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.
Monday, 12 May 2014
Restaurant Review: Thai Orchid
The boyfriend and I have decided to embark on a nostalgia tour of the restaurants we ate in when we first started eating out, in that stage just after graduation and getting your first job, when you realise you finally have this thing called "disposable income" that everyone else has been talking about. As tastes expand along with wallets, these restaurants seem to slip off the list of places you visit regularly, so we wanted to go back and see if they're as good as we remembered.
First on the list was Thai Orchid, a favourite of my boyfriend's about ten years ago, but not visited since. And the first thing that struck me was that it looked like we'd actually gone back in time those ten years. There is an almost Baroque fear of the white wall, the empty space: ornate dark wood carvings are everywhere. Stylish topless mermaids swim in a "tank" by the door, and small elephants gallop across our table. The waitresses are all attired in an interpretation of traditional Thai costume, columns of vibrant colours and gold thread drifting around the space.
We tried to order a mixture both of more widely recognised dishes, together with some from the specials menu. Our starter of pork ribs fell into the first group, but they still managed to disappoint. The meat was actually overcooked, something I hadn't previously realised was possible in a spare rib, so was exceptionally dry. It was dressed with a meagre amount of incredibly sweet sauce, which had begun to congeal where it had been sitting under the lights on the pass. Our other starter, a chicken satay, was fine, but unexceptional.
We were a bit more adventurous with our choices of mains, and when the Seafood Phad Phed arrived, we thought this strategy had paid off. This was a generous mix of prawns, squid, mussels, and battered white fish goujons in a hot, sour and herby sauce, including plenty of Thai basil. Overall, the dish was warmingly spiced, but it also contained some very spicy chillis. They were too much for me, but my partner loved them. On the side we had a dish of Phak Phad Prig, stir-fried mixed veg, which were freshly cooked, still crunchy, and came in a pleasant light garlic sauce.
The rice, however, was the highlight of the meal. We'd ordered the Khao ob Gati, jasmine rice cooked in coconut milk with pandan leaves. It was heavily aromatic, sticky, and rich, in a nourishing, comforting way, like eating rice pudding as a child. We could have eaten bowls of the stuff on its own, and left happy. Unfortunately, we didn't.
The Northern Thai Steak appeared on the specials menu, so we expected it to be something unusual. The menu description promised garlic and sesame, but what arrived at the table was a sweet and sour sauce straight out of your local cheap Chinese takeaway. We were so appalled that we actually had to check with the waitress that we'd had the right dish delivered; she assured us twice that, yes, this was the fillet steak with garlic and sesame. It was fillet steak only in the strictest definition of that phrase, i.e., it didn't have a bone in it, but the meat was extremely tough and sinewey, nothing like the soft slices we'd expected.
Sitting next to us all evening had been a dessert trolley straight out of the 1970s, the highlight of which appeared to be a Angel Delight topped with crushed-up Crunchie bars. We felt it was safest avoided. Nostalgia, we've found, can sometimes be pushed too far.
First on the list was Thai Orchid, a favourite of my boyfriend's about ten years ago, but not visited since. And the first thing that struck me was that it looked like we'd actually gone back in time those ten years. There is an almost Baroque fear of the white wall, the empty space: ornate dark wood carvings are everywhere. Stylish topless mermaids swim in a "tank" by the door, and small elephants gallop across our table. The waitresses are all attired in an interpretation of traditional Thai costume, columns of vibrant colours and gold thread drifting around the space.
We tried to order a mixture both of more widely recognised dishes, together with some from the specials menu. Our starter of pork ribs fell into the first group, but they still managed to disappoint. The meat was actually overcooked, something I hadn't previously realised was possible in a spare rib, so was exceptionally dry. It was dressed with a meagre amount of incredibly sweet sauce, which had begun to congeal where it had been sitting under the lights on the pass. Our other starter, a chicken satay, was fine, but unexceptional.
