Now, it's not as if I would decline an opportunity to subsist entirely on wine for an evening. In fact, given the calorific content of most alcoholic drinks, I sometimes wonder if my health would be better served by not eating on nights when I drink. Then I wake up the next morning in the middle of a massive sugar low, nearly faint in the shower, and resolve never to be so silly again.
So when invited to the launch of new Oxford wine bar, 1855, I was delighted to see that they had a tempting menu of food, all designed to go well with a glass of wine (or several). The tasters they handed out were encouraging, so I made an appointment on a cold rainy January evening to go back with a friend for "dinner". I mean, dinner. Actual food. And maybe some wine.
I started off on the Lo Sang del Pais (dammit, focussing on the wine again), which was a delightfully dry and elegant red wine. It went superbly with the tapenade, ordered as part of a trio of dunking things together with some "tomato confit" (chutney) and "onion confit" (caramelised onions), alongside some excellent chewy toasted sourdough. It took me some time to realise that the wine and tapenade tasted so good together because the wine had that slightly bitter, slightly oily taste carried by really good black olives.
The dunking things swiftly got wolfed down, the bread accompanied by some really stunning extra virgin olive oil and a rounded sherry vinegar. The tomato confit was particularly good, and I speak as someone who doesn't normally like tomatoes: the cooking had highlighted the fruity notes without overemphasising either sweetness or sourness. So we ordered a couple of meaty plates: pork rillettes for me, and the celebration terrine for her.
Alongside them I had a glass of Vourla, from Turkey. Turkey! I didn't even know they made wines, and here's a place that not only sells them, but does so by the glass. This came from the "sun-drenched" section of the menu (the Lo Sang del Pais was from "mountains and slopes"), and it's a pleasure to find a wine menu that has actually useful categories. The Vourla was just the sort of red wine you'd want to drink on a warm summer evening somewhere in the Med: as the menu notes state, it's full of "really soft, ripe... fruit...with spicy notes". I'd like to do better than the menu description, but it's worth emphasising that the descriptions here are about as accurate as you can get. It perhaps wasn't the perfect match with my pork rillettes, but I probably should have chosen a white or rose with them.
The rillettes themselves weren't, in fact, rillettes, but largeish chunks of pork, both lean and fat cuts, potted with clarified butter. The size of the chunks made them more awkward to eat, especially at a small table packed with wine glasses; a smearable texture would have been much easier to deal with. However, the flavour was good, with plenty of aromatic thyme and a good amount of butter. My companion was very impressed with her celebration terrine, a mix of chicken, duck and pork meats enclosed in pancetta. It was definitely a knife and fork job, particularly with the generic mixed salad it came with. Both dishes came in generous portions: you could very easily construct yourself a full three-course dinner here from what appears, at first glance, to be a menu of snacky things.
We both finished off with a glass of the Australian "Dandelion Wonder of the Eden" Riesling. This was a little drier and less oily in the glass than we had expected, but it was so highly aromatic that it still did a good job of following on from some serious reds. A refreshing end to a very pleasant evening: hopefully the first of very many I spend ensconced here.
Friday, 25 April 2014
Wednesday, 16 April 2014
Restaurant review: Al-Shami
Despite being an absolute shoo-in for the Bitten Top 10, somehow I haven't written a proper review of Al-Shami. I've been here on romantic dates for two, and with groups of 20 carnivores, but on this visit I was there with threeother vegetarians. So I need to take the opportunity of this introduction to mention a few of the dishes I've tried on previous occasions but not this time: the jawaneh dajaj mashwiya, chicken wings marinated in garlic and lemon juice then slowly roasted until crispy outside but soft and tender within; kibbeh nayah, delicate raw minced lamb, gentle in texture but with a bite of raw onion and parsley; and sujuk, spicy mini lamb sausages with paprika, something like chorizo but more intense, and with the type of animal fat that coats your lips. But enough about those things. This time we were here for VEGETABLES. Oh yes.
You are always brought a dish of salads and pickles for the table to share at Al-Shami, as soon as you've sat down. I was confused the first few times when the salad ingredients arrived whole (entire pepper, two entire tomatoes, a whole head of lettuce...), until a Lebanese friend explained to me that the aim of serving the vegetables whole was to get people serving others around the table, making the experience infinitely more communal than just sharing from the same bowl. We were disappointed this time that there was no red pepper, but it was replaced with masses of the home-pickled red cabbage. Do beware of the chillis: they're not especially hot, but because they're pickled, they are filled with vinegar, which can stylishly dribble all over you when you bite in, if you're not careful.
