Counter Action

For all that tonight was a cracking experience, god it was intense. To sit at Bocca Di Lupo’s Chef’s Counter is to sit so close to the trattoria’s beating heart that it possesses you of a real instinct to snap to it every time a new order comes on. Which isn’t to say you shouldn’t make a deliberate point of reserving places at it – because it strikes me that if you want the best angle on this place then you absolutely should – rather that, while they’re certainly box seats, these aren’t date seats. I don’t know. I wonder if perhaps my inability to properly detach in this environment made the evening’s spectacle more distracting for me than it would for most. What I do know is that so vivid a reminder of front-line action has no more made me inclined to take up chef-ing as it has to join the circus.

Taking down a kitchen’s fourth wall is a big shout. Sure, it adds an obvious element of theatre, and a point of interest for those with a curiosity as to a restaurant’s inner workings. Also, unlike other ‘chef’s table’ offers -whereby I’m not sure the concept isn’t just a ruse to charge a premium for a peek behind the curtain – it demonstrates a balls-out confidence in, and a bold honesty about, the quality of your food. For a chef, signing up to work in an open kitchen must be like committing to a relationship of brutal truth, or else like going to work with no trousers on. I mentioned whilst we were sat there staring down the barrel that to me a closed kitchen was like a refuge; the dark glasses to my p-p-p-p-poker face. Pans aren’t the only things in there letting off steam, you know? And yet here, from their perspective, it was as if that wall was still there. Eye contact, at least until later when the pace began to let up, was absolutely minimal and focus was intently and reassuringly on the job in hand. Mistakes were made and the occasional strip of dignity torn off, but restraint, discipline, and even good humour, all prevailed. On a fairly high-octane Saturday, I think  this impressed me as much as the food.

On that, I’ll start by conceding my frame of reference in regard to going Italian is limited at best. I don’t necessarily qualify as the guy to tell where you might reasonably expect to find better or worse contextual examples of regional cooking. You’ll know if you’ve read this before, though, that the Hymnal’s only ever going to take a place, most operatively in this case, at face value. And this was pretty fucking good.

We chose, just as we did at Sheekey’s a couple of weeks ago, to go little and often. First wave comprised of Lamb Prosciutto with Pecorino and raw Broad Beans, an oily Artichoke a la Giudia – through which our Sicilian Cavallina Grillo (£16) cut quite brilliantly -, an extraordinary Nettle and Chard Pansotti with Walnut Dressing, and a risotto of Morels, Peas and Sweetbreads. All under a tenner and of a size that all three of us could get a decent handle on. Centre stage among the second salvo was a Pork and Foie Gras Sausage with Pearl Barley and Porcini, with which arrived an assortment of sides; Borlotti beans with tomato, basil and a good amount of chilli, broad beans with smoked ricotta and mint, and Asparagus with Lemon Oil. The, again excellent value, Puglian Negromaro (£19.25) went uncannily well with everything.

A drawback for any restaurant allowing this kind of behind-the-scenes access is, of course, that any momentary lapses are magnified. Said salvo, for example, we could see sitting under the heat lamps for a good few minutes before a sous-chef questioned why it hadn’t been picked up. The ‘waiter’ he’d addressed, whose sole function seemed to be to run the rule over each plate’s presentation and contents and then take a tissue round its rim, and who had thus far played it far too cool for school, was for a brief moment made to look less calm and collected than carelessly complacent. The upshot once it had arrived was to have grounds to argue the sausage, to which I was looking forward the most, was not as hot as it should have been. No real biggie. The point, though, is that from here you can see anything and everything that you’d otherwise, and probably rather, have missed.

Service was informed and jovial. Tamsin, the maitre d’, my associate had been especially impressed with when booking and she was indeed a sweetheart; professional, tactile but not invasive, and armed with a smile from here to here. The venue has been criticised for poor acoustics and if whomever did so means that it’s noisy to the tune of people having a nice time then, yes, it is. But far from making it supersonic, all the hard surfaces amount to in real terms is somewhere that’s smartly turned out. The tightly ordered seating to my right gave a sense that, if pushed, they might be inclined to squeeze too many along this run of the bar, although I’m not sure I wasn’t just made aware of this as it was straightened once too often by a surplus of staff.

