About once a year I post a review of a lunch I don’t recall all of, purely to piss the internet numpties off who need something to whine and moan about on a daily basis. Not because I should, but because I can, a kind of reminder to myself and others that this is about me enjoying my life as much as it is about writing any food blog. And because I enjoy the art of a long, boozy lunch, one that gently rolls into something unpredictable and dangerous. One that begins with intention and ends with coincidence, as the tie loosens and the carpet is rolled out. The long lunch is an act of resistance against emails, against virtue, against the Calvinist idea that daylight must be earned. It is a polite refusal to be efficient. Conversation grows expansive, then philosophical, then cheerfully inaccurate. Opinions improve. Everyone becomes funnier, even me, and I’m an absolute riot at the best of times.
We had a long lunch at Opheem, though you likely guessed this from the title, me and the wife and our friend Clare who seems to excel at being the most thoughtful and considerate of friends (she sent us a crisp bouquet when we got engaged). This is Clare’s birthday present, booked after another long lunch turned into something far bigger. It’s her favourite restaurant, which helps given it is ours, and we meet at midday in the bar for martinis and negronis and champagne, steadily rolling into the snacks with the rosiness building in our cheeks. The shots of spiced cucumber liquid, quickly followed by the oyster emulsion with chilli and coconut broth. The leafy tuile of various mango notes; maybe the prettiest of snacks out there, and the tartare with whipped duck liver, date, and apple macaron, a snack that I tire of saying is as good as any one bite anywhere in the country, but it really is. We get the crab crumpets, to which my wife says yet again that this would have been her dream starter for the wedding before I spoil her fun by pointing out, yet again, that crab does not come cheap. Another negroni and it’s into the dining room. It’s already that kind of lunch.
The dining room is heaving on that balmy mid-December afternoon. The chatter is slightly louder than usual, the clink of celebratory glasses even more noticeable. The gleam outside is already starting to fade, making the canopy of lights illuminate across the room. We get the carrot first, a dish I know well and would have excelled in the latter rounds of season two on Culinary Class Wars. It’s all glossy spiced carrot soup, tandoori carrot, pickled carrots and a little lentil pakora. It’s a statement of intent, a clear show of a kitchen in total control. There is milk loaf, delicate and slightly lactic, with an onion bhuna butter that we request seconds of. It’s food full of interest that is impossible to get bored about. It’s cooking to bring you back time and time again.
There’s the scallop dish, that wonderful scallop dish that I don’t need to say too much about given I’ve just voted it my top dish of 2025, followed by an overly generous portion of aloo tuk with more champagne, and on to halibut with a dreamy coconut and mango sauce. There is venison, a typical Aktar approach to a main; generous and almost a little showy in what they can achieve. Not just the perfectly cooked saddle that has the backnote of the fire it was cooked over, but paper thin momo stripped like the bear flag in gay culture and filled with braised neck meat. There’s a little croquette of almost faggot meat that is deep, with the whole thing beautifully tied together with a sauce of staggering depth offset with warming spice. It’s just a dream to eat. We don’t touch the rice on the side and we ask for the meal to stop here, save for the petit fours. There is no room at the inn. We are all stuffed. I won’t say how much the bill is because it’s a present for a friend who may read this and not a dick swinging contest of how much we spent, but the day rolled into night and then some.
Eating in a restaurant is often mistaken for a culinary exercise – none more than by me – when in reality it’s a social one. The food may be photographed, discussed, and occasionally revered, but it’s rarely the lasting memory. What lingers is the company. A flawless dish eaten with the wrong person is a form of quiet punishment; whilst a middling meal shared with the right ones can feel generous, even indulgent. This was nothing short of sensational. Restaurants succeed not because they dazzle, but because they provide a stage on which people can be themselves. And that we can in Opheem, it’s just the perfect blend of flawless cooking and an enjoyable place to celebrate something brilliant in Birmingham. I love being around the end of service watching those brave enough venture up to the open pass for a picture with Aktar. I love the engagements, the birthdays, and those who have saved up purely to eat the food. I’ll say it til I’m blue in the face, Birmingham is so lucky to have Opheem.
10/10
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