I'd popped into the Pie Emporium for lunch soon after they opened, hungover and bleary. Initial impressions (through a headache, severe dehydration, and sleep deprivation) were good, but I thought it deserved a return visit to assess it in a slightly more capable manner. In need of a speedy pre-theatre dinner, it seemed an ideal venue.
The welcome when we arrived was friendly and charming. The decor is hip without being too cold; there are lots of touches of colour, and the evening addition of candles on tables made the whole place feel quite cosy. It's certainly not a formal venue, but it's a lot warmer than you might expect. We were talked briefly through the menu, and were disappointed to hear that they had run out of two pies, including one of the veggie options (of only two on the whole menu) and one of the fish pies (again, of only two). The menu isn't long, so this had a fairly large impact on our choices; if you didn't eat meat, it would have been even more annoying.
There's an interesting range of mostly local beers, but we both went for wine, from the somewhat less diverse wine list ("red" or "white" if you're ordering by the glass). It was unexpectedly good: not amazing, but for £3, much better than it needed to be. There was a slight wait for food to arrive, but only as you'd expect for fresh-cooked pies: this ain't Pie Minister, with their battalions of pies slowly drying out under hot lights.
My partner had opted for the rather exciting sounding Lamb Tikka Jalfrezi pie, certainly not one for the traditionalists. They'd be missing out, though, this was a superb curry, tart but rich and stuffed with melting chunks of meat. A side of lentils came as a smooth dal, not the salad we had expected, and was lightly spiced: an excellent accompaniment to the pie.
I opted for the slightly more normal-sounding Old English Woodland pie, being a massive fan of game meats. The chunks of partridge and pigeon were lovely, but the rabbit was slightly tough - perhaps it could have done with slightly longer time baking. The meats came in a gorgeous thick gravy, one of the best I've ever found in a pie, with lots of garlic and rosemary. The side of mustard and cabbage mash was a bit overpowering in terms of taste, but had a lovely smooth texture. The biggest downside for both pies was the slightly thin pastry lid, and therefore the rather low ratio of pastry to filling. Those of you who don't call a pie a pie unless it has a pastry lid *and* a pastry bottom would be even more furious: it's just a lid here, chaps. I won't argue with Pie Emporium's definition of a pie, but the glutton in me would still like rather more flaky starch with my meat and gravy.
We had two additional sides; the peas were fine, but the red cabbage was very dry, and yet somehow still tasted watery.
When we visited, we ate on a Groupon voucher, so the price was very reasonable, but their normal prices are not exactly excessive: pies range from £7 to £11, including one side (and we wouldn't recommend adding another). They were also advertising a few lunchtime and early evening deals which seemed very reasonable, making this a good place to go for a simple lunch or, like us, a pre-theatre supper.
Monday, 31 March 2014
Restaurant Review: Aziz
Disaster strikes the minute I walk into Aziz. I had a hilarious story all ready to tell you, about what they've done every single other time I've visited: ask if I had a reservation, sigh deeply, examine the reservations book, then stride up and down the cavernous room, footsteps echoing on the plush maroon carpets, furiously seeking an available table among the mass of available tables. Eventually, I've been summoned to a table where they can "just squeeze me in" among the mass of other, invisible, customers.
But it didn't happen this time. The waitress greeting us at the door didn't smile - that would be asking too much - but she asked if she could take our coats, led us straight to a table, handed us a menu each, and offered poppadoms. It's not bad service, is it?
Poppadoms and pickles duly arrive, along with drinks. Pickles are fine: nothing to write home about, but not the (now infamous) fermented mango chutney that I was once served at another Oxford institution, which will remain nameless.
The upwards curve continued with starters. My partner's Tandoori Galda Chingri were beasts of their genre, three giant butterflied prawns smoky from the heat of the oven and perfectly cooked, still juicy but with a wonderful meaty bite. The heap of generic frisee salad, undressed and taking up half the plate, was a little puzzling but didn't detract excessively from the prawns. My Dal Bora was less the menu description of "lentil cake" and more a mass of teeny lentil fritters, crispy outside and fluffy within, somewhat reminiscent (for those who've tried them) of the polenta chips at Jamie's Italian. They were lightly, but not overpoweringly spiced. An incredibly sweet dipping sauce was, like the salad, puzzling, but easily ignored in favour of the yoghurt dip that had come with the poppadoms, which provided a much better foil to the deep fried morsels.
Unfortunately, that was the end of Aziz's success. We were faintly disappointed with both main courses. If my Ada Gosht, described on the menu as "tikka lamb", had ever seen the inside of a tandoor, it was a very long time ago. The meat was so well cooked it could be pushed apart with a fork, and the onions and green peppers accompanying it were extremely overcooked. If you've ever tried to cook a green pepper, you'll know quite how difficult it is to overcook them, robust creatures that they are, but Aziz seem to have succeeded. The sauce had a nice amount of shredded ginger in it, but the spicing otherwise was undistinguished and undistinguishable.
