Yum Yum Thai, Park St, Bristol, 28.10.09

I've been to Yum Yum Thai a few times over the past twelve months and haven't been disappointed yet. Yum Yum's philosophy is forward thinking for its genre- all MSG free, organic wines, and free range chicken. Its website has curious jazz trio musak, and details all sorts of offers for theatre-goers, nurses and students alike. There also a sister restaurant in Bath.

The vibe is cafe style with informal place settings and booths. The service is always top class with smiles and efficiency aplenty. Thai green and red curries arrive with trademark domes of rice, and the pad thai is truly gargantuan. Throw in some tasty dumplings and you've got yourself a reliable Park Street favourite.

Star and Dove, Totterdown, Bristol, 22.10.09

Despite living a stone's throw from the Star and Dove, and it being touted as a rather good local, I have only visited once before. Last time was a tasty "thai night" accompanied by a rather humiliating pub quiz experience.


Things have moved on considerably since then, and the Star and Dove is muscling into, and perhaps beyond, serious gastropub territory. On first impressions the dining area certainly feels like a pub- assorted reclaimed chairs and wooden tables, with a bar slapped in the middle. Bold blue walls compete with a touch of Bowie in the background. The main drinking area is separated from the dining, and it is at this point that you start to get the impression they're taking it seriously.


The officious menu arrives on a clipboard. To start, potted prawn cocktail is firm and fleshy with fiery cubes of bloody mary jellies, and a ying and yang arrangement of sauces to bathe the bowl. Duck parfait with sweet beets is silky and is positively enhanced by a lack of accompanying bread accompaniment. The chunky chestnut chowder is dotted with delicate pickled mushrooms.



The mains retain firmly British roots. Hare, game bird and pearl barley is ceromoniusly presented in a piping skillet, perfectly seasoned and polished with a baked egg. The roasted whole quail is moist and conveniently balanced with the salty flavours of a ham hock hash. Crispy pork belly is a generously-presented, tender slab, but has lost its crunch somewhere along the line. Its accompanying black pudding and apple pie favours the stronger pudding flavours. It is a fun idea to deconstruct the pork pie and with a little tweaking it might just work. Side orders are extra, and the green veg are a little too al dente for everyone's taste.



Chocolate and coconut tart follows, with a lovely sting of sour milk sorbet to calm the sweetness down. The enormous cheese board includes some beautiful unpasteurised ewe's cheese with chunky homemade oatcakes.



For what is essentially still a pub, the Star and Dove has set the bar extremely high and will be judged by punters accordingly. It is outstandingly good value but there is no mistaking the quality and finesse with which it delivers its food. However, it is still teething. Even on a quiet Wednesday night, whilst the service is efficient but gentle, dishes are slow to appear. There is a strong leaning towards presentation which includes plenty of wooden slabs, artistic streaks of sauces and delicately placed salad leaves. It is classy, but somewhat out of sync with the reassuringly modest surroundings. I would prefer a punctual and crisp pork belly over a culinary Jackson Pollock any day, but it certainly won't stop me finding myself at this place again very soon indeed.

The Clove, Luckwell Road, Bristol, 15.06.09

I had read some rather slanderous material about the Clove on the internet before this first trip. It described a lack-lustre place with arrogant staff, but with a recommendation from a trusted friend I threw caution to the wind. Indian takeaway on a balmy summer evening- well, there was certainly no evidence that anyone had decided to sit in. Even stepping through the door the eager waiters beckoned us to sit down and read the menus. I got the impression they had been kicking their heels for some hours.

Here comes the disappointing bit. A cursory head count revealed a roughly correct number of dishes in the carrier bag after an unnervingly quick preparation time. Unfortunately our chicken and lamb dishes had transformed into vegetable and tofu curries by the time we got home (I know south Bristol is green, but surely there isn't a meat destroying spell cast on us all?). The rice had turned into two vegetable samosas and the poppadums had done a disappearing trick to make Houdini proud. A quick phone call revealed their unapologetic side and they were apparently unable to save us another 20 minute round walk and jump in a car to deliver the correct food. The offer was four free poppadums if we wanted to walk back and swap it. No chance. Actually the food was between standard and good, but their unhelpful attitude left a bitter pill and not one that I'll go back again to swallow.

