Restaurant Review: Opus in Birmingham

Nov 19 2010 With Richard McComb

Opus
54 Cornwall Street, Birmingham, tel 0121 200 2323

The prospect of returning to a restaurant you have loved is a little like the thought of meeting up with an old flame.

You accept that the years have passed, that you have both moved on, shredded the old love letters and discarded the perfume scented knickers.

And yet there remains the tantalising unasked question, the unspoken possibility that there might still be a connection.

If the ensuing experience is tolerable, it can be viewed as some kind of triumph, for time is never kind to estranged partners. But what if it all ends in tears?

What if she’s grown facial hair, a nervous tick and become an accountant?

And, to extend the metaphor, what if the chef has come under the spell of Guatemalan fusion cooking and evil warm jellies?

So it was that I headed to Opus in a state of mild apprehension. I have enjoyed some very good cooking there in the past and I have an enormous amount of respect for the management and its philosophy. Nurturing young talent is valued. The promotion of good local produce – while highlighting the best of the UK’s wider market – is ingrained in the buying rather than serving as an empty PR gimmick.

And – what the hell, I’ll put it out there – Opus was “my first.”

When I passed the rigorous selection process to be appointed the Post’s food reviewer, Opus provided my virgin spread (if you’ll excuse the image). Sure, it’d tried an Italian and it was rubbish and I got banned. But what’s new there?

No, Opus provided the acid test, not least because I thought, quite correctly at that stage (it was 2006), that most Birmingham restaurants were average to poor. Remarkably, Opus passed with flying colours. I’d like to be clever and say I could remember what I ate, as if it was yesterday and all that, but there’s been far too much sauvignon under the bridge since then. Nevertheless, an indelible imprint was left by the dinner and it was one of multi-sensory enjoyment.

I have been fortunate to have dined at Opus several times since, and many of these visits are responsible for the aforementioned sauvignon-induced amnesia. But reviewing a place is an altogether different proposition, especially when you don’t openly dislike, and aren’t openly disliked by, the kitchen brigade.

To add to my sense of general unease, I did a mad thing: I invited a vegetarian to lunch. Heather doesn’t even eat fish, or chicken. Needless to say, I checked with my man at Special Branch before extending the invite, just to make sure Heather wasn’t one of these fringe foie gras terrorists. The search came up all clear.

Before we went, I encouraged Heather to try some steak. She said I was despicable and insisted the request, however well meant, was akin to asking me to have sex with a monk. That, I insisted was ridiculous. A far better comparison would be asking me to ride a bike, or stay in a four-star hotel. The thing you are dying to know, though, is how the return to Opus went. Did we grin and bear it, or did we fall in love again?

Against the odds, I found my heart skipping a beat once more – and it was a chunky morsel of halibut and a single sweet scallop that did it.

I hadn’t even intended to try the dish. I had boldly laid out my order for a Brixham crab and lobster ravioli followed by a gorgeous throw-back dish of Chateaubriand.

But then I saw it, or rather it saw me: a plate of steamed halibut pave, plumptious Lyme Bay scallops in thin overcoats of Parma ham and teeny, tasty trompette mushrooms. We were made for each other.