My partner, as ever, chose the Chicken Pathia, which is normally the one dish we come to Aziz for, theirs being (according to him) one of the best. This time, it certainly wasn't: the chicken was dry and overcooked, and the sauce was lacking its usual citrus bite. A side of pilau rice had been mis-remembered and arrived as plain rice; a Misti naan bread was not stuffed with almonds but had a paste smeared on the outside, making it messy to eat. A complementary vegetable side dish was interestingly spiced with onion seeds and cumin, but was cold almost as soon as it was on the table.
Service throughout had been aloof, but reached a peak when the dishes were removed from the table whilst my partner still had a piece of bread in his hand, and when the tablecloth was removed whilst he was still eating it. The restaurant was not busy; there was not a queue of waiting customers; we had not been told that we only had the table for a limited period of time. So why this brusque rudeness? The implication is that the customer is simply not wanted, not welcome, despite the fact that we are paying for the food.
Bad service is not the be-all and end-all of a restaurant; I've never felt particularly warmly welcomed at the Magdalen Arms, for example. But if you are to be arrogant, you need something to be arrogant about. The food at the Magdalen Arms is excellent. The food at Aziz is occasionally good, but more often is cliched and tired, and that just doesn't make up for the poor service.
But it didn't happen this time. The waitress greeting us at the door didn't smile - that would be asking too much - but she asked if she could take our coats, led us straight to a table, handed us a menu each, and offered poppadoms. It's not bad service, is it?
Poppadoms and pickles duly arrive, along with drinks. Pickles are fine: nothing to write home about, but not the (now infamous) fermented mango chutney that I was once served at another Oxford institution, which will remain nameless.
The upwards curve continued with starters. My partner's Tandoori Galda Chingri were beasts of their genre, three giant butterflied prawns smoky from the heat of the oven and perfectly cooked, still juicy but with a wonderful meaty bite. The heap of generic frisee salad, undressed and taking up half the plate, was a little puzzling but didn't detract excessively from the prawns. My Dal Bora was less the menu description of "lentil cake" and more a mass of teeny lentil fritters, crispy outside and fluffy within, somewhat reminiscent (for those who've tried them) of the polenta chips at Jamie's Italian. They were lightly, but not overpoweringly spiced. An incredibly sweet dipping sauce was, like the salad, puzzling, but easily ignored in favour of the yoghurt dip that had come with the poppadoms, which provided a much better foil to the deep fried morsels.
Unfortunately, that was the end of Aziz's success. We were faintly disappointed with both main courses. If my Ada Gosht, described on the menu as "tikka lamb", had ever seen the inside of a tandoor, it was a very long time ago. The meat was so well cooked it could be pushed apart with a fork, and the onions and green peppers accompanying it were extremely overcooked. If you've ever tried to cook a green pepper, you'll know quite how difficult it is to overcook them, robust creatures that they are, but Aziz seem to have succeeded. The sauce had a nice amount of shredded ginger in it, but the spicing otherwise was undistinguished and undistinguishable.
My partner, as ever, chose the Chicken Pathia, which is normally the one dish we come to Aziz for, theirs being (according to him) one of the best. This time, it certainly wasn't: the chicken was dry and overcooked, and the sauce was lacking its usual citrus bite. A side of pilau rice had been mis-remembered and arrived as plain rice; a Misti naan bread was not stuffed with almonds but had a paste smeared on the outside, making it messy to eat. A complementary vegetable side dish was interestingly spiced with onion seeds and cumin, but was cold almost as soon as it was on the table.
Service throughout had been aloof, but reached a peak when the dishes were removed from the table whilst my partner still had a piece of bread in his hand, and when the tablecloth was removed whilst he was still eating it. The restaurant was not busy; there was not a queue of waiting customers; we had not been told that we only had the table for a limited period of time. So why this brusque rudeness? The implication is that the customer is simply not wanted, not welcome, despite the fact that we are paying for the food.
Bad service is not the be-all and end-all of a restaurant; I've never felt particularly warmly welcomed at the Magdalen Arms, for example. But if you are to be arrogant, you need something to be arrogant about. The food at the Magdalen Arms is excellent. The food at Aziz is occasionally good, but more often is cliched and tired, and that just doesn't make up for the poor service.
Monday, 17 February 2014
Restaurant review: The Milkshed
A good bacon sandwich is a rare thing. In fact, borderline extinct: they are usually found only in my kitchen. White sourdough sandwich loaf, lightly toasted, a 2:1 ratio of back to streaky rashers, smoked, crisp, generous amount of HP sauce, one side of the bread fried in the bacon fat.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling really daring, I'll swap the bread for one of the Natural Bread Company's white rolls. Sometimes.
