William Sitwell ‘Like being pummelled by waves of gorgeous food’

1 York Place, Bristol

We wandered through the Clifton district in Bristol, from what was once the Clifton Grand Spa and Hydro, where, in the 1890s, you could stay and sip warm spring water pumped up from a borehole hundreds of feet down. Now, at the Avon Gorge by Hotel du Vin, you can do little but sit, swamped by grotesque dark purple walls, and wait an age for a very expensive glass of nasty wine.

But things were looking up, as they usually are in Bristol, a hub of fine food establishments. Especially as local heroes Freddy and Nessa Bird – whose restaurant in Westbury Park, littlefrench, can do no wrong (apart from that annoying one word and lower case nonsense, oh and the fact it’s so popular you can’t get no table neither) – have opened a second gaff up the hill.

1 York Place sounds grand, in that sort of Number-one-london-apsley-house kind of way. But it’s nothing of the sort. It’s a thin place over two floors, the upper being more balcony than room and the lower accessed via a metal spiral staircase.

The evening vibe is daylight and I rather wished they’d turn the lights down a touch. By dinner I’m usually aching for the vibe of soporific alcohol stupor, but the brightness, pale walls and light wooden-topped tables gave me more the feel of what you might call chirpy cornflakes.

Still, the staff and ensuing food and drink more than made up for this. The menu, which is beautifully crafted and written – to the point, but bursting with appealing ideas and tastes – casts a net across Europe and is matched by a clever wine list.

I mention this specifically as it introduced a new grape to my repertoire which, in a world shortish on joy, is almost monumental. And you may sniff that palomino is old hat and well known in Spain, but I’m still revelling in the soft minerality and calming, reassuring charm that presented itself in a bottle of Cunqueiro Palomino Ribeiro (Casal do Vila) 2022.

It was a very promising start to a dinner that felt like being pummelled, wonderfully, by endless waves of gorgeous food.

There was fresh and perfect sourdough and butter that enabled a pair of ‘bar snacks’. Whipped cod’s roe was light and dreamy and came with strips of fennel – a clever way to get you to eat the vegetable, fennel being the equivalent of a sensible nanny giving one a bollocking (right, proper, just and good for you but not especially enjoyable). Here it was a clever foil for the fluffy tarama. Some tomatoes came covered in thin, lardo-type strips of pork belly (which is what happens in a decent Madrid restaurant when a British vegetarian orders a tomato salad, tee-hee-hee).

Then came three quite excellent starters. There were razor clams (of which I never see enough on menus), soft and rich and dripping in garlic and parsley; delicate and moreish lobster and prawn on a blini (with more fennel, this time shaved, but getting away with it again); and a lamb sweetbread. The sweetbread came in a crisp batter, had an anchovy draped over it and sat in a salsa verde sauce. It was a dish that swirled in the mouth like a whirlpool of discovery. Just brilliant.

We ploughed on, sharing the blackest, richest ox cheek you can imagine, tempered with Castelfranco, that pretty and tart chicory, before finishing with an unnecessary but glorious chocolate and dulce de leche tart.

Sort the lights at night and Bristol has yet another culinary paradise.

The lamb sweetbread was a dish that swirled in the mouth like a whirlpool of discovery. Just brilliant