There was a period, 2023 I think, when I went to all of the starred restaurants in Birmingham. Opheem, Carters, Grace & Savour, Adams, Purnells, and Simpsons. The halcyon year of fine dining for the city where we reached six stars, before Carters went into indefinite hiatus, before Glynn closed the door on his yummie Brummie. Was Birmingham, a city of 1.7 million, many of whom live in poverty, ever really cut out for six michelin stars? I’m not so sure. It’s a city oversaturated at the top-end, that bit that needs a special occasion to celebrate or an account to expense it to to keep it ticking over, in a point of history where homes have less disposable income than ever and offices have never properly returned to normal. If the city recently got really upset with yet another knobhead slagging it off online, we did so because there is a grain of truth to what was said. Our success stories of Black Sabbath, Benjamin Zepphaiah, UB40 and the likes can all be traced back thirty years. The success of the commonwealth games now an albatross around our neck. It feels like a city hungover.
2023 was the last time I ate at Simpsons, I think. Or maybe it was very early 2024. It’s been too long either way, something Luke Tipping is keen to point out as I stick my head in the kitchen before lunch. A lot has changed since then. Following months of speculation, Simpsons is officially up for sale, yours for £850k. I’m here to meet Andreas for lunch, after I asked him if he fancied going out for some food, and he gave me the options of Simpsons or The Cross, both of which he owns. I walk thirty minutes to the handsome white building, get a negroni and wait. He arrives looking smart, full of news from the recent Bocuse d’Or competition for which he is UK president. Wonderful man is Andreas; a lunch companion of dreams with stories upon stories of the best kitchens from a bygone era to the present day. A man who has worked across many countries and speaks multiple languages. He’s been there and wore the apron. A man who understands hospitality. He doesn’t drink but is happy for me to sip champagne, and when I tell him that the olive tapenade rolls have been Sophie’s favourite for the twenty years she has been coming with her parents he gets the kitchen to box-up extra for me to take home to her.
You’ve probably gathered that this isn’t a normal lunch. I order across the three menus at will, and have pairings that are poured from Coravin systems. I’m sitting opposite the guy who owns the building. Yet when I tell you about the lunch being brilliant it is because it is; a modern interpretation of some fairly classical cooking, rooted in technique and precision. The only course I don’t get excited about is the carrot soup with cheddar dumpling and pickled mushrooms because the dumpling – taken from L’Enclume, I believe – is a touch gloopy in texture. That’s quickly an old memory with a beautifully timed scallop in a puddle of dashi. Jerusalem artichoke puree adds a deep nuttiness, and there is something floral hiding somewhere that lifts it back up. The slices of sourdough are on hand to mop up the last of the dish. They do not go to waste.
The main of guinea hen shows what Simpsons do so well. Breast stuffed with a mousseline made from other bits of the bird, lightly fragranced with truffle, cooked and then rolled in crispy skin. A bit of leg, a bit of thigh, a puree of truffle crowned with folds of more truffle, some notional spinach and a raft of gratinated macaroni. What makes it is the sauce Albufera that speaks of a slow rolling simmer and an eye for knowing exactly when to stop. It links the elements perfectly; rich and aromatic, a supreme sauce in every sense of the word. I offer no apologies for ditching the cutlery to get the last of it off the plate. We get kaffir lime creme brulee for pre-dessert, then a wonderful panetone souffle without even a hint of egginess that has a hole carved out tableside and a chocolate Grand Marnier sauce poured in. It is pure indulgence, the ideal way to finish a meal. I’m convinced that many modern restaurants have lost the sense of what the diner wants to finish on. Experiment on me all you like during the first 90% of the meal but please don’t serve me mushrooms or foie gras or blood as the final course when I want something sweet. They get that here. Despite asking I don’t see a bill, though we have agreed to an away fixture which I’ll pay as thanks.
It was at some point during the meal I thanked Andreas for everything he has done for this city, which might sound as hyperbole but really isn’t. He is a West Londoner from a migrant Greek-Cypriot family who took a chance on Birmingham when he really could have chosen anywhere in the country given his CV. With no Simpsons there is no high-end culinary scene in Birmingham, no bragging rights over other cities. They trained Luke and Andy Waters, Glynn and Stu Deeley. Through their kitchen came Adam Bennett, Dan Sweet, Matt Cheal, and countless others. The tutelage those chefs received has led them to their own restaurants with this generation’s talents learning the same principles of technique and flavour. It can all be traced back to this kitchen in Edgbaston. At some undetermined point in the future Simpsons will be sold and we will realise just how much we have lost as a city. The least you can do is book in and say goodbye properly.
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