So it's not that I don't like going out for breakfast; I just have rather high standards. The best breakfasts I've had out tend to avoid bacon sandwich territory: the halloumi and pancakes at Oxfork would be a highlight, along with the kedgeree at St Giles' Cafe. But then I got taken to the Milkshed, took a bite of my partner's bacon sandwich, and realised we might be on to something. Streaky, thick-cut, but still crispy, this was some prime bacon. I'd ordered scrambled eggs and smoked salmon that day, but swiftly scheduled in a return visit.
When we did return, it was at an hour more appropriate for brunch than breakfast, so I went for the club sandwich. This is a work of absolute beauty, the Platonic ideal of a club sandwich. All other club sandwiches are but pale imitations of this model. There was the bacon, of course, crunchy and salty and smoky, wiping its slightly greasy feet all over the toasted sourdough. Then there were insanely juicy hunks of chicken breast. These had been chargrilled, I suspect in close proximity to the bacon, so were blackened on the outside and almost explosively moist within. There were slices of nutty gruyere, just softening into strings in the warmth of the sandwich, rocket leaves mildly wilting, and, oh my god, a "basil mayo". Two so simple words, such a complex item. It was sharp with the waft of garlic, peppery with basil, and rich with eggs and oil. Two halves of slow-roasted tomato sat on the side, perfect for a tomato-hater like me; I passed them to my partner who admired their concentrated taste but was a little puzzled that they were served cold, with a hot sandwich.
He had a plateful of Eggs Benedict to get through, though, so had more important things to worry about. The eggs were perfectly poached, perched atop what I suspect were sourdough muffins: among the best we'd ever tasted. There was almost too much of the exceedingly rich, obviously homemade hollandaise, and more of that fabulous crispy bacon on top.
We accompanied our meal with coffees, made with locally roasted beans and easily the cutest milk jugs ever, shaped like miniature glass milk urns, just like their logo. They also do a fabulous range of ice creams, which I've promised myself I'll try once it has finally stopped raining, and have an extremely dangerous little deli in a couple of cupboards at the back of the airy barn in which the restaurant lives. Someone, please keep me away from this place: it's far too good for me.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling really daring, I'll swap the bread for one of the Natural Bread Company's white rolls. Sometimes.
So it's not that I don't like going out for breakfast; I just have rather high standards. The best breakfasts I've had out tend to avoid bacon sandwich territory: the halloumi and pancakes at Oxfork would be a highlight, along with the kedgeree at St Giles' Cafe. But then I got taken to the Milkshed, took a bite of my partner's bacon sandwich, and realised we might be on to something. Streaky, thick-cut, but still crispy, this was some prime bacon. I'd ordered scrambled eggs and smoked salmon that day, but swiftly scheduled in a return visit.
When we did return, it was at an hour more appropriate for brunch than breakfast, so I went for the club sandwich. This is a work of absolute beauty, the Platonic ideal of a club sandwich. All other club sandwiches are but pale imitations of this model. There was the bacon, of course, crunchy and salty and smoky, wiping its slightly greasy feet all over the toasted sourdough. Then there were insanely juicy hunks of chicken breast. These had been chargrilled, I suspect in close proximity to the bacon, so were blackened on the outside and almost explosively moist within. There were slices of nutty gruyere, just softening into strings in the warmth of the sandwich, rocket leaves mildly wilting, and, oh my god, a "basil mayo". Two so simple words, such a complex item. It was sharp with the waft of garlic, peppery with basil, and rich with eggs and oil. Two halves of slow-roasted tomato sat on the side, perfect for a tomato-hater like me; I passed them to my partner who admired their concentrated taste but was a little puzzled that they were served cold, with a hot sandwich.
He had a plateful of Eggs Benedict to get through, though, so had more important things to worry about. The eggs were perfectly poached, perched atop what I suspect were sourdough muffins: among the best we'd ever tasted. There was almost too much of the exceedingly rich, obviously homemade hollandaise, and more of that fabulous crispy bacon on top.
We accompanied our meal with coffees, made with locally roasted beans and easily the cutest milk jugs ever, shaped like miniature glass milk urns, just like their logo. They also do a fabulous range of ice creams, which I've promised myself I'll try once it has finally stopped raining, and have an extremely dangerous little deli in a couple of cupboards at the back of the airy barn in which the restaurant lives. Someone, please keep me away from this place: it's far too good for me.
Wednesday, 22 January 2014
Restaurant review: My Sichuan
I believe it's possible to eat a meal at My Sichuan which doesn't contain either offal or vast quantities of chillis. But you don't want to read about that, do you? You want me to tell you about the intestines, the frogs' legs, the deep blood red of the chillis and the tingling numbing freshness of the sichuan peppercorns.