We order a selection of dishes to share between the table. Hummus, and bread, were the first to arrive. The hummus here is always incredibly light and smooth, with plenty of tahini. The flatbreads cooled a little too quickly, toughening up, but were fine with the dip. Two salads came next: a tabbouleh, which was slightly lacking compared to previous visits, with a large proportion of the bowl occupied by little gem lettuce, rather than a chopped parsley salad, and an excellent fattoush, sharp with sumak and laden with uber-crisp pitta croutons.
My partner's favourite dish is the batata harra, so that had to be ordered. This fried potato dish never excites me terribly, but others adored it. The zahra maqlia was my absolute stand-out dish of this visit: caramelised roast cauliflower, served at room temperature, with a nutty and rich-but-sharp tahini sauce. I am, admittedly, something of a cauliflower fiend, but I could happily have eaten a couple of plates of this on my own.
We had to order a double portion of the falafel, as I knew that a single croquette apiece wouldn't suffice. They're normally great here, crumbly on the inside and crunchy outside, but they were even more sublime than usual, the exteriors shattering when bitten. They came with a drizzle of tahini sauce. Al-Shami don't do a grilled halloumi dish, a source of perpetual sadness for me, but they do serve a kellage halloum, cheese grilled inside flatbreads. It lacks the lovely charred bits of cheese, but the flatbread is flaky and slightly darkened, so the flavours are still good. Finally, we had a plate of fetayer sebanikh. These are billed as spinach pastries, but the rich and flaky pastry is actually balanced by a very tart, lemony filling, making these a refreshing little nibble.
We could have ordered (and eaten) more, but space needed to be left for the baklawa. The waiter kindly steered us away from the whipped-cream-filled versions, and advised us to focus on the tiny squares of pastry, butter, and syrup instead. He didn't tell us that we hadn't ordered enough, though: despite their richness, we couldn't help requesting a second helping.We accompanied them with a round of muddied, thick, and aromatic Lebanese coffees (as dark as the night, as strong as a man, and as bitter as a women, as my favourite Bedouin saying goes).
Al-Shami have a fantastic range of Lebanese wines which is well worth exploring, including two house wines served by the glass. We went for a bottle of one of those house wines, the Chateau Musar "Musar Jeune White", which was strongly aromatic and stood up well to the range of flavours and acidity in the food. Service was friendly, and although it was sometimes slightly scatty, the food arrived quickly. I'll be back - lots.
You are always brought a dish of salads and pickles for the table to share at Al-Shami, as soon as you've sat down. I was confused the first few times when the salad ingredients arrived whole (entire pepper, two entire tomatoes, a whole head of lettuce...), until a Lebanese friend explained to me that the aim of serving the vegetables whole was to get people serving others around the table, making the experience infinitely more communal than just sharing from the same bowl. We were disappointed this time that there was no red pepper, but it was replaced with masses of the home-pickled red cabbage. Do beware of the chillis: they're not especially hot, but because they're pickled, they are filled with vinegar, which can stylishly dribble all over you when you bite in, if you're not careful.
We order a selection of dishes to share between the table. Hummus, and bread, were the first to arrive. The hummus here is always incredibly light and smooth, with plenty of tahini. The flatbreads cooled a little too quickly, toughening up, but were fine with the dip. Two salads came next: a tabbouleh, which was slightly lacking compared to previous visits, with a large proportion of the bowl occupied by little gem lettuce, rather than a chopped parsley salad, and an excellent fattoush, sharp with sumak and laden with uber-crisp pitta croutons.
My partner's favourite dish is the batata harra, so that had to be ordered. This fried potato dish never excites me terribly, but others adored it. The zahra maqlia was my absolute stand-out dish of this visit: caramelised roast cauliflower, served at room temperature, with a nutty and rich-but-sharp tahini sauce. I am, admittedly, something of a cauliflower fiend, but I could happily have eaten a couple of plates of this on my own.