The Old Rectory Hotel, Martinhoe, North Devon, 12.06.09

Everyone knows the southern bits of Devon- Torquay, Fawlty Towers, Plymouth, Sir Francis Drake, and so on. Cast your eyes to the north coast and you might get a pleasant surprise.  A flying visit to the Old Rectory Hotel in Martinhoe was the ideal antidote to a particularly poisonous Friday evening  on the M5.  Tucked away beyond Ilfracombe, even your satnav might not locate this little retreat. This hotel changed hands less than two years ago and the new owners have tastefully furnished the eight bedrooms. Other bits still feel like a work in progress, but then they'd happily admit to that.

However, it is food that owner Huw Rees is passionate about, so passionate in fact that he dons a navy-striped apron and cooks it himself. The dining room is spacious but filled with the current cohort of hotel guests. The combination of "Il Divo" (or similar) piped music and lurid carpet of a previous decade sets a curious tone, and the atmosphere is dictated by a somewhat mature audience of diners. A risotto starter with leeks and pancetta is well-seasoned and confidently runny. The rack of lamb is split open to serve, and is accompanied by a simple red wine reduction. It grew up in a field a few miles away and the result is a full-flavoured meat which is left pink and easy on the knife. The vegetables are plain- boiled potatoes and broccoli, plus a rather mushy courgette, white wine and garlic melange that doesn't work. The treacle tart isn't bad, but the cheese portions are a little light. 

Overall the experience is pretty good. On the one hand it's home-cooked fayre with locally sourced meat and fish. On the other, there are confused vegetables and good but homesick risotto wrapped up with an awful CD and a lairy carpet. There's a slight inflexibility in the approach to service, but these are early days in what could be a successful little venture.

Bell's Diner, Bristol, 20.05.09

I'm not really sure how I've managed to avoid Bell's Diner since relocating to Bristol 18 months ago or so. Maybe the hype that surrounds it made it subconsciously unappealing, or its quirky location in Montpelier was a turn off. Either way I've been truly missing out.

Bell's is an eclectic collection of rooms defined by white linen table cloths and French formality but it is immediately apparent that staff are enthused by the food. An amuse bouche shot-glass of asparagus puree with truffle foam awakens the palate. The exquisite two-hour poached duck egg is delicate and beautifully gelatinised, and is given a firm shove by its accompanying Iberico ham jelly and asparagus. The pink but bloodless rump of lamb is accompanied by a brooding hot pot of sweetbreads, kidneys and shoulder. Dessert does not fade- a banana souffle is ceremoniously impaled at the table before a dousing of toffee sauce. The lemon fantasy is a tour of four desserts journeying citron tart to sweet.

This place seem fresh but oozes a sense of reliability. Forget the penny-pinchers and ditch the mediocre establishments. For just a few more pounds you can have Bell's. I'll be back.

Cafe Gandolfi, Glasgow, 07.05.09

By all accounts Cafe Gandolfi was one of the first establishments to set foot in the Merchant City area of Glasgow, during almost three decades of refurbishment and development. The word on the street is that Gandolfi is one of the respected Glaswegian players, and on entering its woody, cavernous, dim-lit interior it feels like a distinguished grandfather of restaurants.

The philosophy is firmly Scottish- local produce, quality organic meats- but there are pepperings of ragu, strains of coriander and smatterings of Italian cheese throughout the menu. Whilst the daily specials menu is inspired, it still has stiff competition with regulars such as meatloaf; smoked haddock and tiger prawn liguine; and neeps and tatties. I couldn't ignore the starter of Stornoway white pudding with apple, crispy onions and Cumberland sauce. My university days in Edinburgh founded my love of such puddings and although the black version is also available, it would be foolish to pass up its white cousin.

