A DEAR GREEN PLACE
Rosie Healey's Alchemilla restaurant is a Finnieston jewel
The decision to theme this issue around The Dear Green Place was a godsend for me. Finally, I would have an excuse to try out Alchemilla, the Finnieston restaurant that marks the arrival of chef Yotam Ottolenghi’s influence north of the border from his London heartland.
I’ve tried to visit Alchemilla on several occasions since the place launched in 2016, but its popularity and relatively small footprint means it’s often full. And besides, planning ahead isn’t my forte. So here we were, with the perfect excuse – indeed, neccessity – to go.
Alchemilla’s head chef is Rosie Healey, who trained with Ottolenghi and it shows. This is important because Ottolenghi has completely transformed British attitudes towards the possibilities of food, especially in the cosmopolitan South-East where there’s a greater openness to new flavours and a willingness to countenance the sort of colourful, strident flavours that make a mockery of the monochrome world of mince ‘n totties. The sage’s other great achievement has been to rehabilitate vegetables in a way that would bring a smile to the face of my greenery-obsessed colleague Louise Gray.
Having spent a good deal of time in the Middle East, the Jerusalem-raised Ottolenghi’s style of building layers of flavour and of using what he calls ‘noisy’ ingredients – such as rose water, za’atar and pomegranate molasses – is one I recognise and love. At Alchemilla, Healey has easy access to some of the best raw produce in the world, so what could possibly go wrong?
Our first impressions were certainly favourable. Alchemilla is nestled among one of the most target-rich environments for Scottish foodies, next door to Six by Nico, across the road from The Gannet, and surrounded by a slew of outstanding Glasgow restaurants.
The place was commendably buzzy without being overtly noisy, as gaggles of the ageing hipsters who infest the West End chewed the cud as well as their food. The Scandi-style decor was dominated by wood and neutral colours augmented with garish orange touches on the bar in front of the open kitchen, plus the inevitable industrial flourishes. As well as small metal tables you can sit at the bar on stools or in the window in booths.
All of which is interesting, but decor and ambience are just sideshows compared to the food on which Alchemilla – named after the perennial herb, lady’s-mantle – has forged its reputation. As someone who’s pretty familiar with Ottolenghi’s cookbooks, the menu was neither a surprise nor
a disappointment. Made up of the now ubiquitous small sharing plates, it was broken down into four main sections – vegetables, seafood, meat and puddings – and we were advised that four dishes plus pudding would be about right, or five if we were really hungry.
They reckoned without my herculean work ethic and desire to experience as much of the menu as possible, so we ordered six dishes, including one off the small specials list.
The first to arrive was our solo vegetarian option of polenta with gorgonzola and marjoram. Unlike my dining partner I have never been a great fan of polenta, largely because I don’t like its all-too-often gritty texture, but this was a far finer version and one in which the flavour of the polenta was completely subsumed by the molten gorgonzola. The resulting dish was comfortably the best polenta I’ve ever had.
The meal picked up pace from that impressive start. Next up was my choice off the specials board, the lamb sweetbreads with chilli on sourdough bread. This turned out to be an inspired selection, with the surprisingly subtle flavours of the sweetbreads meshing with the piquancy of the chilli and the sourness of the bread to create a wonderfully simple dish of comfort food.
Next to arrive were the two fish dishes: the first a smoked haddock carpaccio with red peppers and thyme; the second consisting of mackerel, tomatoes and thyme. These were undoubtedly the weakest of the dishes we chose, although they were still competently produced. The haddock carpaccio was gifted flavour and bottom by the peppers and the tartness of the sumac, but still had a slightly moist and puffy texture, while the mackerel was good, but not as fresh as we’re used to thanks to a love of sea fishing.
The last two dishes to arrive, however, reaffirmed our faith in Healey’s prowess. The first, a plate of the curiously underappreciated but flavour-packed onglet (hanger steak), which came with spinach and pickled clams, was absolutely faultless, with the crimson meat so tender it could be cut with a fork. The final dish, consisting of succulent strips of pigeon that were nicely complemented by puy lentils, coriander and cumin, was a wonderfully balanced combination that brought a smile to both our faces.
We rounded off with two understated but hugely enjoyable puddings: an almond cake with pine nuts and creme fraiche, and a baked cheesecake with rum-soaked raisins.
It was a meal worth waiting for, and definitely worth travelling for. For those readers who yearn for a break from the routine, or even those who are acquainted with Ottolenghi’s recipes from his books, pick up the phone and book; it’ll be time and money well spent.