an absolutely torrential downpour, Zac and I do our best to eat street food. It’s a futile endeavour, but it’s one we are sworn to.
An awkwardly timed flight home necessitates an awkwardly timed brunch before I leave. We make a haphazard reservation at Box Sociaal, and hope for the best. A bit more traditional Aussie brunch fare - George has an Eggs Benny And The Jets, Hazel has a Mexican-themed platter. I opt for the fried chicken and pancakes. Well. I say pancakes. When it says on the menu a “fat and fluffy pancake”, it is not a mistranslation. They really do mean a single, tall pancake. I get the idea, but it inevitably has too much stodge to it as a result, and the dish would have been better with the surface area of three individual pancakes. The chicken is fine but nothing special, I’d have liked a bit more breading to it. The chili and maple glaze is good if a little cool to the taste, and the fried egg does set it off quite nicely. Nothing special, but no disaster.
This is the meal I’ve most been anticipating. I left a bit of the budget aside to treat Hazel and George to dinner to say thank you for letting me stay once again, and was so excited by the menu at CUE. It more than lived up to it. We realise, on arrival, from the aroma that hits us and the open kitchen we walk past on our way to our table, that everything on this menu has been smoked and grilled. I love it when a restaurant settles on one way of doing things and demonstrates all the ways that can work. We go, just to be annoying, for the 9 course menu rather than the 10 course menu (no langoustines for us) but instead add on the “extra” course - why that’s not just a third option I don’t know, but I’m not complaining. Wine pairing, natch. A richly cheesey curd and melon cracker of an amuse bouche starts us off strong, before a palette cleanser of sorts of an onion broth with split peas and spring onion, light but flavourful and a delightful complement to the cheese. A small, tender parcel of sea bass in a white asparagus and bergamot sauce is our first proper course, preceding a smoked broccoli and mustard leaf salad, tossed ourselves. Maybe my favourite course comes next, a fillet of trout, barely adorned with a strip of apple leather and a blackcurrant gel, but otherwise standing proudly on its own, buttery and flakey. They throw an angular sourdough baguette at us with an extrusion of hibiscus-infused butter, and make the mistake of telling us we can have more if we want - we do, and we do. They allow us a pause in proceedings to catch our breath, then it’s straight into a coquelette, served as both a yakitori skewer - salty and crisp on top, honey-sweet on the bottom - and then on celeriac with black sesame oil. Here comes the extra course - ex-dairy cow, a gorgeous but reasonably sized slab of it, split between the three of us, rare on the top with a slight crisp sear at the bottom, served with a divine beurre blanc. It’s exceptional, and perfectly apportioned. To move us towards the desserts, a kefir yoghurt acts as a further cleanser with a carrot oil offering a touch of savoury to cut through. A crisp, charred almond croissant with almond ice cream is served, understandably, with wet towels, and devoured in almost a bite. A small chocolate and cherry bite finishes off the proper courses, with, god bless them, a canele as a petit four. The wine pairings were all perfect, and explained with aplomb. Not a single dud moment amongst the menu, and a real thrill. We’re presented with an almond frangipane cookie to take home for the morning after, and a table has been arranged for us downstairs in their cocktail bar. Well, it would be rude not to, wouldn’t it?
What would a holiday be without brunch? With an afternoon concert in my diary, it’s a perfectly timed meal. We came to this very building on my first visit to the city a few years ago, when it was Coconut and Cream, but that venture has died and has been replaced with Ceintuur Theater, a restaurant whose raison d’etre appears to be rotisserie chicken. And why not! On a suprisingly diverse brunch menu, I have a smoked porchetta focaccia, and am delighted by what I get. Every single element appeals to me - beyond the slow roasted porchetta, we find a pecorino cream (my only complaint is I could have had a bit more of this to bind the thing together), a lovely pickled fennel, and some anchovies. I get varying amounts at different times, all various umami hits in different ways, but there’s one solitary bite in the middle of my second half of the sandwich where all the elements combine at once and it is heavenly. The focaccia itself is excellent, the right amount of oily, the right amount of dental force required to tear it apart. The fries I order on the side are a bit more basic, but the herby mayo does well. A thick, tall slice of apple crumble tart with whipped cream is dense and well-crusted, just to make sure I’m fully sated until dinner this evening. My only other note is that it was very funny seeing George’s ginger tea just being an entire ginger root lopped into pieces and thrown into some hot water. They generously and wisely left the whole bottle of honey on the table to counter the fireiness. Great stuff.