We had to order a double portion of the falafel, as I knew that a single croquette apiece wouldn't suffice. They're normally great here, crumbly on the inside and crunchy outside, but they were even more sublime than usual, the exteriors shattering when bitten. They came with a drizzle of tahini sauce. Al-Shami don't do a grilled halloumi dish, a source of perpetual sadness for me, but they do serve a kellage halloum, cheese grilled inside flatbreads. It lacks the lovely charred bits of cheese, but the flatbread is flaky and slightly darkened, so the flavours are still good. Finally, we had a plate of fetayer sebanikh. These are billed as spinach pastries, but the rich and flaky pastry is actually balanced by a very tart, lemony filling, making these a refreshing little nibble.
We could have ordered (and eaten) more, but space needed to be left for the baklawa. The waiter kindly steered us away from the whipped-cream-filled versions, and advised us to focus on the tiny squares of pastry, butter, and syrup instead. He didn't tell us that we hadn't ordered enough, though: despite their richness, we couldn't help requesting a second helping.We accompanied them with a round of muddied, thick, and aromatic Lebanese coffees (as dark as the night, as strong as a man, and as bitter as a women, as my favourite Bedouin saying goes).
Al-Shami have a fantastic range of Lebanese wines which is well worth exploring, including two house wines served by the glass. We went for a bottle of one of those house wines, the Chateau Musar "Musar Jeune White", which was strongly aromatic and stood up well to the range of flavours and acidity in the food. Service was friendly, and although it was sometimes slightly scatty, the food arrived quickly. I'll be back - lots.
Restaurant review: The Pink Giraffe
How is it that, despite Chinese or Thai being my go-to vegetarian or vegan cuisine when cooking at home, it's so difficult to track down a good vegetarian meal at one of the many Chinese or Thai restaurants in Oxford? My favourites - My Sichuan, Chiang Mai, Sojo - all have a serious meat focus, with a few fish dishes thrown in. Even the vegetable side dishes are cooked with meat.
So, when I needed to entertain some veggie friends for a few days, I put out a call on Twitter for suggestions. One of the ideas that came back was the Pink Giraffe - a venue which I had always avoided on the grounds of its pale pink exterior and impossible-to-use website. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so off we went on Saturday night.
The restaurant is much smaller on the inside than I had expected, with tables placed very close together and little space for waiting staff to move between. Combined with the attractiveness of their all-you-can-eat-for-£15 deal to those falling out of the many local pubs, it was absolutely packed; this is one place you'd definitely need to book in advance to get into.
We started with a dish we'd been hugely looking forward to, the mock crispy duck. My partner is normally a crispy duck fiend, so this was going to have to be good. The tofu was actually crispy on the outside (I'm still bewildered as to how they achieved this), and although slightly lacking in "duck" flavour, once smothered in hoisin sauce, wrapped in pancakes and topped with spring onions and cucumber, it was barely discernible from the real thing. We also had some mock prawn crackers which were delicious and utterly indistinguishable from those you'd get anywhere else, and some crispy seaweed, which was somewhat underseasoned.
I stole a taste of the mock crispy beef in Sichuan sauce from someone elses plate, and was immediately jealous: it was better than any time I've had the real version. Instead of chewy overcooked strings of elastic in the middle of the crisp coating, there were just crunchy morsels, smothered in a hot sweet sauce.
Two of us ordered dishes "Pink Giraffe" style, which meant traditional Thai stir-fry style. They had a well-balanced mix of hot, sour, salty, and sweet flavours, together with with green beans and basil. The latter was a little lacking, compared to the excellent version at Angrid Thai, but was otherwise fantastic, both in the original bean curd and the mock pork versions. It's worth saying, though, that one of these dishes originally arrived as real beef, despite the waitress checking the order with us twice. It was replaced very quickly with the correct version, but it's definitely worth checking when dishes arrive that they are what you ordered: the kitchen are clearly capable of making mistakes.
The only non-vegetarian in the group ordered the squid in black pepper sauce, and noted that the squid was cooked perfectly, and came in a spicy and slightly smoky sauce, so they clearly know what they're doing with the "normal" menu, too. We drank a respectable bottle of rose wine(or maybe two of them); the rest of the wine list looked unexceptional, but suitable for a venue where the food is going to obliterate the taste of most wine. Service throughout was friendly, although a little inefficient towards the end, taking quite some time to bring us a bill.
So, when I needed to entertain some veggie friends for a few days, I put out a call on Twitter for suggestions. One of the ideas that came back was the Pink Giraffe - a venue which I had always avoided on the grounds of its pale pink exterior and impossible-to-use website. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so off we went on Saturday night.
