Sally Oliver's blog

The Kensington Arms

Ate at a friend's recently with our usual motley crew. One of the topics of convo was where to take the parents on their next visit to Bristol. The parents like eating out. Probably not as much as me. Every time they venture down from the wilds of the north to the calm oasis of the west country, they require an evening's wining and dining in a 'never before visited' establishment. We have covered most of the city at this point so I was stuck for ideas.

Mr Clatworthy, (of the Clifton sausage and one of the motley crew) a person who knows his food and wine, recommended the Kensington Arms, a place I'm embarrassed to say I'd never heard of. Intrigued by this recommended and yet unknown prospect, we duly rocked up on Stanley Road in Redland. G noted he had in fact visited the place for drinks in his past life as a single man, when allowed to roam the streets on pub crawls with unsavoury types, probably on the search for women, pah.

My first impression was of a proper drinker's pub, also of on odd smell of boiled cabbage emenating from the kitchen. Not put off we wondered through to the restaurant and lo! a welcoming, perfectly lit, cosy dining room. The walls were interesting in a 'school GCSE end of term display' sort of way. I think it may have been a staff competition to cover the walls in half an hour. A still of Barbarella juxtaposed with a picture of an unfortunate pig's head and another  of what appeared to be a young James May cradled by an old lady....Anyway on to the good stuff.

The wine list is huge, (probably why Mr Clatworthy gave the place the thumbs up) and the menu is concise and well priced with starters at the £6 mark and mains between £10 and £15.  The tables and chairs are varied and rickety and are also different heights. We swapped chairs, then again and then finally moved to a less distressed table.  There are cognac coloured sofas on one side of these tables but I was relegated to a chair (parent privileges.)

There was a cream of artichoke soup which the father shook his head at, declaring soup to be 'an absence of food' which I rather liked. He plumped for the Salmon fishcake, pickled cucumber salad and tartare sauce. G chose the Chicken liver parfait with red onion confit and toast. I opted for the Pea and leek tartlet with fresh pea and salsify salad and the Mother had the Marinated pork tenderloin which came with blue cheese, pear and pine nut salad. My tart arrived with cubes of beetroot, perky leaves and was creamy and crusty and good. G's toast was a tad charred (though the smell was a pleasant change from boiled cabbage.) He remarked that it was rare to be served enough toast to accommodate the pate and as quantity is always top of G's list of priorities, the dish was a hit. The parents both enjoyed their starters with the father proclaiming the fish cake to be 'better then The Swan in Bitton', (more of the Swan in next blog) which has the tastiest fish cakes I think I've ever eaten, apparently the Kensington Arms wins for it's salmon packed versions.

On to mains; Rump of lamb with boulangere potatoes and parsley pesto for the mother, Braised feather blade of beef and horseradish mash for G. The father and I both chose the Pan- seared sea bass, leek and potato puree and oven roasted shallots. My wedge of bass was perfectly sized, decorated with little baubles of onion and a pie of puree. I liked it a lot. All the other mains were equally well received.

Desserts and it was just G and I (always troopers on the dessert front) sharing the sticky toffee pudding. I always think a sticky toffee pudding shows the mettle of the restaurant though in this case it was the only let down of the meal. Quite small, not very sticky and a bit too dry. I'm making it sound worse than it was but if you compare it to the Clifton Sausage's version there is no competition.

My verdict: Overall one of the best meals I've had in Bristol for a good while. Nice atmosphere, lovely unpretentious, tasty food and a very friendly waitress who doesn't mind you swapping tables multiple times. My father tipped her handsomely which probably says more than this review.

Juniper

Took parents to Juniper in Cotham last week for the father's birthday. He was paying as usual so perhaps not the best birthday present...The parents had heard about the place from a Bristolian acquaintance they had made on a cruise so we were expecting great things...

Juniper is quite a small and very purple place, I imagine Prince (or is it 'Squiggle'?) would feel at home. Purple tablecloths, purple walls, purple carpet and canvasses that had been painted purple to match. A pet hate of mine, these 'makeshift paintings'. Probably the most dull wall dwellers in the history of decor. What happened to interesting photos and proper paintings? Most restaurants I've been to lately appear to have featured in 'Changing rooms', or perhaps, unbeknown to me Linda Barker has relocated to the South West?

The menu wasn't purple and was quite exciting. It was topped by a suggestion of a speciality G & T or a champagne cocktail with peach liqueur and elderflower. We declined these however and perused the food whilst munching on 3 different versions of tasty slices with really good butter. Then we waited,and we perused some more. The waitress came and poured a beer over my mother. I went to the loo, which was a hike up a vertical cliff face of purple stairs. The loos were noteworthy for being the only 'ladies' I have come across to offer large baskets of assorted, foreign, sanitary items in each cubicle as well as deodorant by the sinks. Wasn't sure what to make of this. The mother is always one to comment on loos, in fact seems to visit establishments purely to 'spend a penny' and then report back-  the source of much humiliation in my teenage years. She should write a blog. Unfortunately, as she walks with a stick she was unable to scale the purple Everest so I was deprived of her verdict.

