I love exercise. Oh, I'm sorry, you may have misunderstood that: I don't like it when I do exercise. I like it when other people do exercise, and then demand I go for a massive pub lunch with them afterwards. That's why exercise is so great.
My partner and a couple of friends had run the Oxford Town and Gown (10,000 metres! Madness.) one Sunday morning, and so we embarked on a search for a pub which served lunch, on a Sunday, that wasn't a Sunday lunch. It's not that we object to a roast, but I've never had a good one whilst eating out and, anyway, I'm told that running that far requires something a bit more casual and face-stuffing than some thinly carved meat and a couple of veg. And so we hit on the Rusty Bicycle, sister of my beloved Rickety Press, and one of the nearest pubs to our house. Somehow, we rarely end up there: it's small and popular, so often difficult to get a seat, and as you can't book a table it's not tempting to trek there and then have to go somewhere else for our tea. We were surprised, then, to find it fairly empty on a Sunday lunchtime: are all the normal locals still sleeping off their hangovers at that time?
There was some serious menu consideration whilst they compared how sore their muscles were, but two of the runners went straight for the fish finger sandwiches, and couldn't be persuaded to choose something different, even when I pointed out how difficult it makes writing a review when two people order the same dish. This is nursery food, comforting but simple, but the Rusty Bike turned it into something sublime. There were homemade fish goujons, crisp (with panko breadcrumbs, perhaps?) outside and moist within. There were mushy peas, not the ubiquitous minted pea puree, actually within the sandwich. There was a leaf of crunchy little gem sat over a slick of chunky homemade tartare sauce. This was the Platonic fish finger sandwich, the one you'll be served in heaven.
It came (as any good fish finger sandwich should) with chips. Good chips, but not as good as the ones I had at The Rickety Press - why can't they import them?! These were fine, but the wave of disappointment was too much to bear.
The other runner chose the Angry Texan burger, a feast of protein perfect for post-race recovery, which Jacqui has raved about before. I would have chosen it too, but with two people already choosing the same dish, I had to make some sacrifice for my readers. I regretted it the instant the burger arrived: at least six inches high, this was heaving with all my favourite things: cheese, bacon, *pulled pork*... The only downside of this burger is that you do need a knife and fork to eat it: hands will not work here. Even the details are perfect: serving the gherkin on the side, rather than in the burger. That way people who don't like them can leave them out, and people who do like them can have a little nibble after each bite of burger, cleansing the palate perfectly.
I had heard rumours of a new pizza range (with witty names like "The Notorious P.I.G."), so had to choose one of those for my lunch. I was particularly intrigued to find them using a sourdough base: I'd been trying to make pizza with my sourdough starter for a few months with not much success, so wanted to see how the professionals managed it. It was, of course, very much better than my efforts, crisp and charred and just wilting in the centre under the toppings. I went for the mushroom option, with plenty of garlic oil and just a little parmesan to season, topped with lots of fresh rocket, and got one of the freshest tasting pizzas I've ever encountered. It was even perfectly sized (those with larger appetites will want to order a side with it), meaning I could crunch my way through every last bit of crust.
We finished with Ue coffees all round; there's an insanely tempting list of puddings (salted caramel slice: drool) but we were all left full from our mains. We left replete and happy and wondering why the hell we don't spend every Sunday doing this. The eating, of course, not the running. That would be silly.
Tuesday 15 July 2014
Restaurant review: Qumins
The first thing you notice at Qumins is the size of the menu. What, no list of twenty-odd "classics", all available with any meat, fish or vegetable of your choice, all served mild, medium, or hot to your taste? How will the average Brit cope?
We stuck to script to start with: poppadoms and chutneys whilst we decided what to order. The chutneys barely went with it though, being exceptionally good. The mango chutney was properly fruity; the tomato chutney had a bitter bite from onion seeds; the onions in the fresh chutney had been salted, or sugared, or maybe both, to make them less angry and more floppy, all the better to drape over a crisp shard of fried dough. It all went very well with a cocktail (hang on: cocktails at an Indian? Something wrong here), chosen from a list which actually complements the food: a couple of fruity fizzy options and a couple of herby mojito-style drinks. The wine list, too, offered some sensible choices, including the oily Gewurztraminer that I chose. There's beer, too, if you want to be a bit more trad.
