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.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Sunday, 15 February 2009
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.
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.
Friday, 6 February 2009
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.
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.
Monday, 2 February 2009
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...
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...
Friday, 30 January 2009
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.
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...
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...
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