Back to the table and to the menu. Finally the waitress arrived, we cowered, no drink was thrown. I chose the 'Wild mushrooms , pan fried with rosemary, madeira, cream, served on a toasted brioche with crispy three cheese croquette and beetroot syrup.' What a mouthful. And it was. Probably the largest starter I have ever tackled; delicious aromatic, peppery sauce but it could have been a veggie main  and I had to abandon tradition and leave some on the plate!  G had the oak smoked salmon with crayfish, crab and prawns, 'ooh look it's one of those 2 spoons things they do on Masterchef'. 'A quenelle?' I proferred haughtily. The father was presented with 'herb crusted sea bass, pea custard and caper hollandaise'. This was a Jackson Pollock of a plate with smudges and splashes of colourful goo. I took one look and was convinced the Father wouldn't approve. Shows what I know as he ruminated thoughtfully and then proclaimed it to be 'very nice'. ( in other words a mighty 4 stars in 'The father guide'.  The mother had 'baked goats cheese with tomato and red onion chutney, char grilled artichoke, herb salad and balsamic caramel. I think she liked it but I was too busy dealing with my mushroom- induced food coma to pay attention.

Mains next. I had the chicken stuffed with cream cheese and chorizo with succotash, potatoes dauphinoise and a light tarragon jus . I ploughed sadly in, like a trooper on a food mission, still stuffed from the mushrooms and miserably waving goodbye to any ideas I'd had about the trio of chocolate with sour cherry compote for pudding. 'Succotash' in case you're wondering, as I was, appears to be undercooked chunks of sweet potato with sweetcorn, in a tin of chopped toms with a kilo of smoked paprika thrown in for good measure. It conjured up memories of the University 'stew' I used to make and was wholly horrible.The chicken was huge, tasty but huge.

 The mother was rewarded with a respectful, raised eyebrow for her demolition of her Rib eye Somerset beef with smokey tomato, red pepper and roquefort stuffing, baby onions, chips and cabernet jus. The father had the same, although his was a whacking great slab of beef. Are we in America? For such a small place the food was super-sized. G had the welsh lamb with thyme flower honey and lamb reduction. He liked it so much he offered to let me sample it (rare, very rare- not the meat, G sharing food) I had to decline (damn those mushrooms.)

None of us could manage puddings, which was disappointing as there was a 'warm spiced orange sponge with white, chocolate and orange custard and vanilla bean ice-cream' and a plate of welsh cheeses with fresh pineapple and wild mushroom preserve on offer, (though I'd quite happily not meet with a mushroom for a while after the epic starter.)

We plumped for coffee back at the parent's hotel, due to the lack of accessible loos. Expected the bill to be reasonable with starters at around the £7 mark, mains between £13.95 and £18.95, little to drink and no pudds, but we were charged a hefty £3.50 a bottle of water, £3.50 for a small bottle of San Miguel (the father nearly fell off his chair) and a 10% service charge.

My verdict: Good food for purple favouring, able-bodied people with a large appetite and wallet. Or just dine out on the mushroom starter.

http://www.juniperrestaurant.co.uk/

Juniper 21 Cotham Road South, Cotham, Bristol

More 'Roquette' than 'Rucola'- The Abingdon, South Kensington

Saturday and we had an impromptu lunch with my old school friends at The Abingdon in South Kensington http://www.theabingdonrestaurant.com/ as recommended by my friend Tom. G and I made myself comfortable and mused on the disadvantages of punctuality (The school friends are not known for theirs). We decided that it is best to be punctual only when visiting or dining with parents or older generation, as if punctual with our generation, you will usually be sitting on your own for a good half hour. The exception is to dinner parties, where you should arrive 5- 10 minutes late, nothing after but definitely not before. Early arriving guests is my worst fear. (Well maybe not THE worst.) Anyway finally they all rocked up and we set to ordering.

The Abingdon is a bit of a strange phenomena, a cross between an upper class 50's American diner (think somewhere Hepburn might have tipsily lunched at in Breakfast at Tiffany's) and a macaroon short of a Parisian tea house, oddly encased within the walls of a traditional English pub. Unfortunately the effect was spoiled somewhat by the odd woman on the sofas next to us who seemed a bit 'confused' and kept ranting about her mother being kidnapped. (I'm not convinced she had been, as she also thought she knew everyone in the restaurant too).