We skipped the interesting starter list (possibly a mistake: I'm still regretting not having tried the spiced sardine pasty), so once we'd munched our poppadoms I dove straight into the Marathi Lamb Steak Korma. It wasn't a lamb steak, actually, it was a shank, but I'm certainly not complaining. There was an absolutely massive amount of meat on my plate, spoonably tender, swimming in a highly fragrant, and not over-sweet, sauce. The menu says that this is the way Korma is cooked in Bangladesh, and if that's true, I'd like a word with whoever invented the vastly inferior British version and decided to give it the same name. The flavour of cinnamon and cloves had penetrated the meat right down to the bone, and the flavour of the meat ran right through the sauce: this was the product of lots of marinading and slow cooking, not a pre-cooked meat; pre-cooked sauce; combine jobby.
My partner went for the slightly more regular-sounding Chicken Rhogan (I'm unclear why it's lost the "high heat", the "josh", from its name, but has kept the "oil", the "rhogan"), from the "Traditional" section of the menu. Admittedly there IS a "Traditional" section of the menu, but it really is much smaller than in most restaurants. It was admittedly milder than you would get in most high street Indian restaurants, but still very highly flavoured. The chicken was breast meat, which I'm normally wary of in curries; there's a tendency to overcook it to the point of dryness. This, though, came in large chunks, so was still moist inside.
A side of Saag Dal was a little salty, and contained much more dal than saag. It didn't feel quite as nourishing as versions I've had elsewhere, and was a little too liquid for my taste: dunking a naan into it just resulted in a moist naan, rather than a naan with actual lentils or spinach on it. That naan was a peshwari, our standard order, and was an excellent example of its genre, not too sweetened. They clearly have some proper equipment in the kitchen, too: it was deliciously charred in some spots but fluffy elsewhere.
We considered ordering dessert, but this was where Qumin's let us down most seriously, presenting us with a menu of unexciting, pre-prepped, frozen sundaes. India has a great tradition of sweet making: where is the Indian restaurant in Oxford that will show us Brits some of that?
Qumins claims to cook homestyle Indian food, and in doing so they've placed themselves considerably ahead of most Indians in Oxford. It wasn't a perfect meal, but it was pretty close and I'll certainly be back, not least for the intriguing vegetarian options (chickpea flour and yoghurt curry, anyone?). It's stylish and welcoming but, most importantly, the food is just damn good.
We stuck to script to start with: poppadoms and chutneys whilst we decided what to order. The chutneys barely went with it though, being exceptionally good. The mango chutney was properly fruity; the tomato chutney had a bitter bite from onion seeds; the onions in the fresh chutney had been salted, or sugared, or maybe both, to make them less angry and more floppy, all the better to drape over a crisp shard of fried dough. It all went very well with a cocktail (hang on: cocktails at an Indian? Something wrong here), chosen from a list which actually complements the food: a couple of fruity fizzy options and a couple of herby mojito-style drinks. The wine list, too, offered some sensible choices, including the oily Gewurztraminer that I chose. There's beer, too, if you want to be a bit more trad.
We skipped the interesting starter list (possibly a mistake: I'm still regretting not having tried the spiced sardine pasty), so once we'd munched our poppadoms I dove straight into the Marathi Lamb Steak Korma. It wasn't a lamb steak, actually, it was a shank, but I'm certainly not complaining. There was an absolutely massive amount of meat on my plate, spoonably tender, swimming in a highly fragrant, and not over-sweet, sauce. The menu says that this is the way Korma is cooked in Bangladesh, and if that's true, I'd like a word with whoever invented the vastly inferior British version and decided to give it the same name. The flavour of cinnamon and cloves had penetrated the meat right down to the bone, and the flavour of the meat ran right through the sauce: this was the product of lots of marinading and slow cooking, not a pre-cooked meat; pre-cooked sauce; combine jobby.