It strikes me that Chinese regional cuisine - by which I mostly mean Sichuan, because that's mostly what we've got in this country so far - has become the new macho eating out experience. Now that it's no longer socially acceptable to pop into your local Bangladeshi restaurant and order the vindaloo, checking first that it really is "the hottest dish on the menu", the adventurous middle class foodie needs an alternative outlet for their arcane knowledge and desperate need to impress all those around them. See: John Lanchester in the Guardian, drooling over his own "near-psychotic" consumption of chillis at this very restaurant.
But I'll tell you all the same, because this is good food, really really good food, and anyone who cares about flavour, texture, smell, hot, sour, sweet, salty, savoury, and all the rest needs to try this food. There's a good reason to eat this food, like there's a good reason to order a vindaloo (because garlic and vinegar are brilliant ways of cutting through and enhancing the unctuous fat of a pork shoulder), and that's because it will provide you with different experiences to those you can get anywhere else.
Let's start with the "weird" things anyway, to get them out of the way. Dry fried intestines were excellent, as ever (I've ordered them every time I've been here): you could fool yourself into thinking you were eating squid rings if you wanted, although there's a slight farmyard undertone that hangs around even after you've finished eating, a slight reminder that you are eating an animal, not an anonymous chunk of protein. Coated in cornflour and fried ("dry" fried they're not; there's been plenty of hot oil near these babies) till crisp, then mixed with plenty of dried chillis, they are aromatic without being excessively spicy.
The salt and pepper frogs' legs were, for me, probably the disappointment of the meal. Other diners claimed to be able to taste something of the sea in them; to me, they were just slightly watery faux chicken wings. The batter was fine but, for once, the dish was under-spiced, with just a tiny sprinkle of garlic, sichuan peppercorns, and spring onions on top.
The sichuan beef was at the other end of the scale: deeply, warmingly rich with chilli, fermented bean paste and five spice. It's described somewhat obliquely on the menu, but what you get is a bowl of thin, soft slices of beef, with beansprouts and slices of onion, in a broth, with a thick slick of bright chilli oil on top. A slow-burning dish.
I've had it many times elsewhere, and even made it at home, but I'd somehow never ordered the ma po tofu here before. I'm so pleased that has changed: this dish has a spikier heat than the sichuan beef, but some of the same depth of flavour in the sauce. We were unable to convert the tofu-hater at the table, despite our best efforts ("it's like pannacotta, but savoury and covered in chilli oil"), but this is honestly very good tofu, utterly lacking in structural integrity but a brilliant carrier of, and foil to, the spicy sauce.
We ordered two dishes for the non-chilli-fiends at the table, but that's not to say these were mild in flavour terms. The cumin lamb was spectacular (lamb and cumin are both used extensively in the predominantly Muslim north-west of China, where the cuisine is influenced as much by the Indian sub-continent or the middle east as it is by Cantonese traditions), full of dusty citrus notes and the slight smoke of the wok. The other dish was the gong bao chicken, otherwise translated as kung po chicken. This is a sweet dish, the closest to those you might get in normal Chinese restaurants, but it's well executed here, with fragrant dried chillis, beautifully soft cubes of chicken, and plenty of crunchy peanuts.
I'd normally always order at least one vegetable dish when eating out at a Chinese, although I'm aware that's not the norm. Those who don't are missing out on the amazing dry fried green beans, stir-fried till browned but still crunchy, with masses of sichuan peppercorns and little nubbles of minced pork. These are easily the best green beans in the world. We also had the brocolli in garlic, which did exactly what it said on the tin, and was also refreshingly non-oily, a pleasant comparison to some of the other dishes we ordered. I was dining with my partner, but those who are not should perhaps avoid this dish. Or eat it anyway, and just avoid your partner for the next few days.
The decor's not much; half the staff don't speak English; on a quiet night the atmosphere is grimly silent. In conclusion, if you give a damn about good food, you must eat here.
Massive thanks to my dining companions Robin (who recommended the frogs' legs and the ma po tofu), Peter, Jillian, Colin, Helen (who doesn't like spicy food, but loved the intestines) and Michael (who wasn't convinced about eating offal, but loved the spice), and to Chris, whose birthday it was and who brought together such a great bunch of people to eat this food.
It strikes me that Chinese regional cuisine - by which I mostly mean Sichuan, because that's mostly what we've got in this country so far - has become the new macho eating out experience. Now that it's no longer socially acceptable to pop into your local Bangladeshi restaurant and order the vindaloo, checking first that it really is "the hottest dish on the menu", the adventurous middle class foodie needs an alternative outlet for their arcane knowledge and desperate need to impress all those around them. See: John Lanchester in the Guardian, drooling over his own "near-psychotic" consumption of chillis at this very restaurant.