We had intended to go to an Italian restaurant near Hazel and George’s flat, one which George assured us did not require booking, a notion easily disabused on walking into an absolutely rammed establishment at 8 on a Friday night. Luckily, we had a backup in mind - a wine bar literally on the corner of their street that they’d been meaning to try for ages. I was happy to oblige. What luck to find such a delightful little place with such enthusiastic staff. For the wines, no menu of wines by the glass; instead, we told our sommelier what we were after, and a couple of options each were brought to us. He excelled. I asked for a Riesling, and while he brought one, he also brought a chardonnay that hit the exact right spots, by surprise. Fair play to the man. He was palpably excited when we asked about dessert wine, running to the cellar to bring us a bottle of 1993 vintage that only they stock, only 10 euro a glass. Fantastic. The food menu was a short but efficient set of small plates of a style that brought to mind Tare or Skua. As such, we ordered pretty much everything on the menu, and an oyster for me. A couple of tostadas - one tuna, with squid ink mayo and quail egg yolk; the other carottes with dukkah and labneh - start us off, the former my favourite of the two, making up for the day’s earlier tuna experience. Everything else was wonderful, but the sauce game was absolutely on point throughout - grilled asparagus in a thick, textured anchoby cream, almost hummous-like; cod in a pisatchio mole with black garlic; lamb neck (a common cut here for lamb, it turns out) with a vibrant wild garlic oil and the most buttery cannelini beans you’ve tried; the highlight, though, the beurre blanc sauce bedding the barbecued coquelet (itself, it must be said, a tad dry). Top to tail excellent. Accompanying our dessert wine as old as the three of us, a chocolate flan, with a gorgeous smoked passionfruit caramel (an advanced on the similar on the key lime pie at The Dutch). We stagger back a gloriously short distance, I think absolutely better off for the plan B.
Continuing my killing of a Friday, it only seems right to explore the Michelin star scene in Amsterdam further. Looking both at price, geography, and availability, MOS seems to fit the bill. I arrive on the dot of opening, and for pretty much my entire time there am the only customer, which is an oddly oppressive experience in some ways - still, everyone is very nice. I go for the five course lunch menu, eschewing the sweetbread course that would make up the 6th. The whole thing is, oddly, maybe the most underwhelming meal I’ll have this holiday? Everything is perfectly well executed, but little of it felt inspired. A little by the book; at this point, I don’t need to be served another meat course of guinea fowl. But I get ahead of myself. The snacks and amuse bouches are all perfectly nice, a lemon meringue and a gazpacho-filled dough parcel, a mustard and picallily millefeuille and mushroom crisp. The proper courses start off strong with a raw tuna dish, always an absolute treat, this time coming wrapped in asparagus strands and topped with mojama and tomato. It’s a little crowded, the tuna was stunning enough by itself and got a little drowned out as a result. The enoki - my optional 5th course - came fried with shrimp, slithers of radish, and some trout roe. A little bit too oily, rather than crisp, but still the flavours were strong, with a wild garlic sauce. The plaice fillet with a bouillabaise sauce and creme fraiche foam was the highlight of the menu, beautifully tender fish and an exceptionally rich combination of cream and acid in the intermingling sauces. The guinea fowl was pretty much the ChatGPT output of a tasting menu main, but the charred artichoke heart was a nice touch. I was almost won over by dessert, a deconstructed apple tart in the Dutch style, with a frangiapane sorbet and ambrosia, successfully evoking the first tasting menu dessert I ever experienced, back in Bauhaus in Vancouver many years ago, so successfully rode on a wave of nostalgia for me there, but wouldn’t necessarily hold up in a vacuum. A set of four petite fours were a final highlight, so we end on a strong note, especially a tiny set cuboid evoking a tiramisu. I enjoyed a glass of Italian fizz the whole way through the menu, and got to enjoy a greasy haired trainee chef be taught how to plate, allowed to use the tweezers, and have a sauce fixed from under him from the open kitchen, so it wasn’t all in vain. A while ago, Dad asked me if having all these fancy tasting menus made me unable to enjoy other food - the answer is a resounding ‘no’, but it reassures me to know that it’s made me more discerning when these menus are put in front of me.
Straight off the plane at Schipol and I’m heading to a burger place to meet Hazel and George - an excellent start to a holiday if I ever did see one. Bon Burger came recommended from somewhere, and it pretty much lives up to the brief. We’re not messing around - a carafe of red for the table to get into the mood. The menu offers various alluring prospects - the classic smash, the “cheesecake 2.0”, the May special of a ragu burger, all very appealing. But I plump for the steak au poivre - a good hefty patty, comte cheese, and a stack of shoestring fries, crisp as you like, all served with a boat of peppercorn sauce. It’s a damn fine burger. A mess to eat, but that’s half the fun - the peppercorn sauce could have been a little thicker to make the structural integrity a tad stronger, but it’s a minor complaint. The fries with mayo are to die for, hot and crisp and fluffy. I have an old fashioned with my dessert of a chocolate mousse - supposedly served with vanilla cream, but I could make hide nor hair of that. Still, delicious all the same. A fine start to a trip.
What a beautiful wedding! Tom and Kate have pulled a blinder, and it’s a lovely day. We’re sat at the Assembly table, with some nominal code on the back of the menu celebrating the day (but Ieuan does, inevitably, find a bug in it). It’s pretty good food for wedding catering! Bruschetta with ricotta and prosciutto to start, some shoulder of lamb for the main, and a trio of desserts no less - a yoghurt and pomegranate panna cotta, a mini pavlova, and a more than passable brownie. It certainly helps counteract the seemingly unlimited prosecco beforehand and helps fuel the dancefloor workout later.
The morning after the final leaving drinks - or, in other words, a hangover to cure and all the time in the world in which to do so. Instead, then, of prioritising proximity, I decide it’s time to try the famous bacon roll at Wilson’s Bread Shop, the off-shoot of now Michelin-starred Wilson’s restaurant. With a cup of tea and a canele in hand as well (the latter a gorgeously sweet dainty little thing that I could easily have eaten another three of), I eagerly await my bacon roll - koji cured bacon, a milk bun, brown sauce. It is a thing of beauty. The bacon is cooked to perfection, a good amount of fat without being overwhelmed by it, the koji giving it a wonderful umami hit that is exacerbated by a healthy dollop of homemade brown sauce. The bun itself, spongey without being cloying, a tearable flake to the top of it holds it together nicely. Each bite is one to be treasured. And I say this as a man who will almost always pick sausage over bacon given the chance. An excellent way to start my funemployment proper.
