Gastropub

The Coach, Marlow

I started the week convinced I had COVID, which is regrettable in every way apart from the symptom of lack of taste and smell, which I was intrigued to experience so that I can know what it’s like to be other food bloggers. It turns out I don’t, which is a result given that it was my birthday weekend and tracking would have been a nightmare. Last week we did the Rishi thing, then the pre-birthday drinks in the cocktail bar, then the other cocktail bar, then the hotel cocktail bar because everywhere else is closed. Then the birthday trip away, then back for the birthday dinner with my mate, before the inevitable trip to a couple of pubs. Sunday went back to the pub, and the cocktail bar, and then the different pub. Then Monday night it’s like, okay, this doesn’t feel right at all. If anything it’s made me realise that I should slow down at the moment. Less groups of people over less locations and time from now on for me.

The trip away started with lunch at The Coach. Marlow is a pretty place with pretty ex-London faces spending pretty sums of money on pretty much anything. There are houses that sit on the banks of the Thames with boats just for the hell of it, and butchers which promote their wines of the week for the paltry amount of £40 a bottle. It is a mix of old Buckinghamshire money and new London money with the common denominator of money. Tom Kerridge has a two star pub here which I’ve been to before, and a one star pub which I’m about to write about. To call either the Hand & Flowers or The Coach a pub is a statement I’m not going to back-up with substance here.

It’s a nice spot. Cosy and well appointed, the palate of Victorian green and white so de rigueur, to join the small plates menu that is a very easy way of scaling up a bill quickly. Knowing that we have dinner in a few hours time we keep the order small, and it proves to be a wise choice.

I can’t pretend to love everything we eat. A venison chilli is a wholesome bit of cooking, but is a bit gritty and over seasoned, whilst the caramelised onion and Ogleshield cheese scotch egg is technically sound but the Parmesan veloute it sits in is underwhelming stuff. If it sounds like I’m giving it a hard time, I’m not, but this is a pub with one Michelin star that is presently ranked no.5 on the Top 50 Gastropub list.

When it’s good, it is so very good. The strongest dish of the day is chicken from the rotisserie. Brined and cooked until it’s borderline done, it comes swathed in opaque sheets of lardo and crisps of Jerusalem artichokes. Hidden underneath the lardo is a scattering of seeds and finely chopped herbs, whilst at the base of the dish are a dice of the Jerusalem artichoke bound in, I think, a purée of the same veg. It’s cohesive and rich, the poultry an ideal companion to the earthy, buttery tones of the veg. A chicken Kiev relies on the same meat and one veg (not me, stupid) tactic, using courgette this time as the foil. A courgette purée spun with basil is the highlight of a very nice plate of food.

A word on the chips. I’ve said for years that I consider the chips at Hand and Flowers to be the best chips I’ve ever eaten. These are better; chunkier, with a different cut that benefits the triple-cooked process and gives more potato. You might sniff when I tell you they are £7.50 for a portion including bearnaise sauce, but we’re paying and you’re not. And I’d pay it a lot more frequently if I was local.

Dishes are mostly over a tenner and all under £20, and whilst we escape with a bill under a ton, slightly bigger appetites should allow a bit more including wine. Overall I enjoyed it; the standard is similar to that of Kerridge’s other pub, and the menu is appealing. The best dishes are very good indeed. And those chips. You have to try those chips.

Pub du Vin, Birmingham

I should probably start this by saying that I quite like Hotel du Vin, the hotel which sits above today’s subject matter, Pub du Vin. It has a nice bar that makes a servicable negroni with a great team of staff who are knowledgable and well trained. They have great wines – just as well given the name – and do interesting wine dinners, of which I’ve attended a few. The food is decent; not as refined as it believes it is, but certainly a place that rarely disappoints. All of which makes the following about Pub du Vin more baffling.

The ‘pub’ sits within the basement area, a dark and cavernous space where no light enters and no attempt at lighting from the inside is made. They show sports and have a dartboard where the board is barely visible at any point of the day. Tables are heavy wood, the floor stone; all set around the bar in the centre of the room. You order at the bar, find a table and wait. And wait.