Listen, we read a melange of other reviews before we went to Bocca di Lupo. Some raved about it, some were pretty unkind. As I say, while my palette doesn’t represent the best barometer by which to conclusively say which of my wannabe contemporaries are right and which are wrong, what I can confirm is that I absolutely caned everything I had. On that basis, and on that of a proper dining experience, I’d absolutely recommend you try it for yourself.

[Dessert was enjoyed accross the street at BDL's new gelateria and deli, Gelupo]

New Bull’s, Please

The energy driving the Bull’s Head in Wootton Wawen is palpable and reflective of a tenancy that’s still just eight weeks old. The effort invested by the new management in presenting themselves and their product is clear for all to see. So too are the reasons that two young lads would actively pursue the challenge of running this place, beyond the obvious prospect every now and again of getting shit-faced on the house and talking to girls. It’s a magnificent, sprawling old building in a commanding spot, set back from a road that carries more than enough passing traffic to take the onus off the immediate catchment. That it remains rural means it remains a destination, and the affluence of the community to which it looks to cater is no better illustrated than by the fact that the property for which I’m temporarily responsible (a brisk 400 yards up the road) is about to have a congestion-easing roundabout built into its driveway. And just yesterday I mowed the lawns. That’s lawns. Plural.

The pub’s location and propensity to thrive, therefore, is pretty much indisputable. What is open to question is whether these boys have quite got it right yet. I’m conscious I over-use words like “concept” and “delivery” but the applied consideration of either as part of a business philosophy are absolutely key. One imagines the money it cost these fellas to acquire and appoint the Bull’s Head means that for the short-term at least, and barring the odd cosmetic tweak, what you see is very largely what you’re going to get. Aesthetically, what you get is a total mis-match.

A pity, since at the time it came to the market there can have been few better blank canvases available to work with. From the outside, even when the pub was closed it looked open. Given how little external improvement was needed, I’m not sure even now it is open that people don’t still assume it’s closed. From a stealth marketing angle, this could just distinguish the Bull’s Head as Warwickshire’s worst best-kept secret.

The interior is crying out for a better trained, more sympathetic eye, the compliment, perhaps, of reclaimed dark wood tables and distressed-finish chairs. These high-backed bistro-types have no worldly business here. The odd armchair is cool, preferable even, but not in the leatherette waiting-room, tub-style they’ve opted for. Carpet has been laid where you’d love to know for sure there weren’t well-preserved flagstones or treatable boards, and there are unsightly, weathered areas of concrete that remain uncovered. Presuming they have thought about it, the distance by which they’ve arguably missed the mark is considerable. A plasma screen has been hung willy-nilly in the snug bar like an unwanted wedding present.

The food offer seems still to be finding its feet. It looked good, albeit on unduly angular crockery. My vegetable tart (£4.50) was colourful, sat atop a salad compactly corralled in shredded red onion. The marinated lamb main course (£14.50) was beautifully cooked, if rested to the degree that it was luke-warm  by the time I got it, and the “crispy” potatoes it came with were too few in number where there was surplus guacamole. The flavours, with the vine tomatoes, were all there but the plate as a whole felt unbalanced. Actually, the whole menu felt unbalanced. A continental approach included a Cajun pork fillet and a Thai Curry, but either sat uncomfortably alongside classic Fish and Chips (£9.95), steak dishes (from £14.95) and a conventionally assembled Sea Bass (£13.25). The eager-to-please Scallop starter (£6.95) was not the only example of a dish that duplicated an accompaniment and which subsequently narrowed your options. There were two chicken salad starters where a pea and mint risotto was listed only on a separate set-menu. Both substance and skill were in evidence, but more specific direction is needed in terms of style, be it from kitchen, front of house or, best of all, from a tighter collaboration of both.

