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.
Saturday, 30 May 2009
Sunday, 10 May 2009
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.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
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.
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, 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...
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