One of the many, many, many criticisms the internet sad sacks tend to level at me is that I don’t eat in Birmingham enough anymore. That the idea of me living in Birmingham means that all my money has to be spent here, that I am somehow to blame for restaurant closures because I dare leave the M42. 0121 Do One. The reality is the vast majority of new openings in this city have zero interest to me. Why would I spend £41 on a beef stifado (a humble greek stew) at Cylla when I can have lunch at Oma for roughly the same amount of money? Likewise, I want to go to Regina’s to confirm my suspicions, but at that price I can eat at Kolae and still have change. Lunch at the utterly brilliant and stone-licking free Row on 5 is less than some tasting menus here. I’m at an age now where I don’t want to waste cash for the sake of it, especially if I can do better elsewhere. And yet, for all of this, there is Perro. I fucking loved Perro. I’d be in Perro all the fucking time if they can find me room. And apologies for all of the fucking swearing but I fucking loved it. Perro is fucking great.
Perro just gets me excited, maybe because it is too cool for this city right now and feels like it should be in Bethnal Green, or the Northern Quarter, or that bit behind Edinburgh Castle where the strip clubs and Hey Palu are. It’s just effortless. Matt and his small team cooking in a room so small that I had to leave my ego at the door, simply decorated with tiles and a lick of paint on what little budget they have. Hip hop loudly blaring out of the speaker, today featuring a mix of Wu Tang, Kendrick, and J Cole. Great drinks, and I mean Great drinks with a capital G. Breton cidre. Vietnamese coffee. Jarritos soft drinks. Banging cocktails and shots of booze mixtures that have eluded even this raging alcoholic to date. I place my drinks order of a coke jarritos, a Breton cidre, a Ferrari (campari and fernet branca to you), and an excellent corn sazerac. Don’t ever say I ever do this half-arsed. MF Doom plays. I am in love.
The menu is short on the Sunday brunch we have there. Two tacos of which we order plenty each of, and a chilaquiles verde that can only be described as a Mexican hangover cure. We do. It ticks all the boxes; tacos that have been slightly wilted in the heat, a verde sauce that is rooted in being guacs spicier sister, feta, pickled onions, jalapenos, a big squeeze of lime and a fried egg. Break the yolk, pour over the hot sauce and mix. Stop being a pussy and pour over more hot sauce. Drink the ferrari. Order another ferrari. They erect statues of the big guy above back in Mexico as a thank you for curing them of hangovers this easily.
Sophie has the bean tacos. I can’t say much about them other than she ate three of them with ease and spoke about them for the rest of the day. I had the potato and chorizo tacos that had more depth than a Seamus Heaney poem, a brooding storm of a double-mouthful that appears to have caramelised onions and smokey chillies in the mix. I had five. I regret nothing other than if these come off the menu I will throw a hissy fit online and in person. The trio of salsas are excellent and they have Valentina hot sauce on request.
The lazy out there will no doubt refer to here as Mexican, but I don’t think it is. Glance at the wall and you’ll see filled cobs at lunch time, look online and you’ll see nights of lobster rolls or oysters. In many ways it reminds me of the last place I got really excited at, which is Yikouchi, cooking the stuff they love, that they are influenced by and want to eat themselves. As unapologetic and inspiring as Ynyshir on a tenth of the bill. We did £79 between the two of us at lunch and expect to do a lot more at dinner next Friday when we go again. I told you I’d be back as much as they can fit me in. I’ve told you it is fucking brilliant. It’s the bolt up the arse that Birmingham needs.
10/10
Sign up to the newsletter here
https://blog.us14.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=08c98db0e9d6eb9e5b54695a1&id=eda85ee6f4