My partner went for the slightly more regular-sounding Chicken Rhogan (I'm unclear why it's lost the "high heat", the "josh", from its name, but has kept the "oil", the "rhogan"), from the "Traditional" section of the menu. Admittedly there IS a "Traditional" section of the menu, but it really is much smaller than in most restaurants. It was admittedly milder than you would get in most high street Indian restaurants, but still very highly flavoured. The chicken was breast meat, which I'm normally wary of in curries; there's a tendency to overcook it to the point of dryness. This, though, came in large chunks, so was still moist inside.
A side of Saag Dal was a little salty, and contained much more dal than saag. It didn't feel quite as nourishing as versions I've had elsewhere, and was a little too liquid for my taste: dunking a naan into it just resulted in a moist naan, rather than a naan with actual lentils or spinach on it. That naan was a peshwari, our standard order, and was an excellent example of its genre, not too sweetened. They clearly have some proper equipment in the kitchen, too: it was deliciously charred in some spots but fluffy elsewhere.
We considered ordering dessert, but this was where Qumin's let us down most seriously, presenting us with a menu of unexciting, pre-prepped, frozen sundaes. India has a great tradition of sweet making: where is the Indian restaurant in Oxford that will show us Brits some of that?
Qumins claims to cook homestyle Indian food, and in doing so they've placed themselves considerably ahead of most Indians in Oxford. It wasn't a perfect meal, but it was pretty close and I'll certainly be back, not least for the intriguing vegetarian options (chickpea flour and yoghurt curry, anyone?). It's stylish and welcoming but, most importantly, the food is just damn good.
Restaurant review: The Rickety Press
It took me a very long time, after first being employed, to get the hang of long lunches. Some puritanical streak within me forced me to bring in my own sandwiches or soups almost every day, for nigh on four years. For a real treat, I would occasionally allow myself a sandwich purchased from a nearby deli. Oh, how things have changed.
I am now a seasoned practitioner of the long lunch. It's such a healthy thing to do: take an hour and a half out of your day; see a friend; eat good food; return to work happy. When a friend, in something of a blue funk anyway, mentioned she'd never been to the Rickety Press, I immediately prescribed a lunch.
At the time of the visit, they had a rather nice little lunch menu at £12.50 for two courses, or £15 for three. I went for a starter and a main course from that menu, but with only three options for each course, my companion decided to order a la carte instead. I don't normally order soup in restaurants (it's one of those things I feel I can do better myself), but as the only veggie starter on the set menu, I was happy to break this rule for a minted pea soup. Except, when it arrived, it was the truffled cauliflower soup from the a la carte menu that arrived. Even better, as far as I was concerned. It was slightly too wintery for the sunny day we ate on, but wonderfully heady with truffle oil. It felt nourishing, whilst still being rather decadently creamy.
Revealing that there's been something of a gap between the meal and this review, my dining partner ordered a plate of some of the season's first asparagus, served with a hollandaise sauce. The sauce was truly superb, both rich and buttery and sharp and citrussy, and was served in a generous enough quantity for me to spend quite some time wiping her plate with my finger. It was, admittedly, slightly pricey for just a few spears, but then it was very early in the season.
Due to the soup mix-up, I ended up also having cauliflower for my main, but this did provide the kitchen with a convenient opportunity to show their versatility, for the two dishes could not have been more different. There was a giant slab of roast cauliflower in the middle of the plate, charred and sweet, hiding a heap of purple sprouting broccoli, and some lightly crushed new potatoes in a lemony mustardy dressing. The cauliflower was a revelation even to an established roast-cauliflower lover like me: I'd scoffed when people had told me about the "cauliflower steak" concept but this actually did manage to replicate some of the flavours you'd get from a good steak. The iron-rich sprouting helped, although roasting had left it slightly tough.
Across the table was a smoked haddock and salmon fishcake, and yes, the singular pronoun is the correct one. This was a massive beast of a fishcake, hulking in the middle of the bowl, dwarfing the poor little assorted salad leaves around it. It was so huge that the little dish of tartare had to be served on the side. It was generously filled, too, with a good ratio of fish-to-potato, but I think I would have preferred the better crunch-to-mush ratio of normal sized fishcakes.
However, the real highlight of the meal was the chips. There was some confusion as to whether they would even be ordered, with the waiter first recommending them, and then suggesting just a vegetable side instead. Then there was a debate about whether to order the "fries" or the triple cooked chips. We plumped for the fries. I'm not a thick chips person. And then the triple cooked chips arrived anyway.
