Review: Matthew’s of Birmingham
The waitress, who was blonde, sweet and clueless, served a pre-starter and legged it before telling us what it was.
It was a scallop; and here’s some polite advice: it’s a good idea to tell customers you are serving them shellfish.
Some poor sods are allergic to such fare and it’s not good PR to send an unsuspecting guest into anaphylactic shock.
I started with the braised oxtail and rabbit terrine, which was cylindrical and fine, but lacking guts. It cried out for hunk of manly bread and a subtle pickle. It came with an effete apple cream and a “sticky toffee apple lollipop.”
The lolly was fine, but made no sense with the terrine, like a goth at a barn dance.
Archie had a Cornish crab croquette – a biggish crab ball – on a dill frittata, crayfish – here we go – smoked salmon and mango dressing.
It was, he said, “piping hot.” Let’s leave it at that.
Other starters included carpaccio Barbary duck breast, Lincolnshire blue cheese panna cotta (queasy yet? remember, this is still one dish), vanilla and horseradish ice-cream and Xeres sauce. I’ve never seen that on a menu before. There must be a reason for that.
But here’s the really frustrating bit: the lead role in my main event was pretty well cooked.
The guinea fowl was pot roasted and braised. There was good flavour, although the braised bird was a little dry and under salted.
The dish was served with “gin potato” and juniper berry sauce.
Does gin go with mashed spud and guinea fowl? Probably not, but I couldn’t taste it anyway. There is nothing wrong with mash, and this was mash. So say it’s mash.
Archie’s main was a protein bomb of a cap of rump with black pudding and pancetta. Unlike love and marriage, when it comes to steak and offal you can have one without the other.
In fact, I’d suggest it’s preferable, especially when the vegetable constituent of the plate is so tiny.
The meat feast came with a whisper of curly kale. But there was mash, although obviously it had to be “truffle mash” because that’s what fine dining is all about.
Archie had a chocolate and salted caramel tart for pud, served with white chocolate ice cream and honeycomb.
I’ve no idea if it was any good because I was gagging on my Guinness custard. This must rate as the most disgusting concoction I have tried for some time.
The sweetened stout was served with a cookie, marzipan and walnut souffle. Put it this way: it doesn’t sound as bad as it tasted.
The souffle itself was fine, nice technique, but the stuff in the bottom of the fluff was just nasty.
And that custard. I worry about anyone whose palate tells them that that works.
The bill, with two beers and a bottle of New Zealand pinot noir, was about £90. The wine was well worth it. The waitress asked if I’d like to taste it. I said I would, so she poured. She then asked Archie if he’d like to taste it, too, just in case I was off my face. It was kind of sweet.
The music, by the way, was fab. We had classic Stevie Wonder all night, including the 1972 album Talking Book, the most famous song from which is Superstition. It contains the lyric: “When you believe in things that you don’t understand, then you suffer.”
Wonder, as far as I know, isn’t a great grill chef, but he’s a font of knowledge for aspiring restaurateurs.