We were a bit more adventurous with our choices of mains, and when the Seafood Phad Phed arrived, we thought this strategy had paid off. This was a generous mix of prawns, squid, mussels, and battered white fish goujons in a hot, sour and herby sauce, including plenty of Thai basil. Overall, the dish was warmingly spiced, but it also contained some very spicy chillis. They were too much for me, but my partner loved them. On the side we had a dish of Phak Phad Prig, stir-fried mixed veg, which were freshly cooked, still crunchy, and came in a pleasant light garlic sauce.
The rice, however, was the highlight of the meal. We'd ordered the Khao ob Gati, jasmine rice cooked in coconut milk with pandan leaves. It was heavily aromatic, sticky, and rich, in a nourishing, comforting way, like eating rice pudding as a child. We could have eaten bowls of the stuff on its own, and left happy. Unfortunately, we didn't.
The Northern Thai Steak appeared on the specials menu, so we expected it to be something unusual. The menu description promised garlic and sesame, but what arrived at the table was a sweet and sour sauce straight out of your local cheap Chinese takeaway. We were so appalled that we actually had to check with the waitress that we'd had the right dish delivered; she assured us twice that, yes, this was the fillet steak with garlic and sesame. It was fillet steak only in the strictest definition of that phrase, i.e., it didn't have a bone in it, but the meat was extremely tough and sinewey, nothing like the soft slices we'd expected.
Sitting next to us all evening had been a dessert trolley straight out of the 1970s, the highlight of which appeared to be a Angel Delight topped with crushed-up Crunchie bars. We felt it was safest avoided. Nostalgia, we've found, can sometimes be pushed too far.
Dodo's pop-up restaurant
I often worry that, by focussing on the small elements of a meal, I can give the impression that the big things weren't done well. It's usually not that, but rather that I believe it's getting the small things right that change a good restaurant into a great one. With that in mind, let me tell you that I had the best butter I have ever eaten in a restaurant last week, and that restaurant was Dodo's pop-up in Will's Deli.
Dodo's originally came to my attention through a friend of a colleague; given that I was vegetarian for Lent and another colleague was vegan, their April pop-up seemed like an excellent opportunity to eat out without fussing about whether we'd actually be able to order anything off the menu.
The butter in question came alongside a deep green nettle soup, herby and earthy. There was a light floral note, perhaps from the deliciously citrussy sorrel flowers floating on top, although the flavour seemed to penetrate further down than that. It came with a wodge of soft soda bread (my second most notable kitchen failure EVER, after the time I tried to make salt cod fritters...) and the amazing butter, slightly goaty like a very fresh goat's cheese, but mostly just clotted-cream rich and fresh. On the downside, the vegans didn't get any of it. On the upside, that left more for me.
The main was sausages and mash, perhaps not the most expected item on a vegetarian dinner menu, but always a pleasing thing for a vegetarian or vegan to see. Meat-eaters often assume it's bacon that gets missed most, but I think that the comfort of a big bowl of sausages and mash is perhaps even more of a loss when not eating meat. These were, of course, crisp cheesy sausages, with not a bit of meat in sight, and absolutely none the worse for it. I'm still unclear what the vegans were served; it looked soy-based but vastly superior to any veggie sausage I've seen before. Throughout the meal, there was little immediately discernible difference in the food served to vegans and that served to everyone else; a nice touch, as it made the vegans feel included. My vegan colleague was, throughout, absolutely delighted by the food she was served.
The side of wild garlic mash could have been more pungent, but then I am a bit of a garlic fiend. There were also some lovely spring greens with caraway, probably the best spice to have with cabbage but wildly underused, and a beetroot chutney that tasted of Christmas. The latter could, perhaps, have done with being more of a gravy: the dish as a whole needed a little more moisture.