But I'll tell you all the same, because this is good food, really really good food, and anyone who cares about flavour, texture, smell, hot, sour, sweet, salty, savoury, and all the rest needs to try this food. There's a good reason to eat this food, like there's a good reason to order a vindaloo (because garlic and vinegar are brilliant ways of cutting through and enhancing the unctuous fat of a pork shoulder), and that's because it will provide you with different experiences to those you can get anywhere else.
Let's start with the "weird" things anyway, to get them out of the way. Dry fried intestines were excellent, as ever (I've ordered them every time I've been here): you could fool yourself into thinking you were eating squid rings if you wanted, although there's a slight farmyard undertone that hangs around even after you've finished eating, a slight reminder that you are eating an animal, not an anonymous chunk of protein. Coated in cornflour and fried ("dry" fried they're not; there's been plenty of hot oil near these babies) till crisp, then mixed with plenty of dried chillis, they are aromatic without being excessively spicy.
The salt and pepper frogs' legs were, for me, probably the disappointment of the meal. Other diners claimed to be able to taste something of the sea in them; to me, they were just slightly watery faux chicken wings. The batter was fine but, for once, the dish was under-spiced, with just a tiny sprinkle of garlic, sichuan peppercorns, and spring onions on top.
The sichuan beef was at the other end of the scale: deeply, warmingly rich with chilli, fermented bean paste and five spice. It's described somewhat obliquely on the menu, but what you get is a bowl of thin, soft slices of beef, with beansprouts and slices of onion, in a broth, with a thick slick of bright chilli oil on top. A slow-burning dish.
I've had it many times elsewhere, and even made it at home, but I'd somehow never ordered the ma po tofu here before. I'm so pleased that has changed: this dish has a spikier heat than the sichuan beef, but some of the same depth of flavour in the sauce. We were unable to convert the tofu-hater at the table, despite our best efforts ("it's like pannacotta, but savoury and covered in chilli oil"), but this is honestly very good tofu, utterly lacking in structural integrity but a brilliant carrier of, and foil to, the spicy sauce.
We ordered two dishes for the non-chilli-fiends at the table, but that's not to say these were mild in flavour terms. The cumin lamb was spectacular (lamb and cumin are both used extensively in the predominantly Muslim north-west of China, where the cuisine is influenced as much by the Indian sub-continent or the middle east as it is by Cantonese traditions), full of dusty citrus notes and the slight smoke of the wok. The other dish was the gong bao chicken, otherwise translated as kung po chicken. This is a sweet dish, the closest to those you might get in normal Chinese restaurants, but it's well executed here, with fragrant dried chillis, beautifully soft cubes of chicken, and plenty of crunchy peanuts.
I'd normally always order at least one vegetable dish when eating out at a Chinese, although I'm aware that's not the norm. Those who don't are missing out on the amazing dry fried green beans, stir-fried till browned but still crunchy, with masses of sichuan peppercorns and little nubbles of minced pork. These are easily the best green beans in the world. We also had the brocolli in garlic, which did exactly what it said on the tin, and was also refreshingly non-oily, a pleasant comparison to some of the other dishes we ordered. I was dining with my partner, but those who are not should perhaps avoid this dish. Or eat it anyway, and just avoid your partner for the next few days.
The decor's not much; half the staff don't speak English; on a quiet night the atmosphere is grimly silent. In conclusion, if you give a damn about good food, you must eat here.
Massive thanks to my dining companions Robin (who recommended the frogs' legs and the ma po tofu), Peter, Jillian, Colin, Helen (who doesn't like spicy food, but loved the intestines) and Michael (who wasn't convinced about eating offal, but loved the spice), and to Chris, whose birthday it was and who brought together such a great bunch of people to eat this food.
Monday, 13 January 2014
Restaurant Review: The Magdalen Arms
One of the (many) things which drives me irrationally mad is that class of features in food magazines generally titled "Girls' Night In". Generally starting with a thrilling low-fat, low-sugar cocktail, they recommend progressing to a salad, perhaps with some raw fish on top, followed by a low-fat, low-sugar, yet still "naughty" dessert. Perhaps I'm doing it wrong, but the only girls' night in I regularly attend involves massive quantities of wine, loaves and loaves of bread, and half the contents of a cheese shop.
That's not to say, though, that I can't acknowledge some difference between the types of food my male and female friends prefer to eat when they're out. There does tend to need to be a greater supply of vegetarian dishes, of salads or fish dishes, for a restaurant to attract a group of female friends. Hence, despite loving the food on previous occasions, I had never considered that the Magdalen Arms might be an appropriate venue. Fortunately, I have friends who are less narrow minded, and so I found myself there with a group of four other females.
