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.