G went for the rump steak with 'pomme frites' and Bearnaise sauce. I went for the 2 course menu which had a choice of Carrot and coconut soup or Antipasti to start and then Pan fried haddock with spiced lentil, sweet potato, wild 'roquette' and creme fraiche or Confit duck leg with creamed mash and rosemary jus. I chose the antipasti and then haddock and thankfully the antipasti came promptly, the little piles of smoked salmon and ham subsequently devoured in the same manner.

The mains came and George was pleased with his steak. My haddock dish was mild and creamy, pleasant but not remarkable. Tom's perfectly cooked Yellow fin tuna with wok tossed wild roquette (there's that roquette again!) and shimeji mushrooms was the best and he insisted we all try a bit. The other school friend Kate, had the Venison and Morgan just scrambled eggs with smoked salmon. The mains varied from £15 to £22 with starters from £6 to £13. The 2 course Saturday lunch menu was £15.95.

Afterwards Tom insisted we order desserts to share. Kate ordered the Sticky toffee pudding with toffee sauce, which she proclaimed to be 'amazing', but after a spoonful I deemed to be a lesser (if not exactly poor) relative of the Clifton Sausage. Tom and I shared a Blackcurrant sorbet which was fruity, fresh and a bit predictable. Morgan was disappointed that the Chocolate biscuit terrine with chocolate sauce was off the menu, so had nothing in protest and talked to the crazy lady instead.

Verdict on The Abingdon: Most of the people eating here (other than crazy) were well-to-do Kensington couples with small, well behaved babies who didn't cry and ate their broccoli. The chef could probably halve the extensive menu which features rather a lot of pea shoots, parfaits and 5 inclusions of 'roquette', but if you find yourself in South Ken you can do worse than to wander in here. Grab yourself a pew, order the tuna and settle back in the company of the London yummies.

Btw: As we were leaving Morgan told me the crazy lady had told him she'd really liked me.

The Clifton Sausage, Clifton, Bristol

Sunday Lunch and I’d booked the Clifton Sausage, a failsafe, stylish, people pleaser of a pub serving tasty British fare. I eat here much less than I’d like to as I tend to have a brainwave of going there on a Sunday morning, when it will invariably already be booked up. Anyway, I’d actually made a booking this time so we trundled along and were seated downstairs. The father immediately looked at home. (I told you it’s a people pleaser- no ‘taboulleh’ in sight.) He commented on the spaciousness, all the tables were occupied but the place felt light and airy and wasn’t too noisy.

The Sunday lunch menu offers 2 courses for £14.50 and 3 for £16.50. G went for the chorizo and salami starter, while the rest of us saved ourselves for the mains and I had my eye on the cheeseboard for dessert. G’s thin slices of salami, apparently from ‘Napoli and Milano’ were a satisfying appetiser. Then the mains arrived. I’d opted for the pork with apple cider sauce and immediately regretted it when I saw my mother’s sausages arriving. What was I thinking? Pork good but you go to the Clifton Sausage for sausage. She had sensibly ordered ‘The Clifton’ which is a pork, cider and wholegrain sausage, other sausage options are ‘Lamb, mint and apricot’, ‘Beef and real ale’, ‘Gloucester Old spot’ and a veggie option: ‘Glamorgan leek, cheese and mustard’. All come with a rich onion gravy, mash or champ. Thumbs up from the mother.

The father was sinking his second beer and polished off his Roast sirloin of Beef, though the Yorkshire pudding was ‘not a patch on Suzie’s’ (my sisters.) To be fair I have never come across a Yorkshire pudd that resembled the ones I grew up with since venturing out of Yorkshire, so I won’t hold this against the chef too much. People don’t seem to realise that Yorkshire puddings should be cupcake sized with a dip in the middle suitably shaped for floating peas (aka ducks) in.(I was playing with food from a young age.) They should be crispy on the outside and gooey bottomed. Anyway these were more titanic than duck pond. G had the beef too and happily wolfed it down.... our roasts came with plentiful carrots, cubes of swede and sugar snaps as well as properly good roasties, fluffed up and squidgy-crisp.

Pudding time, hoorah! The last time I came to the Sausage I had a case of serious food envy, as G ordered the sticky toffee pudding with butterscotch sauce and vanilla ice-cream which, after I was proffered a forkful, turned out to be probably the best I’ve eaten. This time he said he was too full. I had a fancy for the Westcountry cheeses so I ordered the sticky toffee pudding for him and cheese for me, knowing I’d get to eat most of both. The father went for the chocolate mousse with shortbread biscuits and Chew Valley double cream. I wasn’t offered a forkful of that so assume it was good. My 5 cheesy wodges arrived with some delicious rhubarb chutney and biscuits that I recognised from the Chandos deli. George couldn’t manage all the sticky toffee pudd as predicted so I polished that off, helpfully- yes, as good as last time.