Food eventually arrives from the upstairs kitchen. At least we are told this is our food; we can barely see it, nevermind photograph the thing. Maybe this removal of one of the senses goes some way to explaining the lack of flavour. It’s as bland as an episode of Love Island. The chicken burger achieves neither of the spicy and crispy description, reaching the table a soggy, disappointing mess. If the guacamole is there it tastes of nothing, and even the cheese looks sad; curled over like it’s grieving for me. If darkness is a deciding factor for your meals the chicken burger at Bonehead is 50p cheaper, with equally bad lighting, and is exponentially better. Just saying.

Claire has a fish finger sandwich that reeks of old cooking oil, with a batter coating a concoction of the cheapest white fish known to man. I’d guess at coley, but it could easily be catfish hidden inside the dense crumb. The bread barely holds it together, the mushy peas desperately low on salt. She finishes half. With these we share chilli con carne fries that start well and then, no, sorry, we can’t eat them.

The bill for this is nothing because there is an issue with the fries that brings our meal to a sudden halt. I won’t go into specifics because the team are excellent and refund it without question, but this is the saving grace of the meal. The front of house are some of the best in the city, I just feel for them having to work with this. The food at Pub du Vin is instantly forgettable, which, given it comes from the same kitchen as upstairs, makes it all the more unforgivable.

4/10

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The Village, Moseley

I’ve lived next to The Village pub in Moseley for five years without ever writing about it. I guess I felt the same way as I did with the other places I drank in, which has something to do with the old saying involving doorsteps and turds and the golden advice which goes with it. I don’t want to upset the pub I live next to, in the same way I don’t particularly want them fawning up next to me whilst I’m trying to have a quiet pint because I said something nice.

But I’ve moved as of a week ago, back to Harborne where all the bitter food writers go to rot away. I can say what I want about The Village now and nobody can stop me. Nobody. Well except my girlfriend who proof reads everything before I post it. You know what? I liked it. I liked the refurb they’ve just finished with the low hanging lights, monochrome palette and clean lines. I like that the staff are drilled at checking whether you’re enjoying the food once you’ve actually started eating it and know not to harass you every single minute. I like that they’ve looked at the small detail and worked at making it all better.

After a well-made negroni we start with lamb kofta, tightly packed, almost like a merguez on a stick, a plate squiggle of something simultaneously spicy and cooling, and a properly-dressed salad. Simple things, but simple things done well. Then gently cooked prawns under a dusting of parsely and chilli, rolled about in plenty of garlic and a little ginger. There is bread on the side to pile it on to should you wish, or you could do the right thing and use it to soak up the juices from the bottom of the cast iron pan. I know what I did.

The main course is defined by the quality of the battered halloumi that replaces the more coventional fish. The chips need a bit of work, and the mushy peas need salt, but that halloumi is worth the niggly details. Soft and moreish, the cheese is essentially steamed within a batter that cracks and shatters in the right places. A more than competent tartare is all the acidity it needs. It’s oddly priced at 50p more than the pescetarian equivalent which means they either need to look at their suppliers, or revisit pricing.

Courses are on the large side and we have no room for dessert, though plenty of room for more wine. As the evening rolls out the bar fills up; first with suits, then with those who dip into Moseley for weekend drinks. The old village hall deserves to be a focal point of the community, and with the recent refit they are once again on the right path. I spent five years of my life looking at this building with only the ocasional desire to wandering inside. I won’t make the same mistake now that I’ve moved out of the area.

7/10

I’ll need an A2B to get here in future

The Greenhouse, Sutton Coldfield

Sutton Coldfield has never struck me as an area to get excited about. I know it exists, like third world poverty and Mrs Brown’s Boys, but I have little desire to seek it out and experience it for myself.  On the rare occasion I do venture north of the wall it nearly always disappoints; there is good stuff happening beyond here, like the excellent The Boat in Lichfield, but Sutton feels timid in comparasion. It’s too genteel, too middle class to have anything edgy going on. It is the land of the company car and fillet steak, which seems perfectly fine for its inhabitants.