The restaurant is much smaller on the inside than I had expected, with tables placed very close together and little space for waiting staff to move between. Combined with the attractiveness of their all-you-can-eat-for-£15 deal to those falling out of the many local pubs, it was absolutely packed; this is one place you'd definitely need to book in advance to get into.
We started with a dish we'd been hugely looking forward to, the mock crispy duck. My partner is normally a crispy duck fiend, so this was going to have to be good. The tofu was actually crispy on the outside (I'm still bewildered as to how they achieved this), and although slightly lacking in "duck" flavour, once smothered in hoisin sauce, wrapped in pancakes and topped with spring onions and cucumber, it was barely discernible from the real thing. We also had some mock prawn crackers which were delicious and utterly indistinguishable from those you'd get anywhere else, and some crispy seaweed, which was somewhat underseasoned.
I stole a taste of the mock crispy beef in Sichuan sauce from someone elses plate, and was immediately jealous: it was better than any time I've had the real version. Instead of chewy overcooked strings of elastic in the middle of the crisp coating, there were just crunchy morsels, smothered in a hot sweet sauce.
Two of us ordered dishes "Pink Giraffe" style, which meant traditional Thai stir-fry style. They had a well-balanced mix of hot, sour, salty, and sweet flavours, together with with green beans and basil. The latter was a little lacking, compared to the excellent version at Angrid Thai, but was otherwise fantastic, both in the original bean curd and the mock pork versions. It's worth saying, though, that one of these dishes originally arrived as real beef, despite the waitress checking the order with us twice. It was replaced very quickly with the correct version, but it's definitely worth checking when dishes arrive that they are what you ordered: the kitchen are clearly capable of making mistakes.
The only non-vegetarian in the group ordered the squid in black pepper sauce, and noted that the squid was cooked perfectly, and came in a spicy and slightly smoky sauce, so they clearly know what they're doing with the "normal" menu, too. We drank a respectable bottle of rose wine(or maybe two of them); the rest of the wine list looked unexceptional, but suitable for a venue where the food is going to obliterate the taste of most wine. Service throughout was friendly, although a little inefficient towards the end, taking quite some time to bring us a bill.
Monday, 31 March 2014
Sophie Grigson and Riverford at the Blackwell's Oxford Literary Festival Marquee
I love the idea of the Oxford Literary Festival but my, for an event where you're basically offering yourself up to be sold books to, it's rather expensive. Whilst I love hearing authors talk about their latest work, I see it as part of the process of marketing a book, so I object slightly to the £11 (or more) cost of most events at the Festival. Let alone the £95 or £120 to sit in the same room as some of my idols whilst we eat dinner!
Luckily, the Blackwell's Festival Marquee, back this year after an absence, and packed with free events. There owls almost all the time (real live owls!!), although it would have been nice to have some more structured talks about them, or at least keepers who were a bit more keen to chat to festival-goers. There was also a pop-up cafe/restaurant from the guys behind the ever expanding Jacob's empire (Jacob's and Field, Jacob's Inn, and Jacob's Chop House). The menu looked tempting but I just grabbed a coffee - a shame, as it tasted burnt and bitter.
I was visiting mainly because there was no way I was going to miss the foodie combo treat of Sophie Grigson and Riverford founder Guy Watson in conversation. Sophie Grigson was one of the first food writers I can remember watching on TV, with her spiky hair and giant earrings. I still have her recipes for moussaka and sausage and apple pie by heart. I knew a lot less about Guy; although I admire the idea behind veg boxes I'm quite happy going out to one of Oxford's fantastic farmers' markets when I want some local produce.
The discussion was unstructured and, initially, a little stilted as a result. Both speakers made some lovely noises about how fabulous organic seasonal food was, but there was little bite to the chatter. Things got going after Sophie had talked through a display copy of a Riverford veg box, discussing her favourite vegetables and her least favourite (yay, another swede hater!) and some interesting ways of cooking them (yay, another roast cauliflower fan!). The audience joined in, offering their own ideas, and a sparky debate started up about whether we needed new ways of cooking traditional vegetables. Is this a necessity in order to stay interested in your food, or is it a tarting up, a dressing of mutton as lamb, when the vegetables are perfectly exciting in their own right? I'm firmly in the former camp, but it was great to hear some passionate arguments from the other side!
