Last Autumn I was supposed to tell you about the extension at Tropea, via a lovely ten-outta-ten review of a lunch there with Sophie’s parents on a very much invited opening weekend that involved a curated room all making the most of the 50% off the bill offer from Ben and Kasia. There was the owner of the restaurant down the road, the locals, the not-so-locals, the wine merchant, some chefs I like, the social media bore, a chef I can’t stand, some wealthy sods, and the pope. The actual pope. We did what anyone would do with the offer of half price, which is ordering the entire menu between the four of us, some fizz, and four bottles of wine. I drank so many martinis that my future-father-in-law had to check I was okay, before convincing him I was fine by leaving him with the reduced bill whilst we got an Uber to the Cotswolds to stay with friends. Lovely idea until you realise that taxis in the Cotswolds don’t exist at 7.20am on a Sunday morning.

But I didn’t write it. Partially because I am a busy man with a lot going on, but mostly because I didn’t want that half price lunch to in any way taint the perfect score. Because I know that it does. It does when I read the work of lesser writers, and I expect it does when you read anything of mine that ends with a big ‘ole discount, or worse, no bill at all. So I kept it schtum and said nothing, and repeated that process again when we went in November, and again in December. I booked it for New Year, a place at the new bar area blagged when I promise we’d “just swing by for a bowl of pasta and ten martinis” which of course ended-up being fifty percent true when we ordered most of the menu in what equated to a five-outta-ten meal and far more interesting reading for a blog piece.

I’m joking. Of course I am. Tropea is a hidden gem, if that gem is a fuck-off 20 carat diamond that could be noticed from space. They started off great and slowly by got better to the point that if you ask any chef or Birmingham’s Greatest Ever Food Blogger where to head to in Birmingham I can guarantee all of them will say here. It is impossible to start without something short and boozy, whether that be a paper plane, martini, negroni or daiquiri, and equally impossible to not have these with the pickles of whatever veg is sitting around in the kitchen. We get fat olives kissed with heat and textbook focaccia with an olive oil from Lazio that has a whiff of Roberto Baggio.
There are two dishes that we order every single time. The arancini, for me, is better than any other arancini I’ve had. Fist sized balls of cheesy rice with butternut squash at the centre which urge you to forget the heat and dive straight in. And the burrata, you’ve almost certainly seen the burrata. It’s Instagrams favourite cheese. One big bulb of loose dairy with roasted peppers, a loose puree of the lipstick red capsicum, hazelnuts, basil oil, and too much rocket. Seriously, what’s the point of a rocket, it’s the empty lapdancer pole of cooking; just all stem and no reward. Pile it on to the focaccia, sprinkle it with salt from the bowl and reward yourself with another sip of the martini.

Two pastas next. A gnocchi with walnuts and caramelised red onion, sat in a puddle of something creamy spiked with blue cheese, that is perfect for these brutal winter evenings. Better, and as good as any pasta you’ll find in this city, is the taglioni with black truffle and parmesan cream. A dish that has slowly been improved since it first appeared on the menu in November. The pasta is superb, but then it always is, the sauce perfectly judged. It’s just one big bowl of opulence. We have three large prawns in an oil so deliciously spiked with chilli and garlic that the Just Stop brigade have decided maybe it isn’t that bad after all, and pork cheeks cooked in sofrito and orange, with cabbage braised in wine and crispy potato terrine. The latter feels like a full dish; a main amongst a menu of smaller plates. It probably didn’t need the salad of bitter leaves, pear, and balsamic dressing. It gets ordered. It gets eaten. It was delicious.





We have digestifs for desert, bitter, herbal digestifs to aid the digestion of new year. The bill is a fair whack for which I’ll keep quiet because it’ll make me look a dick for drinking nice reds and lots of cocktails, though the food element came to just under £110. It’s a restaurant at the height of form; dish-upon-dish of smart cooking from a duo who understand the importance of eating well. I love it there, sorry, we love it there, and I can tell you that when we leave the church in mid-May it’s where we’ll be heading to celebrate with loved ones, weeks before the outrageous party which I’ll no doubt share with you afterwards. I’m a firm believer that the best things in life should cost, and Tropea is never going to be the cheapest option. Not unless you have a lovely in-law to pick up the bill, or the kind offer of a fifty percent off deal, in which case you can keep your gob shut and wait until you’ve paid before saying how wonderful it is.
10/10