My mate Jacob gets excited about Sutton, mostly as he was born there. A car journey with Jacob around the area is a rapid verbal account of very colourful teenage years. It is great fun; kissed a girl here; ran away from the police in that place; had a scrap with a man thirty years my senior in there. I never realised Sutton could be so fun. Anyway, he’s a drinks rep now and he told me about a pub near his parents home that has had a refurbishment that looks great. So we do what thirty-somethings do and arrange to go on a double dinner date which stays civilised until we pick him and his fiancé up and see that they have a small bottle of whisky with them for the car journey.

The pub is smart; tables are spaced far enough apart for the young team to buzz around and handle every table in a warm and professional manner. It is a big menu, one that takes up both sides of an A4 sheet of paper. From the starters the lamb koftas go down well in a kind of DIY flatbread, as does a doorstop wedge of brie crumbed and then deepfried to a gooey consistency. Chicken karage is good when dunked into a katsu sauce that tastes remarkably like the curry sauce from my local chippy. The Asian inspired salad it comes with needs work; nothing tastes of anything.

Out of the four mains we have there is one dud: a dried-out chicken breast stuffed with a little chorizo, in an alleged buttermilk batter that has caught and burnt in parts. That aside, the rest is pretty good gastro-grub. Battered halloumi is precisely cooked with decent chips, mushy peas, and a very good tartare sauce, whilst a rib-eye is correctly cooked, if a little under-rested. Best is the fillet steak, with a little shallot tatin topped with cheese. Again the meat is cooked well, but it’s the accompaniment that makes it shine; adding umami and depth to the lump of cow.

Dessert is a melting chocolate bomb that is super sweet but also super good. Okay, I’ve been eating melting bombs for over a decade, but it’s great to see it somewhere more accessible than starred restaurants. And it works; the salted caramel sauce melts the chocolate and leaves a puddle of happiness around the revealed sticky toffee pudding.

We drink two bottles of decent Rioja and leave replete for the journey back to southern Brum. Is The Greenhouse good enough for me to make a frequent trek back to Sutton? Probably not. Though I do have a sister who lives nearby and I could certainly see myself having a bite to eat with her here. There is a lot to like about The Greenhouse, which delivers good quality food at a fair price.

7/10

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Pint Shop, Birmingham

Ten minutes after checking in on Facebook, my phone is red hot with direct messages from chefs, restaurateurs, and industry types, all asking the same thing: is Pint Shop really that good? I can’t remember the last time a new opening generated such hype, especially given that the offering is essentially beer and pub food. Yet it has; stirring up the Twitterati with pictures of scotch eggs, and those more knowledgeable with an all-star line-up of front and back house teams poached from the premium local establishments. The early signs were good, backed-up on the dull Tuesday night when we dine. I leave and respond to them all: Yes, it really is that good.

But before I go into detail about my dinner, a sense of perspective is required. For all of the hype and overexcitement, Pint Shop is not some mythical beast that is going to solve all of the world’s problems. It is not going to reinvent gastromony in Birmingham or stop Brexit. It is not even new as a concept to the city; in fact there is a similar place 148m away that does lots of beers, pub food, and has a scotch egg as good as here. So lets hold to those knickers before accidents start to happen. What it is though is the best of its type: those affordable low-mid range places affordable enough to eat at every night, or just pop into the bar for a pint and a snack. It excels at smart service and occupies a handsome building, with a menu that reads nearly as good as it eats. We find it hard to find fault with anything. It’s slick and everyone knows their stuff despite this being the last session in a soft launch period.