Perfectly moist on-the-bone chicken breast is encased in a salt-crisp skin, and compliments the al dente (although slightly underseasoned) red cabbage accompaniment. My food envy fuse is immediately ignited by the salmon and coriander pastry parcel (which for all purposes is a Cornish pasty in design). Both my companions had to provide me with generous forkfuls- the pastry is soft and there is plentiful fish.

Dessert was skipped with unfortunate external time pressures (but by no means on account of the attentive but informal service style). For a next visit, Glasgow offers a wealth of eating experiences, but I'd find it hard not to resist Gandolfi or its sister establishment for a more leisurely affair.

Tapeo, Belsize Park, London 05.05.09

How often do you find yourself exhausted from playing a piano gig, semi-satieted with canapes but in need of something wholesome before you retire? Once business is done at Holborn Viaduct, the workers beaver their way home and the resulting culinary offerings are minimal at best.

Tapeo at Belsize Park, a stone's throw from my temporary bed, came to the rescue. Even past 10pm there was no reticence- the British unenthusiasm for late night dining has not pervaded this place yet. A scattering of tables on the cold May pavement, a wall of mirrors and no frills interior- Tapeo is functional but retains Spanish warmth. Service is delivered with a wry smile. Plates arrive promptly. Cheese-topped gooey aubergine wrestles chipped patatas with pungent garlic mayonnaise. The tortilla is a little uninspiring, but sizzling prawns live up to their intro albeit slightly lacklustre on the flavour front.

Hats off to Tapeo for prompt sustinence to those in need, but there's a suspicious air of readiness about some of the plates. With everything consistently above the fiver mark, a tapas dish really needs to command its worth.

The New Inn, Blagdon, Somerset, 01.03.09

The 1st of March is officially the first day of spring (if you're a MET office employee). Nonetheless, the day lived up to expectations in the South-West with plentiful sunshine despite the typically optimistic forecast for black clouds. What better Sunday to take to the hills- the Mendip hills to be precise. A quick jaunt to Cheddar Gorge was necessary to accessorise with an Ordance Survey map. The tatty gift shops and cheese making experiences all get a bit overwhelming, and after a quick ride up the Gorge to Velvet Bottom (no, I'm not making this up), we set off across the Mendips.



Lunch had been planned, in so far as that we would have it at Blagdon. Blagdon is a fairly expansive and pretty affluent village on first impressions. As we dipped down into it, we were confident we'd find the pint of Butcombe ale we were thirsty for. When it comes to pubs, Blagdon is more of a challenge than we'd reckoned. The Seymour Arms was uninspiring and empty; the Queen Adelaide boasted open all Sunday but was firmly closed; and the Live and Let Live advertised "under new management" and seemed to have a resident man in a baseball cap with frightening breed of dog guarding the entrance. Spirits were low, stomachs were empty. Then we discovered the smarter end of Blagdon (near the church of course) and The New Inn. Good food, real ales- tick, tick.

There's no beating around the bush. The menu reads like a pub standard and the brass rubbings, beams, and open fire all fit in with the portrayal. The food is definitely at the higher end of pub grub, but not yet spilling into gastro. Fish and chips is generous and freshly battered. The sausages are of wholesome and good quality. The roasts on other tables look old fashioned but come with all the trimmings.

The most spectacular part comes in the beer garden- Wadsworth ale in hand, gazing over Blagdon Lake in the afternoon sun- location, location, location.

Brunel Raj, Clifton, Bristol, 14.02.09

Valentine's day. Hardly the climate for an Indian (unless the relationship is well and truly in the bag). Nonetheless, the Brunel Raj was booked to the hilt when I phoned late afternoon and so my band of anti-valentine protesters took to The Clifton pub for a few pints first. Come half ten there was a beautiful table waiting for us.

I've been to the Brunel Raj a couple of times before and had been impressed. It's always busy, probably due to its prime location in the heart of Clifton Village. By half ten on Valentine's day the lovers had obviously taken to their beds leaving a bustling restaurant full of rowdy Bristolians.

