‘It’s a place of feverishly fabulous endeavour’

Alresford is one of those words that reminds me of a South African friend of my father who came to London in the ’50s and tried to find Grosvenor Square. Unaware that the ‘s’ was silent and using his quite determined and fiercely enunciated SA accent, he walked the streets asking people for ‘Gross-venor Square’ without luck. But then, how was he to know? Like how is anyone to know that Towcester is pronounced ‘toaster’? We traditional English are sticklers for accuracy, quick to laugh at those who get it wrong. Although I feel I must part company with those – no matter how accurate – who see the v in Daventry as silent, rhyming the word with ‘plain tree’. If I was in that neck of the woods and I asked the way there in that manner I’d probably get my head kicked in. Anyway, so I travel to Hampshire’s ‘Ulf-ford’ to look for a tapas place called Pulpo Negro and, to cut to the quick, so should you. It’s a place of feverishly fabulous endeavour. You get that vibe the moment you walk in.

Inside the white-fronted restaurant on a handsome and wide avenue is an L-shaped room of a good blend of bare brick, grey paint and industrial, yellowy lighting. There’s an open kitchen behind a tiled bar, with what I thought was an impressive number of chefs toiling in a small restaurant in a modest Hampshire town. There were a good few waiting staff as well, which all added to the bustle. As did the fact that every table was full.

We had a fabulous waiter in Lidiya, who struck the perfect balance between explaining dishes and enthusing about them. I say this having recently eaten in a new London restaurant where the waiter spoke of every dish with great fluency, showing a deep understanding of the traditions of the cuisine presented, but also describing their astonishing fabulousness… All fine, except that the food was uniquely awful. Watch this space…

Pulpo Negro, meanwhile, is beautifully entrenched in the spirit of great tapas, offering also a well-measured wine list and an impressive array of sherries.

We began with charred bread and aioli, good enough as a dish on its own: bread, the way I like it, which at home they call burnt but I call charred, with a fresh, tangy – garlicky but not astringent – aioli. It was like a sedan chair for the accompanying plates of jamón and anchovies, the latter (boquerones de Nardin) a wonderfully decorative splash of silver, green and yellow; the oil, lemon zest and parsley generous but not glutinous.

There was a plate of mojama – salt-dried tuna – and crisp kale, the tuna too redolent of the technique than the end result for my liking. Maybe the dish would work better harbourside, in the blazing sun, firmly ashore after 10 days’ hard fishing, with a sharp, cool manzanilla… but the kale was crisp and perfect.

There were also the most glorious, fattest and supremely tasty croquetas, which were like a curtain call for the best dish of lunch: gambas al ajillo. These prawns came in an oily rich sauce, the preparation of which ought to be the most famous thing that has ever happened in Alresford. They’re that good. Ensure you have enough bread at this point and don’t leave the building until you have mopped up every last drop.

They only just outshone the barbecued pulpo (octopus), as soft as a dream with a crunch from the char and a lovely little dollop of potatoes and peas.

We did make an error, though, in ordering a large plate of patatas bravas, drizzled with mayo and pepper and more vulgar American diner than delicate Andalucia.

But our ordering was redeemed at the finish with impeccable churros: great baking, authentic, rich chocolate. I love a triumph and Pulpo Negro is that.