Now, those scotch eggs. The bar and dining room menus both have a different one, and we try both because I’m a greedy and demanding man. And those are just my good points. They are excellent, both cooked to jammy yolks which try to hold their place in the centre of the egg before giving up and making a slow stagger to the sanctuary of the paper underneath. Of the two I happen to prefer the one from the bar menu that tastes of pork with pops of fennel anise, though Claire makes her play for the more dense onion bhaji egg that hides the pig flavour a little deeper under the spicing. We conclude that both are winners in their own right. Be greedy and demanding. Have both. Another starter has roasted beets with a quenelle of cheese curd and lineseed cracker. It feels and looks like the opening course in a much smarter resturant. The beets tender and sweet, with a glossy shine like Anne Diamond. They bleed prettily on to the plate with just a little peppery oil for company.

There is much to be excited about with the mains. They have a dirty burger that is true to it’s name, leaking burger sauce and bacon jam down the brioche bun and fingers, before eventually letting the beefy patty flavour come through in abundance. Another main has pork belly that is braised overnight, transforming the roll into unctous blend where it becomes impossible to tell where the meat and fat layers once were. The skin of the pig has been blanched and then shocked in hot oil, taking the crackling into pork puff territory. Florets of cauliflower are charred, others turned into a silky puree bolsted by yeast. A glossy reduction of the cooking liquor pops with capers and plenty of black pepper. It’s a wholesome plate of food for those who crave the comfort of a Sunday roast everyday. I’ve just noticed that this pork is available as part of their Sunday roast. I’m a genius.

The tandoori chicken flatbread requires a paragraph of it’s own. We reach it after sharing five courses and instantly wish we’d saved more room. The flatbread is the vehicle for what looks like a quarter of a chicken, ruby red in marinade and perfumed spices. Underneath is pickled cabbage cut with mustard and onion seeds that make it almost sauerkraut-like, a fiery hot sauce from which I swear I detect gochujang, and a mint mayo that has dill and coriander in to bolster the freshness. All of this topped with a handful of toasted almonds. It is a monster, and a good value one at that, coming in at £12. I love the nod to the spices ingrained in Birmingham’s culture, even if I am aware that it is also on the menu at one of the other two less diverse Pint Shop locations. It is the most complete dish we try; the one that will top my orders on frequent future visits.

Desserts are described to us as more homely, though there is no letting up on technique. We try the peach melba sundae and lemon meringue fool. The poached peaches in the former steal the show, bringing out the very best in the sweet fruit whilst still maintaining a little bite. The latter has delicate meringues crowning layers of lemon sorbet and curd. A lovely refreshing way to finish a meal.

We eat too much and dip into the beer and gin lists, for which they have plenty. This being a soft launch with 50% off we struggle to nudge over the £50 mark with too much food, though I would suggest that you allow about £30 each for dinner with drinks and much less for a fleeting bar snack visit. I usually loathe judging somewhere during a soft launch, though Pint Shop has hit the ground running and fully warrants this score. It is a great addition to the city; a place that oozes confidence from pass to table. Everything we ate banged with flavour, at a price point that will see us return time over. Pint Shop may not be filling the imaginary void that some will have you believe is there, but is has substantially raised the game for its competition. You’ll find me at the bar for a pint of the good stuff, demolishing a bite to eat.

9/10

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Pictures by Nosh and Breks

The Bluebell, Henley-In-Arden

This little blog of mine brings out different reactions in restaurants. Some are totally ambivalent to me being present in the dining room, others noticeably different when I start taking pictures and notes. Some don’t want me there at all. I’ve had chefs tweet me from the kitchen to tell me to eat my food before it goes cold, or be annoyed with me because I took the liberty of booking under a different name. Recently I received a phone call from a chef who told me to cancel the reservation I had with the restaurant he worked at because the new menu was, in his words, ‘shite’. Food blogs are a funny thing. Chefs often dismiss us as the underbelly of gastronomic society, but they clearly care way more than they let on. It’s one of the reasons I enjoy drinking with them so much: you’ll get no annoying over-excitement or smoke-blowing bullshit out of a chef; cooking all day for fake dietary requirements has beat that out of them.