My last day in the office! It only seems right that we should go to Pepeneros for one last long lunch. Gone, sadly, are the days of the 10 pound “two toppings and a drink” deal, and the pizzas do admittedly seem a little on the smaller side than my memory recalls, but it’s a touching bite of nostalgia all the same. There are way too many of us to fit onto one table, so we split up and I enjoy, amongst a fond interrogation from Dan and Rich, a chicken, sausage,and pesto pizza with the OG elderflower cordial. A lovely send-off.
I am never one to miss an opportunity to experience BOX-E in a new way. So to see that they’re doing a collaboration with Big Nath’s BBQ, well now. Luckily it coincides with Alasdair’s week away birdwatching, because there’s no way this is able to be made vegan, so I am able to go guilt-free by myself. On the terrace, I’m treated to an ox tongue skewer straight from the barbecue, before heading indoors to further snacks of crispy pigs ears with apple puree, padron peppers, and a twist on the classic BOX-E bread and whipperd butter with the bread being smoked and the butter being combined with beef fat. It’s less structurally integral, but much richer. I can’t say I prefer it, but I’m not sad for trying it. I throw caution to the wind and have a smoked pineapple pina colada before the wine pairing proper, an excellent twist on the form. The menu is a fascinating twist on some Elliott classics - the Isle of Wight tomatoes served with brisket, left to cool enough that the fat is solidifying and then melting on the tongue, a stunning contrast with the acidity of the tomatoes and pickled onions. The chopped duck eggs and hazelnuts and served with charred asparagus and chicken skin, a textural delight. The main course is ox cheek with peppercorn sauce and crushed potatoes, a succulent, juicy cut of meat set off in various ways with the cabbage slaw and smoked spring onions. Finally - how come I end up where I started? - a smoked pina colada pannacotta, served with dessicated coconut and chunks of pineapple, another exercise in cream and acid. What an absolute delight to have BOX-E in this city.
For some reason even we cannot divine, we think it’s a good idea to go to IKEA on a bank holiday Sunday. I project manage the hell out of it, and the six items on the list have been acquired with almost minimal levels of fuss. We reward ourselves with a slightly early lunch. I am a creature of habit, and so it’s straight to the meatballs for me. Resisting the pavlovian response to assume that - based on the last two times I ate at an IKEA - I am about to see Radiohead live, I still enjoy the meal on its own term. It’s your classic. Meatballs, mash, peas, lingonberry jam, a lovely creamy gravy. It’s not high cuisine, but neither is it artisan furniture, so what do you want? I cannot resist a slice of the Daim cake either, a treat atop a treat. Now to lug back various bits of underbed storage and jars to a bus stop. Happy bank holiday.
Another trip to the theatre, another trip to Seven Dials Market. And, as I’m by myself, I think I am more predisposed to getting a Bleecker Burger than if I were with Alasdair or Phoebe. So I do! I continue to think it’s a pretty good burger, but I do think the people proclaiming it to be one of the best burgers in London really needs to get themselves to Bristol, because I can think of at least 5 that would beat it. And that’s not just local pride! Anyway. A classic cheeseburger, I am surprisingly a fan of the raw onion, and the chips are pretty damn good.
In what is a rare eclipse these days, Clo and I are both in the country and back home at the same time, which makes for as good an excuse as you could ask for going to the Waffle House. For reasons we won’t go into here, we eschew the Harpenden branch and return to the OG St Albans location, in all its converted millhouse glamour. The creature of habit in me emerges - why mess with the best? A malted chocolate milkshake precedes two of their incredible, unmatched waffles with chocolate sauce, white chocolate flakes, and an absolute mound of Chantilly cream. It is such a proustian rush of feeling home. As much as I miss it when I’m in Bristol, and as much as I would go all too regularly if there were one here, I am glad that it remains a hyperlocal chain of two back in Harpenden and St Albans, something to be looked forward to on coming home. Clo and I have a fun gossip and catch up, and it’s nice to have that opportunity too before she’s back off gallivanting round the world.
I’ve timed my leaving HPE well in that I’m still here for our big Q2 social activity, which is an afternoon in an escape room, preceded by a buffet at Slug & Lettuce. It is various shades of fried beige, all oddly unlabelled, but fills the stomach. We have an inordinate number of drinks tokens and it’s two for one on cocktails, so it’s a much boozier lunch than anticipated! I abandon an espresso martini that is very disappointing, despite high hopes on seeing it being made by hand rather than a pre-mix. Back to the malbecs for me then.
