English's of Brighton Restaurant (and reviewer) Review
English’s of Brighton
Today Lucy kindly arranged the lunch with Matthew Norman, critic for the Telegraph, and an old university flame of hers (special effort on the pretty dress? Mild nostalgic flirting across the table?). I had admitted upon graduating that I am interested in journalism, and in food and so here we were. I felt a bit like I didn’t know what to do with myself to start with, wasn’t sure whether I was an interviewer or an interviewee; whether to sit quietly and observe or to engage. But after the quiet clumsy initial question round between us ‘so you’ve just finished university eh?’ ‘are you formulaic with your reviews?’ we fell into quite natural conversation. I think any kind of formulaic approach comes from habit, and from instinct. The first thing you are able to comment on in a restaurant is the way it looks, the behaviour of the waiters, then you are presented with the menu etc etc. So to follow the formula English’s is very old fashioned looking – dark red velvet seats, murals on the walls (of a former owner amongst his guest), white table clothes, and heavy cutlery. It felt a bit theatrical, or like it might have been a favourite pre-theatre venue. And perhaps also a bit stale.
The menu was a little over eager to educate you, to tell you where the food was sourced, a full page history of the restaurant, self-indulgent list of famous patrons (though no details of the frequency of their visits). I understand that they are proud to tell you the oysters are from Colchester, and the mayonnaise is homemade, but those are all the kinds of details that I would have liked to just take for granted.
Then there was this wonderful moment when Matthew took out his paper pen, and then the manager (looking very like the former owner on the wall, minus glass of brandy) appears and coos over how well established the place is, and asks us to try their oysters. To try them? Without having to buy them? I’d like to believe that was just customer service, but I think they were trying to butter us up like their sautéed squid. Lucy – after identifying their aphrodisiac quality (although they look like the last thing you’d want to put in your mouth) – determined not to taste one….
I ordered off the set lunch menu – a starter of shell-on Greenland prawns, I wonder if they were fresh water, because that’s all they tasted of. Lucy had sardines, nice, but not deliciously fresh, and Matthew had the Oysters Kilpatrick, which were a little over cooked. The sizes of the starter portions were rather alarming, given that we were set out to attempt a three-course lunch, such a huge starter makes it seem like it might be a bit of a challenge. Matthew got a little carried away with seasoning his shellfish, and suddenly had his water glass up to his eye and was blinking into his slice of lemon – badly aimed Tabasco.
I had the filet of bream, though sadly the dominate flavours on my plate was the parmesan on the gratin, and the salty batter from the squid that garnish the fish. The bream itself was a little lost. Matthew had ordered the Skate, and it was a shame it was not presented fanned out on its wing in a more glorious way. Filleted as it was it seemed less impressive, though it came with a handful of scallops to elevate it again. Lucy had the sea bass, though it too was elbowed off my palate by its strong accompanying chorizo. They are all such beautiful fish, but I think that if I had closed my eyes and had a random mouthful, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you whose fish I had masticated, though the sound of the gulls on the pavement outside reminded me we were sitting so close to the sea.
The puddings were probably the most accomplished dishes we ate today, the crème brûlée was smooth and delicious, and the chocolate mousse was good and rich, and maybe I should have saved a bit more space for the ice creams. But it’s sad to be able to compliment the dessert more than the mains.
English’s has a charming old-fashioned feel; indeed it describes itself far better than I can (read the menu). But it is exactly what it calls itself: English. The loos still call themselves powder rooms; the waiters are pleasantly servile and crumbed the table before serving our coffee. So although the food didn’t wow me, I did have a very lovely time. And the next time I go to a nice restaurant, unnoticeable though I am, I might lay a notepad and pen next to my plate and see if it gets laden with oysters they’d love me to try.
To see Matthew’s own review follow this link