I guess that a lot of this reaction stems from a fear (and dislike) of some untrained gobshite daring to criticise their craft and vision. I get that; I can’t handle people judging my Monopoly purchases, let alone my livelihood. But sometimes a rarity occurs. A chef will actively ask me to eat his food, to sling that massive nutsack over his (or her) shoulder and cook without fear of my opinion. Joe Adams did that and I respect him massively for it. I saw him at some awards which I can’t remember the name of and he asked when I was coming to eat at The Bluebell. I said soon and returned to polishing my award. Fast forward a year later when I’m sat in said pub having a glass of wine and he comes out of the kitchen to ask why I still haven’t been. He doesn’t want to give me a free meal; he just wants to show how good he is. It would take a further eight months and another polite ear bashing to finally get there. The man is persistent amongst other things.

It turns out that Joe has the ability to back up the confidence. From the beautifully quaint pub of low beams and lower lighting (apologies about the pictures), he delivered one of the most enjoyable evenings I’ve had in a while, turning out smart food that gently coaxes reaction without stepping outside it’s boundaries. The dishes tend to riff on a couple of flavour profiles at a time; nuanced yet homely. All technically competent and boldly seasoned. Fat scallops with a seared hat from brown butter could easily have been lost within the umami rich smoked potato puree and caramelised onions, had batons of fresh apple and a spritely chive oil lifted it all. Same with the chicken liver parfait under a drift of nuts and seeds. It needs the orange marmalade as a counterpoint. Both are impeccably balanced.

A chicken main has the breast cooked expertly to a crisp skin whilst avoiding drying out the meat. A fondant potato sits to one side with the less than conventional additions of puffed rice, coconut milk and a big tomato sauce spiced with loads of garlic, fenugreek, and chilli. From what, on the face of it, is a simple dish has complexities throughout; it may be rooted in Henley but its heart is in India. A hake dish takes top billing for the evening, with the puddle of shellfish bisque the highlight. It’s restrained in its approach, concise with every element warranting its place on the plate. It shows an egoless approach to the cooking, one where everything makes sense. We have desserts, though the wine was flowing a little too freely and I forgot to take pictures. There was a cheesecake and semifreddo from memory, nothing desconstructed and everything working properly. They are sweet, as desserts should be but seldom are anymore. The plates go back to the kitchen cleaned.

Service is friendly and professional, led by a chap called Johnny who knows the menu inside out. It’s easy to see why The Bluebell has gained the listing in the Michelin guide and the rosettes it has in the two years since it opened; it is approachable and refined, priced ideally for its location. I’m treated to dinner tonight by friends who live locally, though I’ll be back soon and won’t be requiring a chef to ask me.

8/10

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Boca Grande at The Plough, Harborne

So I was sat in a pub recently not far from where I live, when someone I vaguely know from 6am house parties said to me ‘you need to stop dressing like you’re in The Plough, you live in Moseley now’. I look down at what I’m wearing; slip on loafers, no socks, Prince of Wales check grey shorts, a button-down Oxford shirt with sweater over the top. He’s right: I couldn’t be anymore Harborne unless I had two cars to drive, a labradoodle, and a relative in the Conservative party. Like Tuberculosis i guess living there is one of those things you never fully shake off. I had three glorious years living in Harborne, of which approximately two of those were spent in The Plough. Mondays for pizza, Tuesday burgers, the weekends were Connect 4 either in the extension or out in the garden. Do not take me on at Connect 4, I will destroy your constitution and break your soul. And I’ll enjoy every second of it.

On this occasion I’ve taken the long stroll back to Harborne for dinner with Rob of Foodie Boys. Us boys have to stick together in this game. The females dominate in this city, eating the males alive, akin to the Black Widow. Just like those spiders most have a nasty bite and hairy backs. We’re here for the tacos which form the Boca Grande takeover this summer. I have a lot of time for tacos, they’re like the bastard siblings of the burrito before they got fat on carbs and started dressing modestly.

Those tacos are very good, an improvement on the same product they served only on Wednesdays last year. The shell is soft, the fillings piled high. Chicken is as hot as the menu warns, with a ginger slaw that lingers long after the Almost Death sauce has killed my taste buds and done a runner. The delicate flavour of cod is not lost amongst its garnish of jalapeño, lime and ginger, whilst the prawn taco has a inherent sweetness allowed to shine with spring onion and a little chilli.

