3 Cossack Court, Cossacks Square, Nailsworth, Gloucestershire (01453 832 615). Meal for two, including drinks and service: £90
I was a refugee from Planet Chaos. I had left home with the world in balance. Somewhere along the tracks between Paddington and Stroud, it had slipped off its axis. A problem needed to be solved. People needed to be reached at a time on a Friday afternoon when too many had buggered off early. And yes, all of it was the sort of cock-up that certain people, the kind who mentally punch the air after firing off a bitchy tweet, like to dismiss as “First World problems”, without noticing that we don’t talk about “the Third World” any more so we can’t refer to the First World, either. And anyway, have you tried being in, say, downtown Kigali when the broadband goes down? I have. It’s just as bloody annoying as when it goes down in Brixton.
I didn’t have a First World problem. I had a problem, not one that would result in anyone dying, but a problem all the same. It was the sort that, even after it’s solved, can still gnaw at you.
This is why good restaurants were invented. You think they were invented to feed you well. You think they were invented to give you somewhere to go with that couple you don’t invite round for dinner because they never get the hint and leave at a reasonable time so you can go to bed. No. Restaurants were invented to make the world a slightly better place for the time you’re in there. That’s exactly what Wild Garlic in Nailsworth did. I arrived tense and irritable. Within a few minutes, I was all elbows on the table and “Tell me the gossip.”
This is a neat trick. I try to travel hopefully. I really don’t go looking for a bad time, for who would choose to sit through one of those? But sometimes choices have to be made based on limited information. A little while back, those scraps let me down. What looked interesting turned out not to be bad, just dull and old-fashioned. As they brought out the slates and the foams, I didn’t roll my eyes. I just muttered “Ah, bless…” to myself. They were doing reasonable business. Why bother writing a whole load of patronising guff about them. I chose not to review and swallowed the bill.
I worried that Wild Garlic might be a bit like that, since it looks on paper like a quiet market-town bistro. It has a few bedrooms upstairs, flogs the odd jar of jam and chutney, and talks the talk about “local and seasonal”. The space is country bistro, too, by way of Cotswold Farrow & Ball, all shiny floorboards, pastoral wallpaper and banquettes. The menu reads simply. But there’s something rather subversive going on here. The chef, Matthew Beardshall, has spent time in the kitchens of Marcus Wareing, Simon Rogan and Martin Blunos, and is quietly applying the acres of technique acquired there to simple things. It starts with thick slices of warm malty bread, which tastes like a house smells when baking has just finished. Alongside is a quenelle of a wild-garlic pesto, which risks kicking you in the teeth unless well managed. This has all the heft of salty cheese and the crunch of nut, with the funk of the allium only bringing up the rear. Suddenly, with a dollop of that scooped on to a piece of the bread, you know everything will be fine.
Crisp pork belly and black pudding is not two items, but a single slab of terrine, the two pressed together then breadcrumbed and shallow-fried, with a dollop of mayonnaise, given a sweet-sharp edge courtesy of a little cider. Alongside is a lightly dressed frisée salad with the thinnest batons of green apple. An awful lot of effort has gone into producing such a simple plateful. A dippy egg and asparagus is not a vastly new idea. Finding a way to soft boil the egg, then breadcrumb and deep-fry it – Beardshall has a rare touch with the deep-fat fryer – so the yolk is still ready for the asparagus tip is a very neat piece of work.
Many places big-up the name of the farmer who produces the food you’re served. All too often it can feel like an attempt to spread the blame: if you don’t like your sodding sausages, blame Eric. Here Mr Tom Moles should be grateful to the Wild Garlic kitchen for making his 27-day-aged Longhorn taste so good. OK, it may be called “Beef Celebration” and a board may be involved. But I’ll forgive them that on the grounds that the £27-per-person price tag brings a lot of food, and you wouldn’t want it all on your plate at once.
There is half a beef fillet each, which has been vac-packed with smoked butter and dropped in a water bath for 15 minutes, not to cook but to infuse it, before being cooked off. Blade of beef is slow braised, before being seared in a pan and dressed with honey and a little miso, which allow a glorious powerful crust to form on the outside of an impeccable piece of fork-pullable meat. There are halves of long roasted and caramelised banana-shallots, lots of wilted spinach and a big jug of sticky jus. Oh, and a single piece of salt-baked parsnip that will taste better than any piece of parsnip you have ever tried. My one criticism: big logs of chips, piled up like Jenga bricks. They were as OK as such dreaded chunky chips go, but normal-sized ones would have been so much more the thing. They always are so much more the thing.
We finish with a soft pistachio cake with a little bright sorbet, and a deep-fried ball of rice pudding, which is such a stupidly obvious idea I have no idea why I haven’t seen it before. If you can make arancini with risotto, why shouldn’t you do so with rice pudding? A bit of poached mango and pineapple finish both the job and us.
Is it cheap? Don’t be silly. This is Gloucestershire, where the shopping parades are full of places selling pretty things you don’t need but might want, at foolish prices. But they do it well, and seem pleased to see you. They know how to make the world a better place, if only for a couple of hours. And for that they have my love. Or at least two hours of it.
Jay’s news bites
■ The Wheeler’s name has, in recent years, been traduced by the things Marco Pierre White has done since purchasing it. But there’s a Wheelers (no apostrophe) in Whitstable that has maintained its independence. As at Wild Garlic, the chef, Mark Stubbs, trained in London kitchens before coming here to cook hearty food in what looks like your nan’s back room. It’s serious fish cookery all the way. Oh, and it’s unlicensed, so bring your own (wheelersoysterbar.com).
■ Headline of the week goers to The Grocer magazine for its report that an Oregon sewage works has applied to start using its water to make beer. Or as the trade title puts it: ‘Oregon sewage treatment company plans brew-up in a pissery’. Bravo.
■ Sad news arrives of the death, far too young, of the brilliant, funny US food writer Josh Ozersky. He was just 47. Ozersky, a pioneer of digital food journalism, waged war on what he called ‘tweezer food’ and spoke up for ‘American vernacular’ cuisine - the burgers, hotdogs and grilled-cheese sandwiches that would become so hip. He will be missed.
Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk
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