Well, eventually I did. As I've found on previous visits, the service at the Magdalen Arms always leaves a little to be desired. This time, the staff sent half the group through to the restaurant; when the other half arrived, they told them that no-one else was yet there, and seated them in the bar area. Thus the first 15 minutes of the evening were spent in two separate groups, each waiting for the other to arrive. We eventually found each other and settled down to study the menu.
It's worth saying that my general feeling about the food here stands: it's big portions of heavy food, with limited concessions to smaller appetites or lighter tastes. That's shown partly in the fact that two pairs of us went for the same options (two mushroom tagliatelles, and two partridges). One of the best suggestions came from the friend who sensibly chose to order a starter plus a side salad, in this case, the cheese souffle. I've had this before as a starter and it is delicious; I can just about squeeze it in as part of a three-course meal but it sits much more happily as a main on its own.
The mushroom tagliatelle was the only vegetarian dish on the menu. This does seem to be generally the case, and I've heard that it's not uncommon for the restaurant to have run out of this single option halfway through the evening. Luckily, we nabbed two potions of it: slippery, wafer-thin homemade egg pasta, rich in flavour but not weight, with mushrooms (sauce would not be the word here: a little seasoned butter, maybe) and a very generous dose of parmesan.
The mushroom tagliatelle was the only vegetarian dish on the menu. This does seem to be generally the case, and I've heard that it's not uncommon for the restaurant to have run out of this single option halfway through the evening. Luckily, we nabbed two potions of it: slippery, wafer-thin homemade egg pasta, rich in flavour but not weight, with mushrooms (sauce would not be the word here: a little seasoned butter, maybe) and a very generous dose of parmesan.
Finally, two of us went for the partridge, including me. To be honest, as my sister recently married someone with the surname Partridge, I always feel compelled to order it on menus, simply so that I can text her and suggest I am consuming her/her husband. It's funny, honest. But I probably would have chosen it in any case, accompanied as it was by choucroute and sausage. That sausage was superb, and, as expected, it appeared in generous quantities, oozing unctuous fatty juices all over the place. The choucroute was slightly underflavoured, but provided a nice enough background winey note. I was disgruntled to find the bird itself a little overcooked, but - *female friendly klaxon* - my pregnant friend was delighted not to have to worry about the dangers of underdone meat.
To finish where we started, it took an age to drag the bill out of a waitress seemingly reluctant to accept our money: again, a small example of how slightly shoddy service can let down a whole evening. But - and I suspect the Magdalen Arms knows this, and focusses its attentions accordingly - the food is good enough that the service doesn't matter. Like the vast majority of their clientele, I'll be back. I might even take some women.
To finish where we started, it took an age to drag the bill out of a waitress seemingly reluctant to accept our money: again, a small example of how slightly shoddy service can let down a whole evening. But - and I suspect the Magdalen Arms knows this, and focusses its attentions accordingly - the food is good enough that the service doesn't matter. Like the vast majority of their clientele, I'll be back. I might even take some women.
Monday, 16 September 2013
Restaurant review: Moya
I first tried to go to Moya with the now-boyfriend over 3 years ago. The evening did not start well: a sudden thunderstorm soaked my jeans to the knee, I was running late, and then Moya was closed. The entrails were not auspicious.
Somehow, we had a wonderful evening. And we've been meaning to give Moya another chance ever since. We made it as far as cocktails once, but already had dinner reservations at Door 74, not wanting to take a risk on it being closed again. So, three years later, we headed back.
Moya have an extensive cocktail menu - normally the sort of thing that would make me wary but, with around half the floor space occupied by a bar, we decided they might be serious and ordered a couple. His Sloe Gin Sling was pleasantly bitter, refreshing, and almost savoury in a herby fashion. My Honeysuckle Champagne veered just the right side of sweet, and also had a lovely floral scent. The wine list is short but also excellent: we went for a very reasonably priced bottle of Malbec.
As a starter, I simply had to try the fantastically-named Devil's Toast. Knowing I would choose a meaty main course, though, I went for the vegetarian version. I certainly didn't find it as scary as it threatened to be; there was a pleasant dry warmth from the paprika but it didn't get near blowing my head off. In any case, the heat was tempered by the generous helping of creamy goat's cheese, grilled over the top. He went for the fishcake, perhaps a little short on fish but very light and fluffy. With finely chopped mixed vegetables in the mix, it was a fresh-tasting start to a meal.
