Plunge into Bristol docks dining
ROOT couldn’t be more on trend if i t tried. Situated in a renovated cargo container in Bristol’s Wapping Wharf, i t serves ‘small plates’ that give ‘vegetables star billing and serves meat on the side’. OK, so Alain Passard has been doing this for years at L’Arpège in Paris, while René Redzepi is currently midway through his ‘Vegetable Season’ at Noma. But Root seems less concerned with ascending into the shimmering Michelin constellation than in simply providing a damned good lunch.
We sit outside, on a sultry Wednesday afternoon, overlooking the old docks, where schoolchildren munch chips and gulls swoop and bicker, their indignant shrieks mixed in with the constant jackhammer din of new construction. I’ve always loved Bristol, for me Britain’s second great food city – and my second-favourite city. It has a fiercely proud, i ndependent spirit, an unshakable sense of self, a place that lauds its own and expels any cocky London imports that occasionally swagger into town. Being in Bristol always makes me happy.
I’m with Mitch Tonks, owner of The Seahorse and, for me, the best seafood cook in the land. And we’re down in Bristol as judges of the BBC Food and Farming Awards, one of those rare ceremonies that actually seem to mean something.
That, though, is later. First, lunch. Root comes recommended by my friend Mark Taylor, a man whose opinion I trust implicitly. It also sits at 57 in Restaurant magazine’s National Restaurant Awards, the only list I take seriously. With accolades from these two, I’d be amazed if it was a stinker.
And of course it’s not. We drink a fairly good natural wine (seeing as most taste like cat pee, this is high praise) and eat lusciously lactic Laverstoke Park Farm mozzarella (which gets better and better every year), with almonds and a whiff of basil. Simple but well thought out. Just like beetroot with hazelnut and blueberries, beautifully balanced. Isle of Wight tomatoes, crisp but packed with early-summer vitality, come in the purest of tomato consommés, fresh, clean and lithe. Again, the quality of ingredients is superb, although the butter beans are a touch undercooked.
Bream carpaccio uses suitably spanking fresh fish, and the bitter orange dressing both piques the palate and flatters the fish. Mitch nods his appreciation. Scallops, sliced and sweet, come in a sharp seaweed dressing, thin slivers of radish adding further cool texture. Better still i s asparagus with dukkah – England meets the Middle East, alongside a seemingly incongruous lump of immaculate Welsh rarebit. The whole plate is a joy.
There’s bosky onglet tartare topped with shards of crisps, well seasoned and a rare foray into pure meat. While a chicken schnitzel is perfectly fried but marred by the use of fresh rather than salted anchovies. They’re too clean and light, and lack the profound depth of the tinned or bottled ver- sion. Plus, the meat is cooked sous vide, which gives it the usual unappealing texture.
Charred lettuce is much better, scattered with walnuts, radishes and onion, for all manner of mighty crunch. More seaweed dressing brings everything together with its sly marine charm. Calçots are coated in a proper tempura batter, light, diaphanous and frozen in mid-drip, with rich salted egg yolk. Aubergine, in the form of soft slices and silken purée, comes with a lactic whack of sheep’s cheese curd, a lusty smack of garlic and soft dates. Again, there’s an innate understanding of texture and balance plus the ability to create a complete, fully formed dish.
Squid with jalapeño mayonnaise is overcooked. Not so much that you’d send it back, but as Mitch says, ‘not up to the standard of the rest’. Things return to normal, though, with an immaculate piece of John Dory, with good, squidgy, gently ferric black pudding, agrodolce onions and the sweetest of fresh peas. It’s the dish of the day and shows just how skilled this kitchen can be. So a pretty wonderful lunch that gets better when chef Matt Tebbutt turns up, with Lisa, his wife, old friends both. And suddenly it’s 5 o’clock and we’re on our fourth Temperley Cider Brandy, and we’re settled in, and it feels like old times once more. When lunches stretched into dinner and beyond. I think Mark Hix might have joined. In fact, I’m sure he did. But it’s getting late, and the awards are starting soon. And hell, Tebbutt is presenting. No wonder he’s being so abstemious. But, God, Root makes me happy. It’s a quietly confident Bristol classic. Up there with Pasta Loco, Adelina Yard and Bells’ Diner, if not quite reaching the sublime heights of Casamia. Small and sensibly priced, it’s a labour of love and a kitchen with real talent. The sort of place that every city should have. But Bristol has in spades.
We make it to the awards. And by some miracle, fairly sober. The right people win, while the runnersup are worthy in entirely the right way. These awards celebrate the very best of British tucker and agriculture. Which is why eating at Root seems so fitting. Because in its own, laid-back, unshowy way, the restaurant provides further proof of just how far British food and cooking has come in the past ten years. Much to be proud of. And proof, in these strange and uncertain times, of the ever- unifying power of serious good food.
About £30 per head