I’ve made quite a big decision, and we decide we should celebrate in some way or another. A quick dinner at Pasta Ripiena is almost always the answer to any question that’s worth asking, this one included. We are as ever welcomed with open arms and a glass of fizz, which still makes me feel special all this time later. One of my favourite things about Pasta Ripiena is how much the starters in particular shift on the menu, that section almost always unrecognisable one visit to the next. Today, the rolled lamb belly calls my name, on a bed of braised cannellini beans and a salsa verde bursting with mint and sage flavour. It is, hands down, potentially the best started I’ve ever had here. The cannellini beans are practically a stew, the lamb belly perfectly seasoned and melting in the mouth, the salsa verde plentiful and pulling the whole thing together. Astonishing. To contrast with that, I go surprisingly light for my main, with casonelli of mortadella and parmsean, with a simple but effective mint and pea puree, heavily garnished with crispy prosciutto. It is delicate, flavourful, and eminently moreish. Instead, though, I satisfy that craving for more with a chocolate and hazelnut tiramisu. I am not the world’s biggest fan of hazelnuts, but a tiramisu with hazelnuts is better than no tiramisu at all, and I trust the Bianchi’s lot to know what’s what. I feel very celebrated, and very full.
Another quarterly team lunch budget comes around, and while originally the plan would have been an individual team meal, a recent re-org means that some intra-team bonding is required, so to Nandos we all go. Inevitably, though, all the teams just sit by themselves, so I can’t say it really achieved much. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been to a Nandos, but the old go-tos remain the same. A sunset burger is the ideal main for me - chicken thighs and cheese, the richness added to with mayo and cut through with a red peper chutney, all in a light bun. It’s tempting to think about what the version of this with more care paid to the individual elements could be - maybe an experiment for the future. A slice of the chocolate cake for dessert, again doing the job, served with cream. I enjoy the relative food coma of the rest of the afternoon in the office, and you can’t really ask for more than that, can you?
Even in a world where I have got an Odeon limitless pass thing, there will always be something at the Everyman calling me. Maybe it’s the sofas, maybe it’s the late night screenings. Mostly it’s the MUBI GO ticket. But what really sells me is getting to have a burger. Is it the best in Bristol? No. Is it one of my favourites? Oddly, yes. I always have a good time with it, typically with the Red Leicester these days, a good medium patty, and the chips are - again, not the best objectively - but really speak to me somehow. Throw that in with a good film and a comfy sofa, and it’s a pretty good evening for ol’ Sam.
My old haunt! Home of the erstwhile Magpie Comedy and site of many New Year’s Day brunches and Saturday crossword sessions, now transplanted conveniently close to me on North Street itself! What a delight to have it back. We head over on a Monday lunchtime, hoping to avoid a rush, but no such luck - good to see it busy, though. I rue the loss of the milkshakes from the menu - genuinely one of the best in Bristol in the old days - but comfort myself that the sausage bap hasn’t changed. We share a plate of hash brown bites, and a freshly squeezed apple juice each. I don’t imagine I’ll be back to my weekly habit, but good to have it here.
Having gone somewhat overboard on the anniversary celebrations over the weekend, we hadn’t planned much for the day itself, but still wanted to mark it somehow. Luckily, I realised that Cor’s lunch deal is also available 5pm-6pm during the week, so that worked out nicely! We boosted the three courses a tad - olives, naturally, beautifully herby, and a caramelised onion canele for me, an absolute treat. The duck liver parfait on sourdough was divinely rich, cut through with a grape jus. The main is a hearty, warming lamb stew, sharpened by anchovy, rosemary, and mint throughout a medley of vegetables and generous chunks of salt marsh lamb. For dessert, a classic creme caramel, drowning in the sauce, every bite its own little thrill.
A surprise brunch for Alasdair, and after doing lots of research as to where may do good vegan stuff, I’m drawing something of a blank and defaulting to an old London classic - The Breakfast Club. I choose - genuinely - to look at this as an informative field trip for Alasdair, it’s a rite of passage to have a Breakfast Club brunch. I go for the pancakes, of course. I go sweet, of course. Vanilla cream, chocolate ganache, and because I’m feeling health conscious, some mixed berries. It’s a treat. The pancakes are a tad stodgy, rather than perfectly fluffy, but nothing that the assorted syrups, butters, creams, and ganaches can’t cover. Three solidly sized pancakes make up the dish, and I’ve ordered some fried chicken tenders on the side for good luck. Sadly, the Seven Dials branch don’t seem to do milkshakes, but that’s probably for the best in the scheme of the rest of this brunch. I come back upstairs from the bathroom to find that they are, to honour our anniversary, gifting us… more pancakes. It’s a sweet gesture, but neither of us are capable of ingesting a bite of it right now, so it’s wrapped up impressively tightly and will hopefully survive the journey home.
The main event of the anniversary weekend in my eyes. Forget the theatre! Forget the nice hotel (the Malmaison, for reference)! This is it. My criteria for picking a restaurant for tonight was a) a Michelin star, and b) explicitly mentioning on the website that the menu was veganisable. Portland nailed that. As they did, to be honest, absolutely everything else tonight. From the moment we walked in, I couldn’t have been happier. A snack before the snacks of an onion tart sets us off, before a trio of actual welcome snacks: a mushroom and parmesan macaron, melting into a fizz the moment it touches your tongue; a smoked eel and caper tartlet, incredibly crisp pastry casing an umami hit; and a truffled beef tartare on a healthy slab of sourdough. I double down on the truffle with a truffled Old Fashioned as an aperitif, a bold move before a wine pairing. Maybe, actually, the best wine pairing I’ve had. I want a bottle of everything. We start the courses proper with a baked Jerusalem artichoke, with a polonaise sauce and confit egg yolk, a triumph. Smoked shellfish chowder, with mussels, oyster, scallops, and more, thickened with an aioli and peppered with crisps for a textural contrast is maybe my favourite dish of the night. Chalk stream trout, flakey and tender, on a bed of braised leeks and topped with crisped leeks, aswim in warm tartar sauce. The main course is a fillet of beef, the requisite extra cut of a bit of braised cheek, topped off with a potato rosti and cavolo nero - an excellent dish, but I have to admit the one disappointment of the night here. I had asked, in a pang of envy of the a la carte menu offering duck fat mashed potato, if I could order a side of that at the outset, but sadly it did not arrive and I felt too awkward to chase it up. But I can’t really hold that against the dish. For dessert, a burnt cheesecake, creamy as all heck but not so much that it’s not elevated by creme fraiche and a rhubarb compote, a pane of tuille setting it all off nicely. We are sent home with a madeleine and a chocolate as petits fours and a honking great slab of a loaf of sourdough to take home with us. If this doesn’t end up in my top 5 in December, I’ll have had one hell of a year.