I tried two things I've never heard of before for my main course (quite an achievement on the part of a restaurant!). The Segedin pork stew was surprisingly light and delicate - perhaps too delicate, as I struggled to detect any of the promised caraway in the sauce. It was served with knedla, a steamed bread. This was easily the fluffiest bread I've ever had, almost too light to be capable of mopping up the juices from my plate, but utterly delicious nonetheless. On the other side of the table, he had Smoked Sausage, possibly the most disappointing dish of the evening. The portion size was definitely on the small side (two sausages), and the promised bacon/garlic/shallots were a tiny dash of seasoning, not the major feature that their inclusion on the menu might suggest. Note to chefs everywhere: you do not need to list every single ingredient of every dish on the menu. However, this came with a side dish of some good gratin potatoes, so it wasn't a total loss.
I could tell that the main dish must have been a bit small, because he managed dessert. And a good thing too, as it was raved about: a Bublanina sponge cake, incredibly airy and fluffy, doused with assorted forest berries on top, and served with a you-know-that's-homemade-real-stuff light vanilla custard.
Service throughout was very professional, hitting just the right note between friendly and overbearing. Overall, it was an enjoyable meal, but perhaps not quite enjoyable enough for me to rave about for weeks. The flavours, the portion size, the service: everything felt as if it was slightly held in, aiming to be a tamed version of Slovak cuisine, palatable for English unused to spice and fat. I left wanting more, despite being full.
Somehow, we had a wonderful evening. And we've been meaning to give Moya another chance ever since. We made it as far as cocktails once, but already had dinner reservations at Door 74, not wanting to take a risk on it being closed again. So, three years later, we headed back.
Moya have an extensive cocktail menu - normally the sort of thing that would make me wary but, with around half the floor space occupied by a bar, we decided they might be serious and ordered a couple. His Sloe Gin Sling was pleasantly bitter, refreshing, and almost savoury in a herby fashion. My Honeysuckle Champagne veered just the right side of sweet, and also had a lovely floral scent. The wine list is short but also excellent: we went for a very reasonably priced bottle of Malbec.
As a starter, I simply had to try the fantastically-named Devil's Toast. Knowing I would choose a meaty main course, though, I went for the vegetarian version. I certainly didn't find it as scary as it threatened to be; there was a pleasant dry warmth from the paprika but it didn't get near blowing my head off. In any case, the heat was tempered by the generous helping of creamy goat's cheese, grilled over the top. He went for the fishcake, perhaps a little short on fish but very light and fluffy. With finely chopped mixed vegetables in the mix, it was a fresh-tasting start to a meal.
I tried two things I've never heard of before for my main course (quite an achievement on the part of a restaurant!). The Segedin pork stew was surprisingly light and delicate - perhaps too delicate, as I struggled to detect any of the promised caraway in the sauce. It was served with knedla, a steamed bread. This was easily the fluffiest bread I've ever had, almost too light to be capable of mopping up the juices from my plate, but utterly delicious nonetheless. On the other side of the table, he had Smoked Sausage, possibly the most disappointing dish of the evening. The portion size was definitely on the small side (two sausages), and the promised bacon/garlic/shallots were a tiny dash of seasoning, not the major feature that their inclusion on the menu might suggest. Note to chefs everywhere: you do not need to list every single ingredient of every dish on the menu. However, this came with a side dish of some good gratin potatoes, so it wasn't a total loss.
I could tell that the main dish must have been a bit small, because he managed dessert. And a good thing too, as it was raved about: a Bublanina sponge cake, incredibly airy and fluffy, doused with assorted forest berries on top, and served with a you-know-that's-homemade-real-stuff light vanilla custard.
Service throughout was very professional, hitting just the right note between friendly and overbearing. Overall, it was an enjoyable meal, but perhaps not quite enjoyable enough for me to rave about for weeks. The flavours, the portion size, the service: everything felt as if it was slightly held in, aiming to be a tamed version of Slovak cuisine, palatable for English unused to spice and fat. I left wanting more, despite being full.
Wednesday, 11 September 2013
Restaurant Review: Oxford Grill
Oxford Grill is easily one of the least prepossessing restaurants in Oxford. A bright red sign across the door, white text splurged across the windows, and one of the worst-punctuated social media presences I've ever read. So I avoided it. I passed it every day, lurking at the top of the Cowley Road, on my way to and from work, with no intention to ever visit.
Luckily, others less prejudiced than me popped in. They raved to me about the food: first one, then two, then more. I asked to go for dinner with a friend, letting her know I'd be reviewing the place, and she insisted we try it.
Admittedly we visited early on a Monday evening, but it would appear that most people had the same impression as me: we were the only customers present for almost the entire evening. However, the interior decor is stylish enough, and the space small enough, to feel warm even in such circumstances. The incredibly warm welcome we received from the manager certainly helped, too. Instantly, hot, fluffy flatbreads appeared - more like a focaccia than a pitta - together with a plate of hummus.