The menu is a rather overwhelming array of dishes but there are the usual helpful sentences to guide you through. The food arrived suspiciously promptly onto the chunky hot-plates as the waiter rushed us through our poppadums. Maybe his valentine was holding on outside? The king prawn biryani was reassuringly expensive but disappointingly collosal. Poor prawns- spending their last moments being hunted in a rice mountain encircled by iceburg lettuce. The lamb dhansak did exactly as suggested- plenty of lentils with a sour fenugreek kick, although the lamb was tough in everybody's chosen dishes. We washed it down with the obligatory Kingfisher, although at four pounds a pint it was a slow sip.

The Brunel Raj slightly broke my heart this time, although with a couple of successful visits under my belt I'm ready for a trial separation and later reconciliation.

Cafe Rouge, Cabot Circus, Bristol, 03.02.09

Cafe Rouge. Quite a lot of red I suppose, or maybe it's delivering some subtle political statement? Either way, this well known chain of bistros is certainly trying to reel in the customers at the moment. Three lunch courses for under a tenner- sounds like the potential for a tangible drop in quality, but it might surprise you.

Cafe Rouge has a comfortable mid-market position and provides no frills French grub in an environment awash with themed posters, ornate mirrors, more lamps than the first floor of John Lewis and plentiful dark brown wooden chairs and tables. I'd visited the central Edinburgh branch a few times before, mainly for coffees in the summer when you can sit in one of the aforementioned brown chairs on the pavement and watch everyone else amble by.

Cabot Circus shopping centre hasn't quite got the Georgian splendour of Edinburgh (although it might hold similar esteem in years to come). It was Bristol's proudest event of the last few years but has now found itself in the middle of a recession and has generated a wake of rather depressing driftwood retail in the old Broadmead area. Cabot Circus isn't trying to make any culinary statements either, but then it's only a shopping centre. It will be very interesting to see how Raymond Blanc's brasserie in the smarter outdoor section gets on in the next 12 months.

Back to Rouge. The starter was pretty straight-forward- baguette, camembert, a bit of ham. Put it all together and you've got a sort of French cheese on toast. Fish and chips turns in to goujons of cabillaud (cod) with frites. The goujons were generous but were struggling to escape the deep fryer's slipperiness. Desert consisted of apple crepes with ice cream swimming in a caramel sauce- ideal fodder for a wintery grey day in Paris or Bristol alike.

Cafe Rouge isn't an elegant dining experience, but for under a tenner it would be harsh to fault what they achieved. There's probably an element of dexterity in choosing the right branch to visit- I'd rather take my tenner to Park Street Bristol or all the way to Edinburgh rather than stare out at another bag-laden day in Cabot.

The Windmill, Bristol, 02.02.09

Who said the local pub is dead? Well I've probably said it myself before now, but my own local "The Windmill" goes a long way to reassure me. Bristol has many faces. The wineries and trendy gastro pubs of Clifton are gentile, unchallenging and safe. They draft in droves of young graduates, students and habitat conscious families who recycle their nespresso capsules but simultaneously park the 4x4 halfway up the pavement in the area's already groaning streets. The harbour and city centre caters for the hens, stags and general lads-on-tour, but is dotted with reliable gems such as Bordeaux Quay, the Rummer Hotel and the Arnolfini cafe.

What about Bristol's southside? Southville has already reputedly up and come, and it has laid a fuse then is gently igniting North Street on its way to Bedminster and throught to confident Totterdown. Enter Windmill Hill- an enclave of calm and understated artistry on the southern cusp of Bedminster. I am biased of course, but what better place to jump into the city centre avoiding the student masses whilst cultivating a few veggies in your patch out the back?

Back to the point. The local. The Windmill pub on Windmill Hill genuinely is my local, not just the nicest pub nearby that I'll admit to. From what I understand, it has undergone a bit of a cultural revolution in the past few years, kicking the dingey local boozer theme for a fresher face whilst retaining a certain traditional pub elegance. Yes there's some obligatory contemporary wallpaper, but the Windmill's secret lies in its grass roots approach. Uncoordinated wooden tables and chairs, a jukebox, papers, an outdoor terrace serving as the beer garden- it's simple stuff but it retains a formula that has worked for decades.