In my eyes the pick of the bunch is the pork, slow cooked to the point that it retains just enough bite to remind you its meat that we’re eating. Its smoky and rich, needing the acidity of the apple to cut through it. I like it even more with Pip’s hot sauce, but then that sentence can be applied to anything. A beef and bean chilli made from brisket works because of a chimichurri full of bright acidity. From the sides the guacamole is fresh with acidity and heat, but it is the sweetcorn that takes full honours with garlic, lime and butter. I go back for more until the bottom of the pot is visible. It goes with the chicken particularly well.

Service is the standard level of The Plough brilliance; I cant think of another pub anywhere which does it better. They never miss a beat: drinks arrive quickly followed by tacos, empty plates are removed, more tacos come, repeat process. It seems so simple, yet so many get it wrong. Boca Grande is just another example of The Plough’s brilliance, one that taps into a trend that fits perfectly with the Summer, further cementing their position as Birmingham’s best pub.

Want to see my ego get even bigger? Vote for me here in category 17.

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The White Post, Rimpton

The detour to The White Post on the way from Devon was supposed to add an additional 45 minutes each side to our journey. Unfortunately for us, Google Maps is particularly shit at accounting for Biblical floods on narrow Somerset county lanes, in the same way that Noah was particularly shit at accounting for all the animals under the same circumstance (where’s the mention of Koalas on the ark, Noah? Or the Kangaroos whilst we’re at it). What started as a bit of rain ended up with us descended into a river between hedges, with water up the bonnet of the car and Claire screaming white noise about repair costs and flooded engines and very possibly shoes. I wasn’t listening. And then after we’ve eaten the rain turned to fog and the ground got all skiddy and a crash near Bristol rerouted us over the Downs where I honestly thought we may slip off the side and die. I portion part of this blame on God and part on Claire, who had far greater trouble finding the fog lights than she does my wallet. It took us five hours to get home, which totalled seven hours of driving. Was it worth it? Absolutely. The White Post do the best Sunday roast I’ve ever eaten.

Now before I break down why it is the best, please know that I really don’t enjoy Sunday Roasts. I find them nothing more than stoic patriotism; all overcooked carbohydrates and blistered brown meat. It’s Nytol on a plate and I swear they must have been invented by disgruntled wives who would rather watch the husband snore on the sofa than surrender him back to the arms of the pub. And it’s not like I have never had good ones before. My Dad does things with pancake batter and beef fat that produce volcanic spews of Yorkshire pudding. A fine lady called Fran showed me the correct way to roast a chicken and my future mother-in-law makes the best roast potatoes I have ever eaten. Correction. Second best. Apologies, Lindsey.

Now back to The White Post, a pub so at ease in its skin, the only thing it is unsure of is the county it belongs to. It sits right on the border of Somerset and Dorset, on the top of the hill with views of green and pleasant lands. When it is not pissing it down this part of the world really is beautiful. The pub itself is fully functioning; there is a bar with stools and a patio with benches if you only want a pint. The menu has one eye on feeding and then other firmly on impressing; there is salt chamber beef and sugar pit pork. Cous cous is Israeli, presumably because they also know a thing or two about questionable borders.

The first edible thing to arrive at table sets the expectations sky high. A skein of carrot slithers, fried to a golden bhaji crust, and sat in a puddle of soured cream. To this was poured a carrot soup as orange as Donald Trump and almost as thick. The soup succeeded in tasting only of the vegetable, the bhaji spice gently lifting it. Opposite me was liver parfait, textbook in execution and light in texture, studded with cubes of pear, gingerbread, and grains. There is a fat slice of brioche to smear it on and an unripe tomato chutney to stop it all getting a bit sweet. Both starters remind me of the first time I ate at The Hand & Flowers, when I realised that is possible to cook wholesome food with finesse. They do that with aplomb here.