After a somewhat stressful train journey from Oxford, we arrive in the capital. It’s a sunny day, and we head to the South Bank to get some street food en route to the Old Vic. We split up and look for clues. I land on Hey Joe Burger Club, for the variety - pasta last night, fine dining tonight, pancakes tomorrow (all the essential food groups). A burger for lunch, then. I have The Griddle, entirely tempted by the cheddar skirt. It’s otherwise a classic smash burger, two patties, cheese, pickles, onions (of both the grilled and crispy varieties). But, crucially, the top potato bun slice is grilled in a halo of cheese that crisps up nicely to form a skirt, a fine textural contrast to the softness of the bun and the meltingness of the burger itself. It’s good stuff for street food, rivalling Shake Shack. Good to know for future reference.
The beginning of this year’s anniversary trip. While the bulk of the weekend itself will be spent in London, the timings nicely work to stay over in Oxford for the night en route, seeing John Finnemore live at the Old Fire Station. It behooves me, then, to find us somewhere for a quick dinner nearby. And when you find an establishment named 100% Pasta, it’s really rather hard to argue with that. Thankfully, the name is a slight misnomer, and we are afforded wine and olives as well. The main event is a carbonara, because why wouldn’t it be? The ingredients list passes muster, no cream to be found (the only exception to that rule is the Loco Carbonara, which is so good it gets away with it), and it’s served in a pan as tableware, an affectation I just about forgive. It’s well apportioned, not overwhelming but filling. It’s sauced well, but what it has in richness it somewhat lacks in depth of flavour. I enjoy it all the same. Dessert is a rum baba, served split open and filled with cream, topped with a pistachio drizzle. It’s very rum-syrup-soaked, counteracting the density of the sponge itself, and is a charming end to the meal. A perfectly pleasant pre-theatre meal.
One of the very few benefits of management at HPE is technically you get double the team lunches - one with your team with your budget, one with your peers with your manager’s budget. The Golden Heart is the location for the latter trip, a local–ish to the office gastropub where Sharon is generously using her own 50% off voucher. It’s pretty standard pub fare, tilting towards the annoying “ideas above its station” level. Pulled pork croquettes as a starter a bit over-crisped, with an underwhelming apple sauce for a dip. The battered halloumi and chips are fine - the halloumi is not over-battered, and there’s some hint of tarragon in there, which is a nice touch. The chips are disappointing - limp, undercooked, underseasoned. The tartar sauce is largely bland, and the peas are note massively noteworthy. Still. It’s a lunch I’ve not paid for and it kills a longer lunch break than usual.
The best burger in Bristol, still! Lovely to pop in on the way back from town for a bit to eat. My old go to, the Reverse Cowgirl is sadly off the menu as of the latest refresh, but never fear! The St Werburger is effectively the same thing but with a double patty, so if needs must… It’s a gorgeous concoction of crisply smashed and perfectly fringed patties, Monterey Jack cheese melting amongst confit shallots, bound together with a bacon and caper aioli. Order yourself ane xtra pot of that aioli for the ancho chilli fries, so good you can only inhale them, well-fried but still tenderly fragile. Don’t miss it.
Alasdair and I haven’t managed a proper catch up with Fauzy and Helen for a while, so we find time for a late Sunday afternoon drink at Small Bar. The quick drink turns into a less quick drink, and eventually it becomes prudent to eat some food alongside it, so I treat myself to my old favourite of the loaded fries - a generous portion of fried chicken sliced on top of a generous portion of fries, topped with cheese, and their delicious gravy. What a dream. It’s so bad for me, but it’s so good. It’s maybe the best fried chicken in Bristol, and I think a large part of the appeal is that unlike a lot of loaded fries, it is a proper amount of chicken - the main attraction, rather than the fries. It soaks up some 2/3rds and that’s enough for me.
The old truism remains true - it’s so hard getting good Mexican food in this country. Nowhere has come close to Chido Wey for me, but Tom recommends Dos Dedos in Bath and as we’re planning a night out there, it would seem a waste not to try it. Unfortunately, it’s a quite disappointing experience. I don’t know whether we’ve hit them on an off day, but most of the menu on the website is missing in person, especially on the drinks front. A couple of underwhelming margaritas don’t get finished and a variety of tacos are thrown together and collapse into a soggy mess. The highlight is the chips and dips - a quite nice cheese sauce and some refried beans hitting the spot, and the pickled watermelon rinds a delightful surprise. Sadly, not delightful enough to make up for the rest of the experience (itself not enhanced by the awful yummy mummies next to us constantly on the brink of throwing their arms into our drinks or loudly talking about Boardmasters). Stick to Chido Wey.