Mindful that the project’s in its formative stages I’m loathe to get too stuck in. The prices are bang on and, regardless of its aesthetic incongruity, and so long as it proceeds to evolve, the Bull’s Head is very much worth the detour. Particularly now, its huge, well-maintained garden bathed in sunshine. The attitude and affability of the new owners and their staff is such that you’d excuse any tendency they might have to overbear or overlook anything and put it down to inexperience. They’ll quickly appreciate, I hope, a need periodically to blood capable new staff  as their own exuberance inevitably begins to wane. Which it will, not least because while being pleasant isn’t hard work in itself, putting a brave face on an often justifiably lousy mood is not only terribly demanding but utterly exhausting. Particularly if it’s your livelihood that’s riding on it and as much business is taken care of personally as is necessary for it to succeed. And you have to field the same enquiries with the sort of regularity that means you’re given to shouting ”horseradish and mustard” in your sleep.

Hang in there, boys. The road is long. Here as much as anywhere, there’s scope for it to be fruitful. Just give your chef some feedback and consult a designer.

Web and Contact details to follow

Thinking Outside of the Jukebox

The pub I managed for a time opened in its current guise with a very deliberate policy of keeping distractions to a minimum. Which isn’t to say the policy was purely to sell hard liquor to people who wanted to get drunk fast, rather that its approach was traditionally bare-bones; no TV, absolutely no gaming machines, and no music. No piped music, anyway. A  pattern was inadvertently established where local musicians would periodically descend and hold impromptu sessions (I’d say they would “jam” but that would imply they were better than they were)  in the bar. In the absence of regular peripheral entertainment - save for that provided by the omniscient bleatings of buggered locals - these occasions offered either pleasantly spirited light relief or an excellent reason to stay away.

Make no mistake; there were, particularly in regard to Music Night, people in both corners. Having otherwise established a precedent, however, and in spite of the temptation partially to revoke the policy as a means to take the edge off what sometimes felt like an eerily quiet opening half hour (someone has to be first), it was always likely to be a tricky one to go back on. The fact is that once it began to fill, the building would generate a ”hum” all of its own, and one over which music would have to have been filtered at such a volume as to make it too loud. Bear in mind the bar acted as a holding area for restaurant customers as well as a local pub, and at the risk of sounding like your Dad, this really wouldn’t have done. 

As a professional it goes without saying I respected absolutely and endorsed the model implemented by my employers. But I do love music. I love it to the point I get all bleary eyed just talking about it. I’m welling up now. What I love about it in the context of pubs is how a single song can come on and transform one’s whole atmosphere.

A couple of years ago I was in a shabby Dublin boozer called The Hairy Lemon (quality, useful booth in the window) when I was struck hard by what a tremendous thing a jukebox is as a way of handing customers the initiative, via their song selections, to shape what kind of night they have. Provided it has one in its canon, an ordered, well-chosen jukebox medley can visibly lift a place. It can do quite the opposite too, of course, as my companion at the time found after she contrived to put on U2′s “With or Without You” twice in a row (great song and all, but it was early evening). And the last thing you want is to have some greb hogging the thing, flipping back and forth, feeding it nugget after nugget and poisoning the air with, well, Poison. Get your  choices in the bank, however, and if you hadn’t already you’ll soon realise a couple of quid/euros is a small price to pay for the smug contentment that is ‘dropping in’ “Dry the Rain”, sitting back and watching as everyone begins nodding in time, feeling the love.

You’ll be pleased to know I’m not claiming for my own the “revelatory” notion of the jukebox as an unappreciated or untapped resource. You’ll be aware, though, that whereas music continues to be an integral part of the culture, Wurlitzers are an increasingly rare feature in pubs these days. Sure, places are soundtracked, but how often would you give your right arm to wrest volume control from whomever thinks such an abrasive cacophony is in the least bit ripe for a social environment?

“Sung Eucharist” is a page comprising of songs I dig completely, all of which, for whatever reason, I’d choose with booze. The opening bars of any are as likely to have me punching the air as they are inhaling as pertly as if you’ve just poured iced water down my shirt. They’ll get me my second wind and have me asking who wants another. The point in bringing this and any/every subsequent list to the Hymnal, besides giving me the opportunity to rattle on about my hobby, is to throw down to conjecture your pub playlists. So that you can add or object to mine. So as to encourage comment and interaction. And because I want too. It’s important.

