Hands up, I took too long getting to Samo. Blame the constant travel, and the bi-weekly excursions to London, and the fact that on paper that particular city is churning out brilliant openings every week whilst we take in whatever London has already churned, gone to Manchester, and then decided that Birmingham might do, which could be a strangely prophetic parallel with the new Prime Minister. Blame me for forgetting the wrong date in the diary with Jon when they first opened, and then not following that up with a proper date because, you know, life. Blame me for thinking it would be good if not great, when great it bloody well is. I got it wrong. I loved Samo. In fact I’m already planning my return.
It just feels, well, like it’s singing to its own tune when everything else opening feels so stale. They have made full use of the little covers they have in the little room that they have; deliberately simple decor, table clothes, and thick wooden chairs that make no promises of comfort. A small bar knocking out killer martinis and the promise of Black Velvet that works because the champagne loses its giggling frivolity and the Guinness its pub-floor earnestness, despite the latter coming from a can. I ordered both at the same time because I can. They have a small but precise list of almost all French wines, that starts at £30 a bottle and contains some total steals. There are plump green olives and thick cut crisps made in the kitchen that come littered with aleppo pepper. Billy Joel blasts from the speakers. It’s as good a start to a meal as you can hope for.
The food is French, in the way that the French refuse to acknowledge that they pilfered from their neighbours on all borders. It occasionally wanders across the Alps, or remembers the immigration of North Africa. My starter could easily have been from anywhere between Perpignon and Menton, yet the language suggests it’s made it over the border from Italy. Grilled and dressed courgettes, pulped tomatoes, a little mint and a puddle of olive oil. Loved it. Should have ordered some bread to mop up the last of it, but loved it nonetheless. Liver parfait arrives pre-cut to three strips so we can all try a slice that is far superior to the parfait we had at Corenucoppia. Not hyperbole. Facts. Sophie has the crab toast, with generous amounts of white meat seemingly dressed in a little brown meat and butter emulsion on brioche with a pokey and fresh salad. A plate rather than the tray from the kitchen pass would have been nice, but again this is solid cooking.
I’d seen the portion sizes online and decided that two mains and three sides between three would be sufficient, and it turned out to be more than enough. The chicken with merguez is a great hulk of food; barbecued chicken, excellent spiced lamb sausage, superb green peppercorn sauce. Does the chicken flavour stand-up to some of the excellent black leg examples I’ve eaten this year? Of course not. Though at £29 it’s not even a tenth of the price of the one at L’Ambrosie. The bavette is excellent despite my general disdain for the cut that can often be livery and stringy; tasty beef, good flavour, excellent Cafe de Paris butter that sighs into every crevice of the meat, carrying with it waves of salt, spice, acidity and richness that arrive not one after another but all at once. Elliot Brown, the chef-patron who should probably have been referenced earlier, sure does know how to inject flavour into a dish.
Sides consist of chips fried in beef fat, Jersey Royals fried in beef fat, and spinach given the heavy cream treatment. It’s wonderfully French, with confidence bordering on arrogance, and the understanding that life without plenty of butter would be incredibly shit. Our incredible friend Clare decides that she is picking up the tab, leaving me to guess that you should expect to pay about seventy quid a head, but I’ll confirm that in a few weeks. Samo is very good, bordering on sensational at times. It is a great addition to the city centre.
9/10
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