I do think it’s fair, when ordering some katsu curry loaded fries, to expect some, y’know, curry sauce. But here we are! There’s a not unhealthy drizzle of a curried mayo, and I can’t say it’s bad, but it’s not sufficient to bind the dish together. Zac, having ordered somewhere else at Finzels Reach market, is spared the indignity. The chicken is quite good but nothing special, the chips a little too semolina-coated, not quite the right texture. Still! The pickled carrots were really nice, so that did help. In any case, nice to just catch up with a friend on a week off.
Hello BOX-E my old friend. As is tradition for a burnout prevention week off, a midweek lunch at BOX-E when it’s quiet is on the cards. It’s always nice to try the a la carte menu for a change as well. This time, I start with an old favourite, the smoked trout with lemon butter on charred hispi cabbage, a classic Elliott dish, rich and sharp. Tess and Elliott treat me to a bonus starter, a new concoction of braised leeks with goats cheese, hazelnuts adding some texture, capers cutting through nicely. Gorgeous. My main, it’s another classic with a new twist - the hake, flakey and served on a bed of beans as ever, but this time topped off with pickled fennel and peperoncino peppers setting it off beautifully. And of course, as ever, because it’s not offered on the tasting menu, the chilled rice pudding with Griottines cherries, a comforting, homey dish to finish off, with a very fulfilling 1980 moscatel. How else would you spend a week off?
Matt and I need to grab a quick bite to eat before Frankie’s Circomedia performance, and with Cabot right nearby, Honest Burgers seems a safe bet. I won’t describe “having the chips included in the price” as a USP, but it’s damn close these days - oh for the days when Byron were doing that and it felt like a rip off. It does help, though, that the rosemary salt chips are actually quite good. The chocolate millionaire shake starts strong with the cream and toppings, but the body of the thing is a touch underwhelming. The burger itself is always smaller than I remember it being - I suppose those included chips have to come from somewhere - but it’s good enough for what it is. The onion rings are mighty substantial, and even between me and Matt manage to remain undefeated. Proper hunks of onion, but occasionally a bit too much soggy batter.
Alasdair is feeling up to a dinner out, as long as it’s no further than the bottom of our road. What luck, then, that we have a Bib Gourmand restaurant in that very place! If Pazzo is our home away from home, then Other is our home between our home and our home away from home. Exactly. Sometimes I feel bad at my lack of adventurousness when ordering at Other. But I am chastened when I remember that the reason for that is because all the things I want are almost gutteral cravings at this point. That, and they make up half the menu. There’s no visit to Other without their olives, beautifully tender and citrus marinated. Nor the crisps, but now they are slightly different! The sweeping of chives remain, but the sauces are different and, dare I say it, an improvement on perfection - this year, a tandoori spiced aioli and a coriander chutney, both punchy flavours that beg you to lick the plate clean if you’ve somehow finished the crisps without vacuuming them up. I stick to the small plates - chicken and sesame toast has been updated with a delightful ranch dressing; the 7 hour smoked hogget has lost its pineapple jam and gained a rhubarb chilli jam instead - oh how the seasons change. Confit potatoes remain a constant, and the roasted carrots with chickpeas and raddichio are served vegan by giving me the feta on the side, equally delicious either way. The eternal dessert of the doughnut - as shouted out on Off Menu by James - combined with an apple crumble creme brulee sees me stagger home to a good food coma. What a dream.
Happy valentines day! It’s not long into Alasdair’s recovery period, so we weren’t overly keen to plan too far ahead anything special, but the day comes around and we’re both feeling up to a comparatively low key lunch date. Where else but our old friends at Pazzo? A very sexy carbonara arancini starts me off (well, technically the bubbles do, but let’s skip past that), replete with tiny pancetta crisp adorning it and a thick bed of aioli supporting it. I cannot resist a slice of their lasagne for my main, served ever-so-slightly deconstructed, the bechamel concentrated between the sheets of pasta along the mince, the tomato sauce spread across the plate, a lesson in contrasts with the basil oil. The crisp, melted layer of cheese atop does not suffice, and so a healthy snowfall of parmesan tops the whole thing off. I am greedy and devour it in a shockingly low number of bites. The tiramisu, though, is a more formidable enemy, a proper thick slab of a thing, angular and cuboid, densely packed with the lightest marscapone cream and with a surprising structural integrity given how well soaked the lady fingers are. Dom recommends us a dessert wine I’ve already forgotten in the fog of it all, but I trust him to either remember or to recommend us something equally good next time. How nice it is to have a home away from home like this.
The Ox are once again doing their “40% off food” deal, which brings it down to a reasonable price, so Matt, Frankie, and I invite Tom to join us for a steak, which turns out to be mighty valuable for various bits of plotting and planning. But hopefully more on that another time. Meanwhile, let’s focus on the here and now. Steak tartare to start, rich and creamy with horseradish on a slab of bone marrow and lightly toasted sourdough for spreading on, and some delightful little puffed potato crisps for decoration. I’m a creature of habit, so with a large glass of red wine, I order a filet steak (medium rare, of course) with garlic butter, peppercorn sauce, and fries. I slice through it like butter, and the fries - if not a generous portion - are at least bubbly and crisp. I very much enjoy my apple and caramel choux bun dessert, though, a fine sugar crisp on the outside but light and malleable internally. Even if it’s no Pasture, The Ox is a solid choice of steak place in Bristol, especially at 60% of the menu price.