What a relief, for these were easily the best chips I've ever had. Huge, crunchy shards, you might think to look at them that there would be too much soft interior, but the kitchen had somehow managed to cook them so that the outer crisp layer was a good centimetre thick. Some of them were *only* crisp layer. And the portion was massive: you could easily just order a side of these for lunch, and leave a very happy person.
To complete the occasion, we ordered prosecco, and were beyond delighted to have it served in 1920s-style shallow glasses. Why do more places not have such class? The service, mostly, lived up to that standard: despite being occasionally muddled, they were charming in a highly professional manner. Seated in the front of the pub, the decor was almost too casual for the food and drink, but better the bustle there than the silence of the linen-tableclothed restaurant proper at the back. We departed, as we should be, happy.
I am now a seasoned practitioner of the long lunch. It's such a healthy thing to do: take an hour and a half out of your day; see a friend; eat good food; return to work happy. When a friend, in something of a blue funk anyway, mentioned she'd never been to the Rickety Press, I immediately prescribed a lunch.
At the time of the visit, they had a rather nice little lunch menu at £12.50 for two courses, or £15 for three. I went for a starter and a main course from that menu, but with only three options for each course, my companion decided to order a la carte instead. I don't normally order soup in restaurants (it's one of those things I feel I can do better myself), but as the only veggie starter on the set menu, I was happy to break this rule for a minted pea soup. Except, when it arrived, it was the truffled cauliflower soup from the a la carte menu that arrived. Even better, as far as I was concerned. It was slightly too wintery for the sunny day we ate on, but wonderfully heady with truffle oil. It felt nourishing, whilst still being rather decadently creamy.
Revealing that there's been something of a gap between the meal and this review, my dining partner ordered a plate of some of the season's first asparagus, served with a hollandaise sauce. The sauce was truly superb, both rich and buttery and sharp and citrussy, and was served in a generous enough quantity for me to spend quite some time wiping her plate with my finger. It was, admittedly, slightly pricey for just a few spears, but then it was very early in the season.
Due to the soup mix-up, I ended up also having cauliflower for my main, but this did provide the kitchen with a convenient opportunity to show their versatility, for the two dishes could not have been more different. There was a giant slab of roast cauliflower in the middle of the plate, charred and sweet, hiding a heap of purple sprouting broccoli, and some lightly crushed new potatoes in a lemony mustardy dressing. The cauliflower was a revelation even to an established roast-cauliflower lover like me: I'd scoffed when people had told me about the "cauliflower steak" concept but this actually did manage to replicate some of the flavours you'd get from a good steak. The iron-rich sprouting helped, although roasting had left it slightly tough.
Across the table was a smoked haddock and salmon fishcake, and yes, the singular pronoun is the correct one. This was a massive beast of a fishcake, hulking in the middle of the bowl, dwarfing the poor little assorted salad leaves around it. It was so huge that the little dish of tartare had to be served on the side. It was generously filled, too, with a good ratio of fish-to-potato, but I think I would have preferred the better crunch-to-mush ratio of normal sized fishcakes.
However, the real highlight of the meal was the chips. There was some confusion as to whether they would even be ordered, with the waiter first recommending them, and then suggesting just a vegetable side instead. Then there was a debate about whether to order the "fries" or the triple cooked chips. We plumped for the fries. I'm not a thick chips person. And then the triple cooked chips arrived anyway.
What a relief, for these were easily the best chips I've ever had. Huge, crunchy shards, you might think to look at them that there would be too much soft interior, but the kitchen had somehow managed to cook them so that the outer crisp layer was a good centimetre thick. Some of them were *only* crisp layer. And the portion was massive: you could easily just order a side of these for lunch, and leave a very happy person.
To complete the occasion, we ordered prosecco, and were beyond delighted to have it served in 1920s-style shallow glasses. Why do more places not have such class? The service, mostly, lived up to that standard: despite being occasionally muddled, they were charming in a highly professional manner. Seated in the front of the pub, the decor was almost too casual for the food and drink, but better the bustle there than the silence of the linen-tableclothed restaurant proper at the back. We departed, as we should be, happy.
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