The only downer on an otherwise perfect Sunday luncheon was the stroppy waitress who asked us to drink our coffees upstairs so she could get our table ready for the not yet arrived next party. We willingly obliged only to find there were no seats, so had to sup our coffees standing up. Bit of a problem as the mother has difficulty walking and an evident walking stick. I’d understand if there were sittings, and my family does tend to be the last to leave a restaurant, but we had only been there 2 hours and it was a bit of an abrupt end to an otherwise lovely afternoon.

Rucola, Apsley Road, Clifton.

Parents visiting this weekend and as usual decided to trial a couple of restaurants on them, my thought process has always been ‘if they can please them, they can please anyone’... They were staying at the Avon Gorge but we decided against eating in it's 'Bridge cafe' due to the fact that their much applauded head chef, Debbie Leatt has not actually changed the menu in the 2 years my parents have been staying there. The first time we ate in The Bridge, the fishcakes were so good we ordered them on our 3 subsequent visits, only to note that they diminished in size each time... the last time we ate there there were 2 rather than 3 and they were so small they should have come with a magnifying glass as a side order. We called time on the Avon Gorge and ventured further afield.

Past successes on the ‘Clifton parent test’ have been Bells Diner (I think my slightly mystified father’s opinion was ‘weird but wonderful’, the now defunct Le Monde ‘biggest Dover Sole I’ve ever had’, also defunct Michael Caines at the Royal Marriot, 'memorable pistachio icecream', and food which compensated for  the ridiculous Roman decor and faux balconies, and Casamia in Westbury on Trym which has an experimental tasting menu and interesting plates!

I had wanted to go to the Rockfish (formerly Fishworks), my father likes his fish untampered with and that sounded like a no brainer of a parent pleaser. Sadly not to be as all booked up.  G suggested Rucola on Apsley road, G likes his breakfasts and used to be an afficionado of the Primrose cafe in the village, but now rates it’s brekkies as overpriced and ‘smaller than they used to be’ and has recently converted to Rucola which does great eggy combos and is very good value.

The place bills itself as Clifton's most individual and relaxed restaurant, an oasis amidst the bustle of Whiteladies Road.’ It was certainly an oasis of calm as only 2 tables in the place were occupied. This was good news as we proceeded about our ritual musical chairs, merrily changing tables and complaining about the temperature.

 The father’s first impression was not promising; ‘Looks foreign. What’s taboulleh?’ he queried suspiciously and then prompted, oddly, for the most ‘foreign’ option on the menu ‘lamb kofka’, it wasn’t available, which was probably a blessing in disguise, so he plumped for the pollack and a bottle of ‘Gracia de chilli’ which warranted a brief presentation on the merits of drinking 13.5% alcohol versus 14%. ’13.5 and you can finish the bottle, 14% and you’re under the table’ or something along those lines...I was happily quaffing it. I ordered the fish cakes, G the chicken burger and my mother, unexpectedly went for the hefty steak sandwich, which gained her a glance of admiration from G (aka Meat man).

We polished off a plate of herby flat breads and Middle Eastern dips between us, (a bargain at £5) before the mountainous mains arrived. If you ever ate at the (now defunct- see a theme emerging with Clifton restaurants?) Walrus and Carpenter, you’d have a decent idea of the mains at Rucola, large, heaped and with a variety of salady sides, not all of which are very well advised but are definitely superior to those at the overpriced Walrus. My father had a huge slab of Pollack, which was just as well as his coconutty, curried pile of under cooked sweet potato was understandably pushed to one side. G said his chicken burger on a bagel was rubbery and overpowered by lime’ but it disappeared quickly enough and he liked the spicy tomato jam that accompanied it. My mother liked her steak too though thought the bread was slightly charred. The silver lining was the brilliant chips which we fought over, ‘excellent chips’ said the father. My three fishcakes were a B+ to the Avon Gorge’s diminishing D and the accompanying citrus fennel and pecan slaw peppered with pomegranate was tasty and refreshing.

On to pudd and my father opted for the ‘sticky date pudding’ which he claimed ‘was so good it soaked up the foreign elements of the meal’. (I should probably interject here to mention that my father terms foreign as being anywhere other than Yorkshire.) I had some greyish chocolate icecream. Then it was 9pm and the chefs were hanging up their aprons, so we paid the bargainous £75 bill and made a swift exit. 

In my opinion Rucola wears the new Sunday brunch crown and is well worth the extra walk from the village. For dinner though, it really needs a late license but could teach the Avon Gorge a thing or two about fish cakes.