And now the roast. They do not mess around when it comes to the roast. You order it and they bring everything on a board. Between the two of us we get slices of chicken breast and a leg each, the most perfect pork loin with shards of crackling, and lamb leg, pink and properly rested. There are potatoes cooked in beef fat with enough brittle edges to pummel with, parsnips and carrots roasted until the natural sugars caramelise and I start to weep, and giant Yorkshire puddings that are as good as any I’ve eaten outside my Dad’s. Apple and Horseradish sauces. A massive jug of gravy that tastes of animal. On the side is braised red cabbage and another bowl with cauliflower and broccoli cheese that could probably do with leaving the broccoli out on. It is everything that a Sunday roast should be but never is. It is a triumph to sourcing and to seasoning, to the virtues of an oven over a sous vide machine. We pile everything on to our plates and wonder how we will finish it. We do. It is remarkable.

Dessert divides us. I like the notes of anise and cinnamon in the spiced brulee, but Claire finds it a bit full-on. Its left to me to smash through the torched sugar and tip in the raisin ice cream. A cookie feels a little superfluous and unwarranted, though it does offer another welcome texture. I finish it. Of course I do, its delicious, but I wonder if the same rooted love is there for pastry as it across the savoury courses.


The bill, with a couple of boozy drinks for the passenger and a soft drink for the driver, is an absurdly low sixty quid. I felt almost embarrassed to pay it until they told us that they do a 10 course taster menu with overnight stay in the rooms above for two people for only an additional ton on top of that. Maybe its just this part of the world that wants to wants to be generous at lunch time, but it’s a welcome change from home where the best roast costs the same amount for half the size and a meal of similar quality would be double. It’s wonderful here, the passion is clear to see from the team, the love for food transcending on to the plate. The future is very bright for The White Post and I can’t wait to return when the drive there and home becomes a little less eventful.

9/10

The Plough, Harborne

It was three years ago, when this blog was in its infancy, I first wrote about The Plough. This was before the awards and the accolades, when the number of my twitter followers was lower than my sexual partners. It was the first place I ever gave a perfect ten to, but nobody read the blog, so frankly who cares. As the blog has grown I’ve continued to go The Plough and I’ve felt a tinge of guilt that one of the best places in Birmingham amassed a total of 600 views, whilst now a write-up of a shite brunch and subsequent fallout with a tv licence pilfering ‘comedian’ gets many multiples of that within 24 hours of posting.

So now I’m going to abuse my readership by jumping back on that Plough to churn up the ground once more. It’s still the best pub in Birmingham. The city continues to grow in its brilliance, with many excellent pubs coming since, and this little spot in Harborne continues to adapt and knock spots off them. I could bang on about the drinks, including a cocktail program curated by Rob Wood, a stellar whisky collection, and the damm right naughty wine list, but you’re here for the food. And quite rightly so.

A recent dinner proved they are much more than just pizza and burgers. Garlic bread sits in the small plates section, arriving dotted with mozzarella and ‘nduja, each cancelling the others more verdant qualities in all the right ways. It has now overtaken pork scratchings as my favourite partner to a pint. A tangle of pulled beef brisket with sweet potato is the dish I go to to find comfort. I break the yolk of the fried egg and load on to thickly sliced toasted bread. The meat is tender without being mush, and I suspect there is spice involved – maybe Worcestershire sauce – in the cooking of the hash. It’s rich, and it requires the apple chutney to cut through it all, but it’s also bloody lovely.

A fairly recent addition has been the Cubanos – toasted sandwiches to you and I. We have the chicken, smokey with paprika, with bacon and Swiss cheese. Much like the rest of the menu here, its unfussy in concept and massive in portion. It shares a plate with fries that we can’t get excited over, and a perky salad that we do thanks to the clever additions of black bean, feta, and avocado along with the usual suspects. Have this (or the pork, it’s equally good) and ask for all salad and no fries. This was not my suggestion if they say no.

I simply can’t go 38 months and not rave about the above pizza with ‘nduja and mascarpone. This has been on for about a year and is the dish we always order – the perfect balance of heat and cooling. The above picture is not from the recent dinner, but two weeks prior. Don’t @ me, whatever that means.