For dessert, we all had lemon syllabub, served in hollowed out lemon shells. I have to confess I found this kitsch presentation absolutely adorable! The vegan version was made with coconut, not cow's, cream, but the flavour in both was zesty and refreshing, perfect after quite a filling main course. The rosemary shortbread served on the side was a really inventive touch, something I'd never think of doing myself but which went beautifully with the syllabub. It also managed to do a wonderful thing: it drew the whole meal together in one herbal theme.
Will's Deli, normally a very casual venue, had been utterly transformed for the evening, with linen tablecloths, tealights and flowers. In this incarnation, it would make a great intimate date night. The service was very, very, charming, attentive but not overbearing or formal. A huge plus, for me, is that Will's Deli doesn't have a licence, so it's bring-your-own-bottle, and they're happy to keep whites in their fridge throughout the evening. It would have been helpful, though, to have had the menu in advance, so that we could have chosen wine to match the meal: had I known it would be so herbal, I definitely would have chosen something else.
Dodo's will be popping up again on Friday 23 May; keep an eye on their Facebook page for dates further in the future.
Dodo's originally came to my attention through a friend of a colleague; given that I was vegetarian for Lent and another colleague was vegan, their April pop-up seemed like an excellent opportunity to eat out without fussing about whether we'd actually be able to order anything off the menu.
The butter in question came alongside a deep green nettle soup, herby and earthy. There was a light floral note, perhaps from the deliciously citrussy sorrel flowers floating on top, although the flavour seemed to penetrate further down than that. It came with a wodge of soft soda bread (my second most notable kitchen failure EVER, after the time I tried to make salt cod fritters...) and the amazing butter, slightly goaty like a very fresh goat's cheese, but mostly just clotted-cream rich and fresh. On the downside, the vegans didn't get any of it. On the upside, that left more for me.
The main was sausages and mash, perhaps not the most expected item on a vegetarian dinner menu, but always a pleasing thing for a vegetarian or vegan to see. Meat-eaters often assume it's bacon that gets missed most, but I think that the comfort of a big bowl of sausages and mash is perhaps even more of a loss when not eating meat. These were, of course, crisp cheesy sausages, with not a bit of meat in sight, and absolutely none the worse for it. I'm still unclear what the vegans were served; it looked soy-based but vastly superior to any veggie sausage I've seen before. Throughout the meal, there was little immediately discernible difference in the food served to vegans and that served to everyone else; a nice touch, as it made the vegans feel included. My vegan colleague was, throughout, absolutely delighted by the food she was served.
The side of wild garlic mash could have been more pungent, but then I am a bit of a garlic fiend. There were also some lovely spring greens with caraway, probably the best spice to have with cabbage but wildly underused, and a beetroot chutney that tasted of Christmas. The latter could, perhaps, have done with being more of a gravy: the dish as a whole needed a little more moisture.
For dessert, we all had lemon syllabub, served in hollowed out lemon shells. I have to confess I found this kitsch presentation absolutely adorable! The vegan version was made with coconut, not cow's, cream, but the flavour in both was zesty and refreshing, perfect after quite a filling main course. The rosemary shortbread served on the side was a really inventive touch, something I'd never think of doing myself but which went beautifully with the syllabub. It also managed to do a wonderful thing: it drew the whole meal together in one herbal theme.
Will's Deli, normally a very casual venue, had been utterly transformed for the evening, with linen tablecloths, tealights and flowers. In this incarnation, it would make a great intimate date night. The service was very, very, charming, attentive but not overbearing or formal. A huge plus, for me, is that Will's Deli doesn't have a licence, so it's bring-your-own-bottle, and they're happy to keep whites in their fridge throughout the evening. It would have been helpful, though, to have had the menu in advance, so that we could have chosen wine to match the meal: had I known it would be so herbal, I definitely would have chosen something else.
Dodo's will be popping up again on Friday 23 May; keep an eye on their Facebook page for dates further in the future.
