Restaurant 92, 92 Station Parade, Harrogate HG1 1HQ (01423 503 027). A la carte (three courses) £55. Limited lunch menu (three courses) £24. Tasting menu £65. Wines from £23
A brutally cold winter’s day in Harrogate or, as it’s known in Yorkshire at this time of year, a Friday. My train has been delayed. We have called ahead to explain why we will be 30 minutes late but no matter, we are here now. We are ready for lunch. The question is, when will it begin? And will I ever thaw out?
I look around the brightly lit dining room of Restaurant 92 and spot a couple of electric heaters pointed at two of the three occupied tables, their LEDs flashing prettily. Ours is not one of the tables to be so blessed. We are cold and we are hungry. For a long while, it appears we will stay that way. I ask politely whether we might get some bread, just to see us through the wait for the starters. The waiter tells us, equally politely, that there will be bread. He says it in a manner that indicates they have a plan which they are sticking to.
All anybody wants to know when they enter a restaurant is that, in return for their money, everything will be OK. We want to know this very quickly. But quick, along with warm, does not appear to be on the agenda today. It takes 20 minutes from our arrival for that bread to turn up and another 15 after that to see the canapés. These are long waits in a chilly room. Did I mention the temperature?
For now, I will stop being distracted by these things, at least here in print if not back there in the room. Head chef Michael Carr is a talented cook. He is only 24, but has already worked in some serious kitchens. He does not prioritise prissy visuals over flavour, and he has some fun ideas. There is a largesse and enthusiasm to his food. He takes admirable risks. The problem is that he’s charging £55 for three courses, which is a slab of anybody’s money, especially in a room like this where the big light is on and the radiators are off. It does not leave space for mistakes. Three courses at Röski in Liverpool a few weeks ago was £45. That was faultless. This really isn’t.
The issue is unevenness. Here, the bread is to be taken seriously. It isn’t just something to get you through. It is a moment. It must be explained, which it is, in detail. On one side of the platter is a “chicken fat” brioche with a scoop of whipped butter, flavoured with beef dripping and dusted with onion powder. It’s animal fat-tastic. If you like your bread to have once had legs, feathers, fur and a pulse, it’s the bread course for you. It is luscious: there’s a light buttery brioche and a whipped butter that could be used as a seasoning or, alternatively, a massage oil.
But then there’s the other side of the plate that carries triangular crackers crusted with rosemary and a ramekin of taramasalata to dredge them through. It’s all wrongness. The tarama is so acidic it tastes like tomato ketchup, and the cracker doesn’t. It bends. There are similar issues with canapés. Truffled arancini are delightful, comforting spheres of waft and soothe and loveliness. Then there’s the “crispy, salt and vinegar lamb skin”. Again, I love the idea. Why should pork get all the scratching action? Lamb fat can get in on the act, too. But it has to be served damn hot and damn crisp. This isn’t. You can taste the overly long wait it had on the pass. It was great, but perhaps 10 minutes ago.
Eventually, 45 minutes after our arrival, we get to the starters. A platter of Yorkshire rabbit and carrots is Carr’s cooking at its prettiest and best. It’s whimsical, but also unembarrassed about huge flavours. There is shredded confited leg between discs of purple carrot. There’s a teeny-weeny rabbit rack, a cylinder of loin, dollops of acidulated carrot purée and what is announced as a “KFC lamb sweetbread” which does indeed come in the crispiest of coatings. It’s a plate of food you can explore.
In another starter, fat scallops from Orkney are joined by a wedge of charred and buttery pumpkin, crunchy pieces of boned chicken wing and a transparent glass-like crisp flavoured with sriracha sauce. It is a bold and dramatic dish and would be thrilling, were it not for the extra 45 seconds the scallops have spent in the hot pan. There is a similar problem with a turbot dish. Admirably, the fish has been cooked on the bone. Unfortunately, it’s also just overcooked which is a crying shame for such a fine piece of fish. But again, there are elements on this plate to wallow in: a cep purée with the lightest dice of tomato, and sweet salty clams alongside braised cabbage leaves. Perched on top of those leaves are bright yellow balls of saffron potato. They are completely undercooked. They slide away from my fork.
More consistent is a piece of crisp-skinned roasted guinea fowl, with fronds of roasted mushroom, a paunchy truffled potato terrine and pieces of charred sweetcorn, over which is poured a meaty, creamy old-school sauce, the good kind of brown. It could have done without the granola. I understand the desire to provide texture, but sweetened breakfast cereal is not the way to go. I do however acknowledge that a dislike of granola on savoury dishes is a long-held prejudice of mine. Others might approve. They’d be wrong, but they might.
Desserts feel like initial sketches, in need of further thought. In the case of something called “Fallen Autumnal Leaves”, modelled on the forest floor, the main thought should be that it’s a terrible idea. Jerusalem artichoke sponge cake is a promise, completely broken. Tuber does not bellow dessert at me. Caramelised and salted pieces of artichoke don’t improve things. A plate of British cherries with fragments of frangipane and candyfloss is much better, though a thin disc of crumbly, cherry jelly wouldn’t be missed if it was mislaid.
To get warm we order coffee. We begin one of those cheery “we’re all in it together” conversations about the chill, with the other tables. I tell them I have heater envy, one of Freud’s lesser known diagnoses. Finally, the otherwise efficient waiters acknowledge there might be a temperature issue. Mostly, there is the feeling here of an ambitious restaurant which could be great, but which right now isn’t quite sure how to become so. I do hope they work it out.
News bites
The tiny Restaurant No 5, in Winchcombe – like 92, named for its street address – has come a long way since I purred over it at opening in 2004. It has awards, many and various. Go there for a casserole of mussels in cider, followed by rack and belly of pork with sage, onion and grilled fig. Finish with ‘Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate’, so good they named it thrice (5north streetrestaurant.co.uk).
Nottingham Trent University and the School of Artisan Food in nearby Welbeck have joined forces to offer Britain’s first degree in artisan food production, with teaching across both institutions. Year one includes modules on bread, patisserie, dairy production and both food chemistry and entrepreneurship and marketing. The first intake is September 2019 (ntu.ac.uk).
Exhausted by the prospect of cooking Christmas lunch? You’re not alone. A survey of 20,000 AA members shows that the number of people set to eat in a restaurant or pub on Christmas day has trebled from 3% to 10%. In London and the southeast that figure rises to 25%. Saves on the washing up.
Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk or follow him on Twitter @jayrayner1