At my first First Friday Social of the year, situated at Wiper & True, I thought I was full enough from lunch when I left the house, but I was mistaken. Knowing that I had a gig to go to afterwards, and some beer to drink here, some kind of sustenance was in order. I didn’t want a full pizza, so I took my chances with a cheesy garlic bread from Pizza Pigs, now that sadly it seems Eatchu have moved on to hopefully bigger and better things elsewhere. Fair play, it’s pretty damn garlicky. I could have done with a bit less crisp and a bit more dough, but a perfectly cromulent side dish that filled me enough to survive the night.
We are blessed by HPE Early Careers with some budget for a “Beat The January Blues” event, and so off to Roxy Lanes for an afternoon of bowling we go. I get some garlic and parmesan coated chicken wings, which are perfectly fine, but so are most things when you drown them in garlic, parmesan, and butter. I’d have liked a bit more crispness to the skin, but there’s at least a decent amount of meat on the bone. The fries are fries, no more, no less.
Thrilled that after many years of having to pay an extra 1.90 to add cheese to the Watershed burger, they’ve seen the light, realised the error of their ways, and just made it a cheesburger. Tonight’s serving has probably the smallest amount of crispy fried onions on it that I’ve ever had, but the garlic mayo still works a treat. The chips are well fried, and there’s an almost patronisingly limp salad on the side, as if they know you’re never going to touch it. But it passes the time before the film, and is not massively far down the Bristol burger rankings.
Towards the end of my two weeks of monastic isolation (staying up in Birmingham at Alasdair’s mum’s house), I treat myself with a Michelin star meal, because what else have I spent my money on recently? Birmingham does surprisingly well with its restaurants, and I’m excited that Adam’s has now got an a la carte menu, so I’m not weighed down fully by a tasting menu of a Thursday evening. Doubly so when I realise I still get the snacks and petits fours. The snacks are an early treat, with a cheese espuma and a Yukon Gold potato crisp, a caviar mousse tart that marries the flavour and texture well, and particularly a perfect one-bite fried raindrop of lamb ragu, bursting in the mouth like a popping boba. The breads, two sourdoughs with two butters are good, but the real highlight is the ginger and Bovril pastry, somehow both flakey in texture but rich and deep in flavour, every bite a dremam. I start with a celeriac and comté cheese agnolotti, with proper thick shavings of truffle, served on a bed of whey. The main is your classic fine dining “here’s how many different ways we can do this meat”, this time with venison, served practically melting as two filets, as well as an adorable little sausage. It’s accompanied by a smokey egg parfait, hiding underneath it a mix of truffle and Alsace bacon, cutting through the richness of it all nicely, as does the slices and gel drops of pear. All of that is nothing compared to dessert, though, a chocolate parfait made of 40% Valrhona Jirava chocolate, encaged in a beehive of a sesame tuille topped with sobacha ice cream, and in the depths of it all, a gorgeous yoghurt and thick, tangy reduction of sobacha, adding an almost balsamic note to the proceedings. I savoured each and every bite. A herby marshmallow and a pretty generously apportioned pastel de nata serve as the petits fours with my peppermint tea seeing me into the evening. An early contender for meal of the year, surely. (A baffling side note: five minutes after I got there, a well-dressed and clearly well off couple turned up with a reservation, sat down, ordered a glass of champagne each, looked at the menu, went “no”, paid for the champagne, and left without even finishing. How on earth do you end up in that situation?)
A proper sausage sandwich! None of your fancy sourdoughs, your artisan sausages, any of that. Thick cut white bloomer, slather of butter that melts under the weight of it all, and the chepaest sausages you can find, all piled up. Add in some ketchup, and that’s what I’m talking about.
I’ve popped into Birmingham itself to get out of the house for a bit of a mooch, and have taken the opportunity to have a bite to eat. I’ve been to a Fat Hippo a couple of times before, and honestly, I think I remembered it being better? The burger - I go for their classic “American” - is pretty anonymous, with a flavourless bun dominating proceedings. The chips are on the cooler side of hot, but yet still the food came out long before the drinks (“yes, that’s because I haven’t made them yet” is the somewhat pass-agg response when I point this out). The chocolate and salted caramel milkshake almost makes up for it, being generous in size and strong in flavour. But it doesn’t live up to the not obcenely excellent memories I had.
