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A problem with enterprises that position themselves at the cutting edge is their need to return to the sharpener.
Take the Balmoral Hotel, a solid pile of Victorian dignity next to an Anglican church in a quiet, tree lined street. I first reviewed it 20 or so years ago when it was all country chintz, deep carpets and deeper whispers in a dining room that was still on nodding terms with the 1930’s. It had probably served dinners for 90 or so years without significant alteration.
Then, along came new owners who decided, like many other hoteliers of the time, that the Balmoral needed a “stunningly contemporary” brasserie.
So it installed one at the other end of the building with every tic of 1990’s minimalism, from glass sinks to Phillip Starck chairs and cool cream walls. The effect to old Balmoral regulars must have seemed like squeezing the Queen into a bikini, shocking but an undeniable talking point. To compound the effect, the restaurant was given a new title: Villu Toots, named, as these things often are, after an Estonian calligrapher.
Nine years on Villu has tooted its last. The room that resembled Quaglino’s and the Starship Enterprise has been made over again, into The Grille, a roll out concept devised by the business men who run the Room in Leeds. Forgive the scepticism, but the only thing that should be rolled out in restaurants is carpets or barrels and the claim here that “The Harrogate Grille has a real neighbourhood feel”.
It feels to me like just another–of-the-moment, for-the-moment restaurant clones staffed by perfectly pleasant people who may or may not be here tomorrow.
True neighbourhood restaurants are defined not by location but by ethos and habit. Local owners, local chefs, local staff; places where everybody knows your name and wont forget it if you don’t drop by for a month.
That’s not to say there aren’t virtues here. The elegant young woman running the front of house this Sunday lunchtime does so with style, grace and a ready smile.
Even more striking is a waiter of mature years who resembles, in more ways than one, Bertie Wooster’s favourite volatile chef, Anatole. This member of the Grille’s way, could turn into the star of the floor and not least because he inquired of a couple who’d newly arrived for lunch and were browsing the wine list whether they were ready yet for coffee.
The food is in the hands of executive chef Peter Taylor, who cooks dishes “whose origins are firmly rooted in the UK, based on classic and bistro dishes”.
So, that’s just about everything, then, and so it proves on an a la carte menu lightly structured to proceed from starters and salads to pasta and sandwiches, grills and mains, via daily specials and dinner classics, to desserts. That said, there is a conservative thread running through all this that may find local appreciation, and the moderate prices welcome old stagers like chicken and mushroom pie, lamb stew and dumplings, fish pie with creamy mash and Barnsley chop with, here’s a new twist for it, mint hollandaise.
Some of the cooking is admirable; a salmon fishcake offered every evidence of being bespoke and freshly fried. Perfectly round fish cakes are too often stamped into shape in a factory. These were tall and fat, richly flavoured, boldly seasoned, lightly crumbed and pleasantly misshapen.
There was a touch of class too, not to mention generosity, in a starter of spinach and Roquefort tart with hazelnut and apple dressing. The egg custard that bound the filling was composed with a light hand and the thin pastry only emphasised the craft on show here; lovely dressing too.
Taking its cue from French bistros, the kitchen presents a classic coq au vin in a small enamelled iron casserole. This anywhere else would be a portion for two, possibly three; here it’s designed for one. They must have benign accountants. It would be good to see some more depth of flavour to this dish. The chicken and the small onions are fine, but a richer stock and a shade more wine flavour could easily turn this into a talking point, though whether even Kate Moss could squeeze into a bikini after eating is more the point.
The Sunday “Special” turned out to be no more extraordinary than roast beef, risible roast potatoes (too large: underdone) and decent Yorkshire puddings. I don’t know who supplies the meat but it was meek stuff. Excellent beef abounds in Yorkshire, and there’s no excuse for failing to shine in a staple like this.
Puddings brought a return to keener standards. A tart tatin was a least within striking distance of the French ideal with its carefully caramelised apples, and a rhubarb and oatmeal crumble with cinnamon custard raised a smile of pleasure.
Robert Cockroft.
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