There are beers courtesy of Bristol Beer Factory plus some tasty European lagers. Most of the time I'm popping in for a pie and who else to provide them but Pieminister? Bristol-based Pieminister prides itself on free range meat and the hand-made element. They're exporting these pies nationwide now and their website boasts that even Her Maj has enjoyed one (or maybe two or three). The Windmill serves them with build your own options- mash, minty mushy peas, gravy (all with an extra price tag). One option is salad- if I was a pie I'd think it a bit rude to be honest. There are also generous plates of meze when your mood for pie has waned (not likely). It is child friendly and often there's a Krypton Factoresque route through the family room to the terrace (probably some Southville buggies), but you can escape it in the bar with the papers and wi-fi. If you want to be really unpopular, pick the enormous table on the left, spread the Sunday papers, fire up your wi-fi and dribble gravy drown your chin. Nothing better...

The Prince Regent, Marylebone High St, London, 25.01.09

Sometimes you just walk into a place and you know everything's going to be all right. Now I'm not saying that the global financial crisis quite melted away beneath me, but there's something reassuring about enthusiastic faces sipping tasty European lagers, reading Sunday papers and tucking into roasts. Add in a heady mix of camp interior design with dark velvet curtains and the rainy January Sunday was forgiven.

Despite the tempting offers of monkfish tails and beef bourgignon, Sunday is a day to roast. One of each- lamb and beef, although there was also farm-assured chicken and nut roast (which I thought would have been made illegal by some militant vegetarians by now). Portion size was acceptable but then maybe I'm spoilt by freely available seconds and thirds with the home-cooked version. Tender beef, a slightly fattier end of the lamb, but it was all pretty satisfying nonetheless. The vegetables were omnipresent but a bit lacking in flair and imagination. The lager and ale selection is impressively broad, and a sticky toffee pub left me satisfied enough to amble my way along Marylebone High Street and play dodge the umbrellas.

Wong Kei, China Town, London, 25.01.09

Wong Kei. Wonky? Well it's certainly not standing up completely straight if this visit was anything to go on. There's a certain canteen charm to it when you leave the bustle of Chinatown outside, but the stairs up to our first floor table could have been the setting for any grotty multistorey car park. That aside, it was a busy night and service was in full flow.

The cripsy duck was prompt and reassuring. There's always the pancake issue and not enough of the green bits, but extra supplies were provided. Moving on, the first crispy seaweed had its texture enhaced by a piece of twisted metal buried within it. The apologies were present but unenthusiastic and the replacement plate arrived shrapnel-free. Whilst the rest of the party chose family favourites along the lines of chicken and cashew nuts, and sweet and sour pork, I thought I'd branch out. Roast pork and oysters- bit of an intriguing combination and it felt like it could be the genuine Chinese article. Unfortunately I've seen more meat in a pork scratching and the oysters had left the sea a rather long time ago. Pushing it aside, I glanced to my friends for charitable donations. To my left, was a curious combination of chicken, a few cashews, and the contents of a tin of mixed veg (you know, small carrot cubes, a few peas and the obligatory sweetcorn). To my right, more mouthfuls of fatty battered pork with sweet and sour sauce. I ordered another beer instead.

We finished up pretty swiftly and judiciously decided to leave the dessert menu for another time. The toilets were again set in car park territory, but full marks for consistency of the theme. Our British joviality was assisted by a young waiter who decided to mock one of the party's laugh as he swaggered past the table. Not sure where the arrogance came from- there's certainly nothing redeeming here.

Chinatown can be hit or miss. Recommendations can be boring and safe, and sometimes it's the sefl-congratulation of finding an impressive unassuming place tucked away somewhere that makes the night. Wong Kei isn't tucked away. Walk on past...