Friday, 25 April 2014
Restaurant Review: The Anchor
I got lost on the way to The Anchor. Actually, I didn't get lost, but I managed to convince myself of that to the extent that I had to call my partner and ask him to give me directions. I was running late anyway, and it was raining, and so eventually ended up falling through The Anchor's doorway stressed, tired, and feeling a bit stupid.
Their stylish and calming grey decor swiftly knocked that attitude out of me. This is a symphony in grey: on the walls, on the chairs, on the bar, everywhere. It's light and airy and utterly relaxing; the tables are placed quite closely together so in the evening it might be buzzier, but on a drizzly midweek January lunchtime, it was like being inside the head of a very good Buddhist. The service matched the decor: welcoming, relaxed, and present and prompt, without being at all overbearing or overly chummy.
As soon as we sat down, warm, freshly baked bread appeared on the table - none of your mass-produced baked-last-week stuff here, but a platter of three different types of loaf. An entire jug of excellent extra virgin olive oil was provided to dunk the bread into, and when us two greedy guts managed to hoover up the entire plate within a few minutes, more bread was offered automatically, with no charge placed on the menu.
The menu is small but uniformly tempting, so we spent longer than average choosing what to eat. The waitress was lovely despite our sloth, utterly unfussed every time we shooed her away from our table. In the end, I chose the smoked salmon rillettes to start. These were not, in fact, rillettes, but a very good salmon pate. That's no bad thing: this one was packed with plenty of dill and came with a good dollop of bright pickled cucumber on the side. Slightly oddly, given their earlier bread triumphs, this was served with somewhat dull wholemeal toast, but perhaps it was a good thing that I didn't consume any more carbs at this point of the meal. My companion chose the squash and coconut soup. I normally avoid soup on restaurant menus on the grounds that it's the kitchen's least inventive dish, but she assured me that it was an interesting soup, warmingly spiced but not enough to raise the heartrate. It also came in a massive portion: a bowl of this with some bread would probably constitute a lunch in itself for many people.
There's a good, reasonably priced wine list, with a wide range of them by the glass. After a perfunctory debate about whether we should have wine, given we were both due back in the office within an hour, I swiftly ordered a glass of their pinot noir. The waitress was able to make a specific recommendation for a glass to go with my companion's main course: impressive in a fine dining environment, but exceptional in a gastropub.
Having spotted on Twitter in advance that they had installed a high-temperature Josper grill in the kitchen, I had to order steak for my main course: the rib-eye was not only my favourite of the cuts on offer but also the smallest at 6 oz, so that was my choice. The Josper is doing its job: the meat and fat were caramelly crisp round the edges, but the steak was still insanely juicy and rare inside. It came with excellent frites (incidentally, if the Anchor can keep skinny chips hot, why are they cold in so many other restaurants?) and a homemade, yolk-yellow, bearnaise. A gesture of watercress attempted to steer the plate towards a balanced meal, but it wasn't necessary: this was artery clogging luxury at its best.
The other main we ordered was the chargrilled lamb with bulghar wheat, aubergine, pine nuts, and a yoghurt dressing. The waitress had promised - almost warned - that the meat would be pink, but it was almost cooked through; luckily it was tasty and moist despite that. The flavour of mint had permeated the entire hunk; the menu didn't specify but we suspected this had been sitting in a marinade for an appropriately long time. The aubergine was so melting it was almost liquid. When it arrived, the dish looked like a small portion, but the combination of elements was actually very filling: neither of us were able to even consider attempting a pudding.
The Anchor's first incarnation (at least, the first during my Oxford tenure) closed down around Easter 2013, and, like many others, I mourned its passing as one of the great foodie places in Oxford. I wasn't initially reassured when I heard that the people behind the Duke of Cambridge cocktail bar, possibly my least favourite cocktail bar in Oxford, had taken it over. I only got interested when they tweeted a picture of the Josper Grill they were installing in the kitchen, and, as I found, I was right to get excited by that, but this was far far better than I had expected. With easily the best service I've had in Oxford in a long time, I'm desperate to get back for more of their soothing care.
