There are some influencers in our hotel. Six of them, all German, all represented by the same agency if Instagram is to be believed. Their followers range 110k to 2.7 million and it’s easy to see why. They are a good looking bunch of glistening skin, toned bodies, chic outfits, and good manners, absolutely nothing like the influencers I am used to, staying in the suites next to ours so we see them often. You’d be surprised how much of our day aligns; photoshoot at sunrise, gym, then photoshoot at the pool before the oldies arrive. Breakfast, beach, pool for swimwear shoot, move to the other pool for the lotion shoot. Light lunch of mostly salad. Different pool to set up the cameras for the dive stories. Quick shoot in the hot tub with the wine hovering precariously close to the lips. Sunset shoot at the beach. Shower. Dinner. Afters at theirs. Back on it in the morning. They couldn’t believe how many of the same brands we work with, nor that I’m going to be the next face of L’Oreal. I could, given I’d just made it up.
I like them. I wanted to meet them in Berlin but they said there is little in the way of culture or history, so they are coming to Brum. I’m going to give them the full influencer experience; £350 for reviewing some pop-up in Digbeth, the same for a farm shop, then take them to a failing restaurant where they can exploit the owner for another £400. They are hyped. I think. My German is shit. Then we’ll go to Cuubo and have a proper meal and see what can really happen when a restaurant gives itself the time and space to develop its own identity.
Dan’s been on holiday lots. Not with the influencers. Real places in Italy; mostly Tuscany where he spent his childhood summers. You can tell. It seems like every time the restaurant closes for a break he dashes off to some two or three star, two or three hours away on a plane. He’s meeting with suppliers, coming back with balsamics older than my wife (they both get expensive after 30 years), gets his Parmesan from the same place as the three stars, has vegetables that can be tracked to a tiny plot of land on the side of a hill.
One thing that hasn’t changed is the bread. Still the sourdough from the same starter, same sturdy crust, same delicate sour crumb. It’s incredible. Wash it down with a tomato margarita, open the fizz, drink the fizz. I get the sausage raviolo with ragu and Parmesan espuma; truth be told it’s my third time eating it in the three weeks since it launched three weeks ago. It’s a certified banger, easily one of the best dishes in the city right now. Gorgeous pasta with Tuscan sausage inside, a ragu that showcases the tomatoes from the volcanic soil near Naples, and a parmesan espuma which sits all of the lively flavours back down. Three of us have this, one says they are tempted to order it again. Sophie has the caponata that is really nothing of the sort. Fried aubergine and zucchini, chopped tomatoes and raisins, all bound in tomato gazpacho that’s finished with smoked almonds and courgette puree. I thought that the very idea of reinterpreting a caponata would make my head explode, but it is excellent; expertly balanced with just enough acidity.
I get Nonna’s stuffed pepper for main, again the second time since the new menu launch. It is Nonna’s recipes and if the chef is to be believed, he’s been stuffing the peppers since he was eight years old in Tuscany. There is little frivolous about it; it is as humble as the tiny restaurant. A roasted red pepper stuffed with damp bread, cheese, herbs, and little else, nestled on a puree of red pepper with blobs of courgette and a dusting of parmesan. I don’t think he would have had the courage to put this on the menu twelve months ago, yet here we are, one of the very reasons Dan became a chef is on the plate. Sophie gets the tomato risotto. You’ve read about the tomato risotto before. It is brilliant.
In case you are wondering, there are five of us at lunch, though it’s a celebration so I’m only taking pictures of the wife and I’s food, meaning the only dessert pictured is the new anise parfait with blackberries, meringue, and almond, more gentle and elegant than I expected from the description. It’s the start of my wonderful mother-in-laws birthday celebration and she insists on paying, but I reckon the bill is about £140 a head with the £45 lunch, champagne, cocktails, and several bottles of wine. As ever, you could do it much cheaper, and you should; Cuubo is without question one of the city’s best kitchens right now, cooking a cuisine that seemingly showcases modern British and Italian in equal measure. It is food you’d be happy to get in a one star restaurant, with the only thing stopping them being the consistency in service and a visit or four from Michelin themselves.
10/10
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