Open Arms

Round about the same time I was grasping a provisional handle on the Pub/Restaurant industry, the Howard Arms in Ilmington was prominent in a cluster of thriving models to which a good many fledgling food pubs would aspire. A contemporary of places like the Drunken Duck at Barngates, Cumbria, the Olive Branch in Clipsham, Rutland, and the White Horse at Brancaster Staithe, it combined a building of enviable historic charm - plus all the features that go with it -, a picture-book setting, bountiful and well-presented outside space, and an edible/imbibable offer packaged and pitched pretty much where the forward slash falls between one concept and the other.

The pit-fall for places such as these was all the talk that subsequently followed only served to raise expectations beyond the standards for which they’d been recognised in the first place. In most cases they would never actively court the publicity – if they really were good, plaudits would build naturally around them just doing what they do – and they’d find themselves having to qualify again to those who’d heard about them second-hand. Factor in the natural reluctance of locals and/or the general public often to fully appreciate the value of good local services - particularly if their vision is a variation on a previous theme -, a subliminal begrudging of its owners having made a modest go of it, and the blurred distinctions between perceptions of what’s traditional or old fashioned,  sophisticated or pretentious, and places can quickly and unwittingly become victims of their own success. I know because I’ve bloody seen it.

We arrived at the Howard after a charming, if fruit scone-less, sortie into the cheese-rolling, shin-kicking shire of Gloucester. The beautifully manicured garden was dotted with light-headed leftovers from a lunchtime barbeque and inside they were gearing up for a brisk evening’s business. It’s a splendid place just to be, this pub. Formidable flagstones, a rustically uncontrived interior, and one where the pleasure lies as much in the whiling away of  a couple of  hours as it does in rooting in freshly cooked fayre and fuggles. Trousering myself a pint of Guinevere (4.1% Goff’s, Winchcombe) the always welcome news was broken that, given the restaurant was all booked up, we’d need to eat in the pub. In truth, this amounts to the same thing at the Howard Arms, the raised restaurant area distinguished only by its wine-glass laden tables and formalised as dining space by the odd farmhouse dresser. 

The food was unremarkable in a way that comforts rather than disappoints.  The options between the various printed and blackboard menus yielded a reassuring blend of ’pubby’ (sandwiches served into the evening) and the comparatively ostentatious a la carte. Items from the grill are a feature and there is more than enough in the way of classics (calves liver, fish and chips for £10). LuLu’s Caesar salad looked to have a good two or three chicken breasts sliced through it and was inordinately good value, but not gratuitous, at about £12. I had a fish pie (£11) which was, as expected, a thermonuclear, best give it five minutes, mash-up of trimmings, bechamel and broccoli, and Benson sized-up a Deep-Fried Scallop starter with Sweet Chilli Jam (£13). I’ll often wonder whether to deep-fry scallops is to unceremoniously butcher their potential. But they were tender as a minute or two either side in a hot pan would have ensured, and represented a suitably understated and accessible interpretation of a commodity I’m not sure hasn’t become the latter-day foie gras as (an ethically acceptable) cornerstone of a ’posh’ meal out.

Service from behind the bar was just the right side of indifferent but on the floor was sweet as. The lad on orders was fresh as a daisy despite, as we found out, having been on breakfast detail that same morning. He was also right behind the Howard’s whole offer, genuinely enthusiastic in his follow up on a tentative enquiry as to the terms of a ludicrously economical sounding dinner, bed and breakfast Father’s day package. He perhaps came on a little strong with his slightly previous check-back on the food, but at least he was conscientious enough to think about one. Also, and in fairness, but for the extraordinary residual heat that continued to bubble up through the top of my pie long after its delivery, he might reasonably have thought sufficient time had since passed for us to have begun to get lashed in.

It’s a good place this. It’s run by humans so it’s unlikely to be infallible but it strikes me as reliably consistent a model as you’d hope to find for the money. I reiterate this because, to hark back to the spirit in which I opened I’ve discovered, against my better judgement, that I’m not impervious to the implications of a stigma created by good press. The fact is that nothing, and I mean nothing, about the way the Howard Arms conducts itself means either they as professionals or we as customers need do anything other than relax and breathe the air whilst they go about their business. Yes, they’re in a dream spot in an affluent village on the north edge of the one of the most stunningly beautiful areas this country has to offer. But don’t hold it against them (or anyone else who might have got in first). At least not until you’ve seen the experience through. You’ll only be spoiling your own fun.