Sophie mourned the loss of Poli. I can’t remember her exact words but it went something along the lines of why-should-she-ever-go-back-Kings-Heath-again-when-the-only-thing-she-ever-loved-is-gone. Or something like that. It’s me, I’m likely hyperbolising. The point was she was distraught, in mourning in an all-black attire usually reserved for those who say they are emo when really they’ve been turned away from Berghain for smiling. They should have witnessed the fall of the Poli shutters. They’d have probably gotten in to Berghain. A truly pivotal part of the twenty-whatever’s.
She’s happy now. Back in an all-black attire usually reserved for those who say they are emo when really they’ve been turned away from Berghain for smiling. And smiling she is. We went Grace and James for natural wine, then down to La Slante for more natural wine and pastis, sat talking terroir and the like in a narrow room in a narrow alley way that has been carefully curated whilst still looking like summer has been spent driving through French villages in a convertible.
I kind of know chef. My friend Jamie told me about him over lockdown and we ordered his pies and ate them fresh out the oven on Jamie’s wall observing two metres and a healthy appetite for his restaurant’s wine stock. He can really cook. I’m frankly gutted that it took us this long to get here, though, in my defence, I only found out recently he was cooking in the kitchen.
There’s rillettes and a kind of ‘faux gras’ to start, both with impeccable jaunty slices of their brother’s baguette from his bakery across the way. The rillettes are pork belly, loads of fat, and a big pinch of five spice. There’s no where to go with rillettes, you either know what you are doing or it’s a one-note mess of unwanted piggy bits. These are superb. Sophie’s not-quite-liver patè is a blend of mushrooms and cognac, heavy on the seasoning, implausibly vegan. Both come with the same fig chutney cut with balsamic and star anise. I mention they should jar it to sell in the deli downstairs, they say it’s the plan. A slither of pate en croute arrives, neither ordered nor charged for. It’s an excellent patè en croute; proper foie gras down the centre, as much mellow piggy fat as meat. I imagine the portion size is much more aligned to the stuff we ordered should you wish to.
We were here for the fondue. I’m going back for the fondue on Thursday, and likely again a week on Saturday for more fondue. I’m going to get my fill before a particular corner of the internet find out about it and the place is awash with people filming the cheese pull from pot-to-mouth whilst pulling gurning faces, because believe me, those arseholes will destroy anything sacred for thirty seconds of something to get them attention. Never mind that the fondue is a mix of two alpine cheeses and white wine, cooked until just a hint of acidity remains, or that it has enough body to gently roll the bread, pickled veg, or triple-cooked spuds in, coat them and not have to fight to get them out. So I’m going as much as I can over winter, whilst it’s cold and dinner can be molten cheese and things on a stick. The fondue is twenty quid per head. It’s not just Birminghams most essential dish at present, it’s arguably its best value.
Dessert is an impeccable dark chocolate cremeaux on a biscuit base, and an all French cheese board which pongs like only the French ones can. Do as we did; order it and then order more of that Roquefort to take away. Maybe give a bit to a parent and then take an order to collect more this Thursday for them. You get the picture. La Sante is a place where good things happen. A place that’s low-lit, romantic, French, and French alone. If this were in London they’d be hundreds of column inches dedicated to it already. As it is, I’ll be trying to emulate that in Birmingham for them myself over the next few months.
9/10