Their stylish and calming grey decor swiftly knocked that attitude out of me. This is a symphony in grey: on the walls, on the chairs, on the bar, everywhere. It's light and airy and utterly relaxing; the tables are placed quite closely together so in the evening it might be buzzier, but on a drizzly midweek January lunchtime, it was like being inside the head of a very good Buddhist. The service matched the decor: welcoming, relaxed, and present and prompt, without being at all overbearing or overly chummy.
As soon as we sat down, warm, freshly baked bread appeared on the table - none of your mass-produced baked-last-week stuff here, but a platter of three different types of loaf. An entire jug of excellent extra virgin olive oil was provided to dunk the bread into, and when us two greedy guts managed to hoover up the entire plate within a few minutes, more bread was offered automatically, with no charge placed on the menu.
The menu is small but uniformly tempting, so we spent longer than average choosing what to eat. The waitress was lovely despite our sloth, utterly unfussed every time we shooed her away from our table. In the end, I chose the smoked salmon rillettes to start. These were not, in fact, rillettes, but a very good salmon pate. That's no bad thing: this one was packed with plenty of dill and came with a good dollop of bright pickled cucumber on the side. Slightly oddly, given their earlier bread triumphs, this was served with somewhat dull wholemeal toast, but perhaps it was a good thing that I didn't consume any more carbs at this point of the meal. My companion chose the squash and coconut soup. I normally avoid soup on restaurant menus on the grounds that it's the kitchen's least inventive dish, but she assured me that it was an interesting soup, warmingly spiced but not enough to raise the heartrate. It also came in a massive portion: a bowl of this with some bread would probably constitute a lunch in itself for many people.
There's a good, reasonably priced wine list, with a wide range of them by the glass. After a perfunctory debate about whether we should have wine, given we were both due back in the office within an hour, I swiftly ordered a glass of their pinot noir. The waitress was able to make a specific recommendation for a glass to go with my companion's main course: impressive in a fine dining environment, but exceptional in a gastropub.
Having spotted on Twitter in advance that they had installed a high-temperature Josper grill in the kitchen, I had to order steak for my main course: the rib-eye was not only my favourite of the cuts on offer but also the smallest at 6 oz, so that was my choice. The Josper is doing its job: the meat and fat were caramelly crisp round the edges, but the steak was still insanely juicy and rare inside. It came with excellent frites (incidentally, if the Anchor can keep skinny chips hot, why are they cold in so many other restaurants?) and a homemade, yolk-yellow, bearnaise. A gesture of watercress attempted to steer the plate towards a balanced meal, but it wasn't necessary: this was artery clogging luxury at its best.
The other main we ordered was the chargrilled lamb with bulghar wheat, aubergine, pine nuts, and a yoghurt dressing. The waitress had promised - almost warned - that the meat would be pink, but it was almost cooked through; luckily it was tasty and moist despite that. The flavour of mint had permeated the entire hunk; the menu didn't specify but we suspected this had been sitting in a marinade for an appropriately long time. The aubergine was so melting it was almost liquid. When it arrived, the dish looked like a small portion, but the combination of elements was actually very filling: neither of us were able to even consider attempting a pudding.
The Anchor's first incarnation (at least, the first during my Oxford tenure) closed down around Easter 2013, and, like many others, I mourned its passing as one of the great foodie places in Oxford. I wasn't initially reassured when I heard that the people behind the Duke of Cambridge cocktail bar, possibly my least favourite cocktail bar in Oxford, had taken it over. I only got interested when they tweeted a picture of the Josper Grill they were installing in the kitchen, and, as I found, I was right to get excited by that, but this was far far better than I had expected. With easily the best service I've had in Oxford in a long time, I'm desperate to get back for more of their soothing care.
Restaurant Review: 1855
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.
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.
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