The debate moved on to cover organic farming, looking at some of the ways this affects the wider world, rather than focussing on any (much debated) nutritional benefits or taste differences. It was interesting to hear how Guy has seen his farm develop in a totally different way to his neighbours' intensive non-organic farms, with a greater range of natural wildlife and better quality soil. He felt that this had made his farm more robust when this winter's floods hit: his soil is apparently significantly thicker and richer in nutrients than that of non-organic farms in the same area, and as a result his yields are staying high, or growing, whilst theirs decline.
To round things off, there was some chatter around the effect supermarkets had had on vegetable supply chains since Riverford was founded over twenty years ago. Many of the audience were veg box regulars, but what about the rest of us? Where can we source British, local, seasonal, organic vegetables? Lots of people mentioned farmers' markets, but there was some ignorance about how widely these had spread. A lady standing next to me had no idea any existed in Oxford, because she didn't want to go online and look for them, which highlights one massive change in the last twenty years: marketing is now mostly done online! The majority of the audience missed having a greengrocer's on their street, but generally we noted a positive trend, with the opening of stores like 2 North Parade.
The Oxford Literary Festival will be back next year, and if the Festival Marquee returns with it I shall certainly be back for more. This is high-end, entertaining and intellectual debate; well done Blackwell's!
Luckily, the Blackwell's Festival Marquee, back this year after an absence, and packed with free events. There owls almost all the time (real live owls!!), although it would have been nice to have some more structured talks about them, or at least keepers who were a bit more keen to chat to festival-goers. There was also a pop-up cafe/restaurant from the guys behind the ever expanding Jacob's empire (Jacob's and Field, Jacob's Inn, and Jacob's Chop House). The menu looked tempting but I just grabbed a coffee - a shame, as it tasted burnt and bitter.
I was visiting mainly because there was no way I was going to miss the foodie combo treat of Sophie Grigson and Riverford founder Guy Watson in conversation. Sophie Grigson was one of the first food writers I can remember watching on TV, with her spiky hair and giant earrings. I still have her recipes for moussaka and sausage and apple pie by heart. I knew a lot less about Guy; although I admire the idea behind veg boxes I'm quite happy going out to one of Oxford's fantastic farmers' markets when I want some local produce.
The discussion was unstructured and, initially, a little stilted as a result. Both speakers made some lovely noises about how fabulous organic seasonal food was, but there was little bite to the chatter. Things got going after Sophie had talked through a display copy of a Riverford veg box, discussing her favourite vegetables and her least favourite (yay, another swede hater!) and some interesting ways of cooking them (yay, another roast cauliflower fan!). The audience joined in, offering their own ideas, and a sparky debate started up about whether we needed new ways of cooking traditional vegetables. Is this a necessity in order to stay interested in your food, or is it a tarting up, a dressing of mutton as lamb, when the vegetables are perfectly exciting in their own right? I'm firmly in the former camp, but it was great to hear some passionate arguments from the other side!
The debate moved on to cover organic farming, looking at some of the ways this affects the wider world, rather than focussing on any (much debated) nutritional benefits or taste differences. It was interesting to hear how Guy has seen his farm develop in a totally different way to his neighbours' intensive non-organic farms, with a greater range of natural wildlife and better quality soil. He felt that this had made his farm more robust when this winter's floods hit: his soil is apparently significantly thicker and richer in nutrients than that of non-organic farms in the same area, and as a result his yields are staying high, or growing, whilst theirs decline.
To round things off, there was some chatter around the effect supermarkets had had on vegetable supply chains since Riverford was founded over twenty years ago. Many of the audience were veg box regulars, but what about the rest of us? Where can we source British, local, seasonal, organic vegetables? Lots of people mentioned farmers' markets, but there was some ignorance about how widely these had spread. A lady standing next to me had no idea any existed in Oxford, because she didn't want to go online and look for them, which highlights one massive change in the last twenty years: marketing is now mostly done online! The majority of the audience missed having a greengrocer's on their street, but generally we noted a positive trend, with the opening of stores like 2 North Parade.
The Oxford Literary Festival will be back next year, and if the Festival Marquee returns with it I shall certainly be back for more. This is high-end, entertaining and intellectual debate; well done Blackwell's!
Restaurant Review: The Pie Emporium
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.
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.
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.
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