Review: Simpsons, in Edgbaston
Tipping, a Birmingham City fan, showed greater striking potency than his team when he chipped in with a surprise tasting before our main course. Simpsons has started using milk-fed Pyrenean lamb and my parents happen to live in that neck of the French woods, returning home periodically to consult their turf accountant and dietician. Critics might say using baby sheep from south-west France makes a nonsense of local food sourcing but then having parents living in the Pyrenees makes a nonsense of having an ethically reared family. Besides, the lamb was tremendous, pale as a vegetarian but far more tasty. The delicate chop came with aromatic couscous, semi-dried apricots, baby spinach, an astonishing aubergine caviar and north African ras-el-hanout spicing. What a dish. It’s on the a la carte. Give it a whirl before it all goes.
Having gone gaa-gaa for the baa-baa, the main of roast guinea fowl, green beans, artichokes, hazelnuts and sherry vinegar jus, although good, didn’t quite scale the same dizzy heights. That’s what comes of being spoilt. The alternative of halibut fillet, orzo pasta, broccoli, Avruga caviar and seaweed butter sauce was despatched with vigour by the children. A forkful confirmed my fears: I have early stage Wrong Dish Syndrome and should have had the fish.
The pre-dessert of mango mousse with passion fruit and fingerette of meringue was beautifully fresh, sweet and cleansing, laying the ground work for the unadorned joy of the chocolate tart and cocoa bean ice-cream. Father and Mother, who think it’s still 1974, had a modern, stodge-free light incarnation of rum baba with vanilla pineapple and Chantilly cream. Pretty bowls. Very enjoyable.
After coffee, petit fours and Armagnac, all seemed right in the world. Father said he wasn’t keen on the dark chocolate walls in the lounge. And that’s it, which represents a triumph for Simpsons. He had just told the hotel where they were staying they needed to redesign their website, fix the front door and find a new coffee supplier.
A note on the wines: for the price of the set meal, both were faultless. The white was a fresh sauvignon blanc from the Loire (a wine I would have happily chosen) and the red, refreshingly unchallenging and lunchable, was from the Rhone. Good value drinking.
For the puds, we splashed out on glasses of sunsoaked Cabidos, Comte Philippe de Nazeller, Petit Manseng Doux 2005. Sally, who had fruit salad and sorbets, was served a glass of Californian Elysium Black Muscat, Quady Winery. Albanian Tony said the petit manseng would have been wrong. Good spot. Sally, by the way, loved lunch. She called it one of the most memorable, enjoyable meals we’ve had. I really can’t top that.
(Postscript ... A point about our new restaurant scores. I’ve got it in the neck for recently giving a restaurant 4/10. One hotelier called me a “bastard.” A chef said I was over generous. They’re both right. I am a bastard and I should have given the place 3/10. According to the Post’s new criteria, 8/10 signifies: “Superlative cooking, abundant flair, creativity and individuality. Exemplary produce.” So today’s 9/10 is a bit special. I just thought I should clear that up.)