There's a lengthy starter menu, and on a return visit I'd definitely consider ordering a range of these dishes, rather than a traditional starter and main. Vegetarians in particular will enjoy this selection; the main dishes contained few vegetarian options (and should probably avoid, for example, the vegetarian tagliatelle dish, which apparently contains chicken). I went for the dolmes, vine leaves stuffed with well-cooked rice (so many restaurants either over- or under-cook theirs), tangy with lemon juice but rich with olive oil. I love dolmes, but I think I made a poor choice compared to my companion, who selected the cacik. I've never had an exciting cacik, but as soon as it arrived I realised my error. The cucumber was not carved into tasteless hunks, nor grated to the point of dissolving into the yoghurt, nor even sliced delicately. It was cubed into the tiniest little brunoise, smaller than many a fine Parisien restaurant would bother with. Each piece was imbued with flavour from the yoghurt and garlic, whilst retaining crunch. It must have been prepared incredibly recently, too: no liquid had leached into the yoghurt to thin the overall consistency. The yoghurt itself was rich, almost cheesy, and with a pleasant waft of garlic.
I chose the hunkar begendi as a main course, a dish I've read about before but never tried. It's therefore possible that all versions are actually this good, but I'll rave anyway. The base of aubergines was a slightly well-textured baba ghanoush or similar, smoky and creamy. This was topped with little cubes of chargrilled lamb, again, smoky, but providing a good texture contrast to the aubergine, tender as they were. Finally there was a drizzle of chilli sauce (presumably this was the "peppers" listed on the menu), just enough to spice up the occasional mouthful without overpowering the rest of the dish. It was a piece of very well balanced and precise cooking. My companion went for a regular favourite of hers, the not-particularly-informative "Lamb Saute", which appears on the "Daily Specials" section of the regular printed menu. So not a special at all. The dish itself was rich, served in a sweet reduced tomato and herb sauce, but I didn't find it quite as exciting as the rest of the meal. Both mains came with rice.
There you go: don't judge a book by its cover. I have no intention of actually following this maxim, but felt obliged to churn it out anyway; it's such an appalling cliche. And besides, when I have people around me who are happy to ignore covers and recommend places like the Oxford Grill, why should I?
Luckily, others less prejudiced than me popped in. They raved to me about the food: first one, then two, then more. I asked to go for dinner with a friend, letting her know I'd be reviewing the place, and she insisted we try it.
Admittedly we visited early on a Monday evening, but it would appear that most people had the same impression as me: we were the only customers present for almost the entire evening. However, the interior decor is stylish enough, and the space small enough, to feel warm even in such circumstances. The incredibly warm welcome we received from the manager certainly helped, too. Instantly, hot, fluffy flatbreads appeared - more like a focaccia than a pitta - together with a plate of hummus.
There's a lengthy starter menu, and on a return visit I'd definitely consider ordering a range of these dishes, rather than a traditional starter and main. Vegetarians in particular will enjoy this selection; the main dishes contained few vegetarian options (and should probably avoid, for example, the vegetarian tagliatelle dish, which apparently contains chicken). I went for the dolmes, vine leaves stuffed with well-cooked rice (so many restaurants either over- or under-cook theirs), tangy with lemon juice but rich with olive oil. I love dolmes, but I think I made a poor choice compared to my companion, who selected the cacik. I've never had an exciting cacik, but as soon as it arrived I realised my error. The cucumber was not carved into tasteless hunks, nor grated to the point of dissolving into the yoghurt, nor even sliced delicately. It was cubed into the tiniest little brunoise, smaller than many a fine Parisien restaurant would bother with. Each piece was imbued with flavour from the yoghurt and garlic, whilst retaining crunch. It must have been prepared incredibly recently, too: no liquid had leached into the yoghurt to thin the overall consistency. The yoghurt itself was rich, almost cheesy, and with a pleasant waft of garlic.
I chose the hunkar begendi as a main course, a dish I've read about before but never tried. It's therefore possible that all versions are actually this good, but I'll rave anyway. The base of aubergines was a slightly well-textured baba ghanoush or similar, smoky and creamy. This was topped with little cubes of chargrilled lamb, again, smoky, but providing a good texture contrast to the aubergine, tender as they were. Finally there was a drizzle of chilli sauce (presumably this was the "peppers" listed on the menu), just enough to spice up the occasional mouthful without overpowering the rest of the dish. It was a piece of very well balanced and precise cooking. My companion went for a regular favourite of hers, the not-particularly-informative "Lamb Saute", which appears on the "Daily Specials" section of the regular printed menu. So not a special at all. The dish itself was rich, served in a sweet reduced tomato and herb sauce, but I didn't find it quite as exciting as the rest of the meal. Both mains came with rice.
There you go: don't judge a book by its cover. I have no intention of actually following this maxim, but felt obliged to churn it out anyway; it's such an appalling cliche. And besides, when I have people around me who are happy to ignore covers and recommend places like the Oxford Grill, why should I?
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