Looking back at what I wrote back then, it’s clear The Plough have mastered consistency – they still have staff that react to the smallest of gestures and yet know when to leave you alone. They still keep beer in impeccable condition and still only use the finest of ingredients. In short,they are still the best pub in Birmingham. Nowhere else comes close.

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The Crown Inn, Hallow

It’s freezing on the late morning we set off for Hallow. Like teeth chattering cold, the kind of November day that sticks icicles on your testicles. Winter is here in full brutishness, taking away our drive and robbing us of sunlight. Not even the inside of the car can save us, my water starting to transition towards a more solid matter and my girlfriend’s hands too cold to handle my gearstick, or the one on the car. We need the comfort of comfort food. Of slow cooked meats and carbohydrates. I happen to know just the place.

I never saw The Crown Inn prior to the refurb, though I like what I see now. It has a mazy quality that reminds me of the adjoining rooms at The Hand and Flowers, with low wooden beams and walls with the girth of a building built to last. The pub has two wood burning stoves that sit both ends of the room like goals and we are positioned in front of one basking in its heat. I like it here. I also like the menu that speaks in a language I understand. It has a familiarity to it but also the ambition of a head chef that has come from the two star Le Champignon Sauvage. Amongst the pub food is game and souffles. We would order both.

Starters first. A croquette of breaded lamb shoulder is a dense bit of sheep made sprightly by a helping of vibrant salsa verde and a sharp redcurrant dressing. Little cubes of charred feta punch with saltiness, whilst the semi-dried tomato feels superfluous. It is a dish that works for its braveness, a potentially tightrope of various acidity and bold seasoning. It pays off. We mostly like a mammoth scotch egg, yolk just runny, breadcrumb coating crisp and golden. The ham hock filling is nice and piggy, though a little under seasoned and containing a few bits that should never have passed the picking process. Furthermore its too big. Generous to the point that this could easily feed one on its own.

It’s a this point that the cottage pie happens. Another gigantic portion, with braised and shredded beef shin at the core and crowned with potatoes that have had the right amount of fat introduced to them. And when I say the right amount I mean lots. There is a jug of thick gravy that delivers on its promise from the very moment it coats my finger. Carrots cooked in beef fat are the only accompaniment it needs and they too are wondrous things. It is a brilliant rethinking of a classic, pimped up and sent out looking as dandy as it tastes.

Our other main is pheasant. It’s a rustic plate of the good stuff, with roasted breasts just blushing pink positioned on on creamed cabbage, a buttery wedge of potato and onion labelled as a hash brown, and the filthiest of black pudding purèe’s. The dish is completed by black berries and a well sauce that has the back note of acidity needed to counteract the richness. It’s a lot of food for £17 and we tell them so. Apparently, there have been gripes that the portions here are small. I despair at those who clearly don’t know a good thing when it’s hit them in the face. And this pheasant is a very good thing indeed. Of the sides we try, roasted carrots and parsnips are glazed in maple, and potato gratin in gloriously cheesy with a back note of nutmeg. Only the chips could have done with a fraction longer in the fryer.

After a pre-dessert of lemon and mango which has perfectly judged levels of sweetness and acidity, before we share an apple soufflé to finish. The soufflé is textbook, proud in height with good apple flavour. The ice cream may be a little too subtle in salted caramel, but works well when we prise open the top of the soufflé and slide the ice cream in. I can only applaud any pub that not only shows the ambition to put this on the menu, but to also deliver it with aplomb.

There are petit fours but by now we’re both full to the point of bursting – I defy anyone to come here and eat three courses and not feel the same. The team here might be relatively new (the head chef, Chris Monk, has been in place for three months), but they are already showing considerable skill. It’s not perfect yet, though it is somewhere that I’ll be monitoring closely over the next year. It’s my style of food; clean and bold and still familiar. There is a clear market for taking traditional pub food and elevating it above the norm, and The Crown Inn are doing a great job at cracking it.

7/10

I was invited to dine at The Crown Inn