Why Brighton rocks at lunch
BRIGHTON, on the sort of blissfully crisp, late-winter day you want to snap in half and slather with butter. Cultured farmhouse, of course. And as we wander downhill, from station to Lanes, we have a spring in our steps, the kind only engendered by the promise of a long, drawn-out Tuesday lunch.
But a trip to Brighton’s always been a bit of a jolly, not so much for the dirty weekend, rather as a childhood South Coast Sin City, where ghost trains rattled and groaned atop the pier, while punks gobbed and smoked below. ‘Don’t even look at them,’ my grandmother would hiss, her disdain for the wannabe Sids and Nancys trumped only by her utter abhorrence for Margaret Thatcher. She’d rush us past, en route to the aquarium, with its sullen damp reek, to see the dolphins. God we loved those dolphins, squealing and clicking with joy (or so we thought) as they bounced balls and shook flippers and dived through endless hoops, accompanied by a Buck’s Fizz soundtrack and lit by dodgy disco lights. All in a murky pool no bigger than a squash court. Nice.
Anyway, the dolphins are long gone, thank God. But the rock, sickly and eternally disappointing, will never leave, nor the blue Slush Puppies and the T-shirts inscribed with ‘Sex Instructor – First Lesson Free’. But Brighton, once a byword for a bit of boardinghouse how’s-your-father, is now a fine place to eat. And Pascere, with its copper-topped tables and discreetly green walls, and the sort of front of house that are born, rather than made, is new Brighton to its core.
Sure, there’s an open kitchen, ‘small plates’, inked-up chefs and various nods to various au-courant ingredients and techniques – egg yolks are salted, turnips pickled, cabbage burnt and chocolate aerated. Plus there’s cauliflower. Obviously. But there’s a confidence to this kitchen, a place where technical ability meets pure culinary common sense. We see it from the first bite, the most lithe and elegant of tiny crab tarts; a rich, wobbling, quietly bosky shellfish custard, enveloping crab as fresh as sea breeze. Encased in the most crisp and delicate of pastry cases. And a croquette, like a chicken cumulus cloud, barely held in place by a burnished panko crust. It has to be eaten in one, dredged through a slick of chicken-skin mayonnaise.
Trout is the opposite, clean and fresh and Nordically fresh-faced, the fish subtly cured. Gentle horseradish cream flatters it further. A neat rectangle of similarly discreet duck liver parfait hums rather than growls, yet there’s art in its creation, especially when dolloped with a splodge of tart apple compote and spread thick across toasted brioche.
With the small plates demolished, starters keep up the pace. Rabbit, a succulent lump of saddle, with the legs minced and stuffed into a silken tortellini, and the ’umbles chopped into a fine faggot, scented with thyme. The bunny trio sit upon the stickiest of reductions, with soft chestnuts for more textural allure. It’s a clever, complete dish, made better still by a gentle lobster foam.
I steal some of Giles’s duck, a mallard breast with just the right amount of chew, its smoke lightly worn. With more of that parfait, and chunks of smoked eel, and a sharp mandarin jelly. Duck à l’orange, Pascere style. By the time I get around to coveting Gary’s scallop with chicken wing (surf and turf with a PhD), it’s gone. You snooze, you lose.
This is clever, intricate stuff, but fussiness never usurps flavour. And if all that feels a little cheffy, then JD’s pappardelle with Jacob’s ladder ragu is no-nonsense, north Italian nonna cooking with a touch of Brighton brilliance.
The meat sits in one blessed piece atop a mess of buttery noodles, spoon soft and singing of a long, slow braise.
Then the mains. Were they the equal of what came before, my tiny mind would be blown. But while sea bream is beautifully cooked, the egg yolk, both puréed and cured, lacks character, and a few pieces of pickled turnip are simply not enough to lift the dish. It cries out for more acidity. Guinea fowl breast and leg, with chestnuts and chanterelles (certainly not British) is decent. While pork loin and cheek, with pickle nashi pears, is the best of the lot. But the bar has been set so damned high that merely good feels a touch deflating.
Still, treacle tart is a masterpiece of its form, chewy and luscious and served with a dollop of clotted cream ice cream. Like the ragu, it’s a classic, wonderfully wrought, while bergamot sorbet with aerated chocolate is the sort of thing that an aspirational young Aero would aspire towards.
There’s talent in this kitchen, no doubt about that, and cooking that, at best, can stand shoulder to shoulder with the country’s best.
Another cracking restaurant. When it comes to eating, Brighton rocks. About £35 per head