I cannot keep making new favourite restaurants in Bristol. There are already too many. But on my second visit to Lapin (the first captured by The Guardian, with me and Ruth in the background of the photo taken to run with Grace Dent’s review), I fear it’s too late - an absolutely gorgeous meal from start to finish. As Raph broadly follows a kosher diet and as two thirds of the prix fixe menu contains pork, this time I feast from the a la carte menu. Snacks to start, though, with heavily marinated provencal olives, some still warm baguette with an intensely rich salted butter, and a blue cheese gougere as pungent as all get out, snowed with grated Old Winchester. For the main, maybe the best chicken kyiv I have ever had, and given this didn’t even have garlic butter, I don’t say that lightly. Instead, a saffron and apricot butter treads the line perfectly between suffusing the chicken and pouring out when the kyiv is cut open. It’s served on a bed of spiced carrot puree and confit fennel, all to die for. We share some sides - the duck fat frites cannot be avoided, and nor should they be, not least when we’ve blagged some incredible aioli to accompany them, and the leek & spinach gratin is done in a way you could only ever hope of the French to do. Such faith do I have in the Lapin team that when I find out the eclair du jour is a rhubarb and custard one, I still go for it! Topped with an italian meringue, the custard positively pools around the pastry after the first cut, more creme anglais than anything else. Almost faultless food (the Old Winchester could have been out of the fridge a little longer first), impeccable service and hospitality. I’m sure I’ll be back very soon.
We’ve somehow got some Q1 budget left for team activities, and so Sharon has miraculously sorted out a section lunch at Aerospace Bristol, which means getting to eat lunch sat under Concord! Ah it’s a good gimmick. The food is not as plentiful as I might have hoped, a cold buffet with limited range, but it is all actually nice enough. A good potato salad, a leek and cheese quiche that goes well with some chutney, a good hunk of foccacia. It’s free and it’s not work, so who’s complaining.
Ruth and I are due a catch up, and having a bite to eat at the Tobacco Factory before her life drawing class seems the most convenient way of achieving that. We’re brought in by the promise of pie and mash, and today’s option is cauliflower cheese pie - yes bloody please. The pie itself is surprisingly not dense or claggy, with a strong pastry standing up for itself and a filling that is biased towards the cauliflower rather than the cheese, probably for the best. The mash is good but very minimal, which is disappointing. The root veg served with it are very nice, if slightly over-salty in the seasoning department, but go down nicely with a decent boat of gravy.
Alasdair’s mum’s surprise retirement party! (the party being the surprise, not the retirement). Stuart has pulled a blinder and amassed a good 30 of her friends in the function room at Cosy Club, which does necessitate the party menu. An array of starters for the table, with highlights personally being the crispy cauliflower and the Bath chorizo. I don’t really consider that one of them is also the Asian buttermilk fried chicken when I order my main, the (by implication non-Asian) buttermilk fried chicken. It’s a decent slab that is more breadcrumbed than anything else, served with a frisée and green bean salad, dressed in effectively just caramelised butter, which I’m not really complaining about but does feel like cheating somewhat. The fries are acceptable if not massively bountiful. I intuit that ordering dessert would just hold up the dancing, so I make my peace with that and my not too shabby mocktails.
For our last night together in Bristol before a few restricted weeks, Alasdair treat ourselves to Ragu, the sister restaurant to our beloved Cor. Whisper it, though, I think Ragu might have outshone its older sibling. With minimal overlap on the vegan menu for Alasdair, we basically order our own small plates. We do, though, share the olives, as well as the focaccia with whipped bottarga butter for me and olive oil and a balsamic vinegar for him which is so good that our waitress goes and takes a photo of the bottle for us to take a photo of itself. I opt for two big small plates (which average out to two normal plates). The first, pappardelle served with slow cooked pig cheek in a rich, parmesan fuelled sauce that clings silkily to the pasta and coats the beautifully tender cheeks. For the main event, I have a dish that I had last year with Raph but in its full, unaltered form: venison - sourced from the immensely local Ashton Court - with gorgonzola dolce, dresssed in bone marrow butter, and some raddichio leaves for the illusion of balance. I am at least honest enough with myself in the moment to acknowledge that this was not a plate designed for one person, no matter how little else you order, so leave at least a bit of the gorgonzola, but I feel the joy of early onset gout coursing through my veins. We share the crispy potatoes, smashed into rosemary and garlic, and wander off into the night.
As a man who has the correct opinion that Pasture is the best steak place in Bristol, it was an inevitability that I’d have to try their new burger place, Prime By Pasture. And Zac has evenings free with Martha off on holiday, so what an excuse. Let’s cut to the chase, it’s going straight in near the top on the Bristol burger rankings. I opt for the #4: American cheese, crispy bacon, bacon jam, miso mayo, and pickles. All burgers come with a choice of either smash patties or proper juicy thick ones. Given that this is a place that knows its beef, I want that rich flavour so it has to be the pink and juicy for me. It was very good indeed. Crucially for me, not being a massive fan of bacon in burgers, the bacon here is the perfect texture, cooked enough to not bring the whole rasher with you on the first bite, but not so much to be all texture no flavour. The patty itself practically melts in the mouth, combining well with the cheese and sauces. The bun is a nice, lightly toasted sesame bun. The chips are the ideal paradox of crisp but fluffy, and I don’t even resent how much I paid for the beef fat garlic mayo to have with them. The only slight disappointment was the double chocolate brownie milkshake, which was nowhere near as rich as that name would imply. But all in, it’s already overtaken quite a few burger joints here. I look forward to returning to try their breakfast menu soon.
It’s New Year’s Day, I am surprisingly only mildly hungover compared to how much I drank last night, and a good walk is in order. Fuel is needed. Repeating ourselves from last year, what was once Tin Can but is now Peggy’s is open and ready for us. The Brunch Burger is the one. It’s not quite fully balanced, a bit claggy with the combination of brie and a thick caramelised onion jam sticking the sausage patty in place. Not bad, and does the job, but would be more interested if it gets mixed up a bit in the future.