William Sitwell reviews The Clifton, Bristol: ‘Food that appeals to one’s primal instincts’
It’s a sight you see only in the most arch of cookbooks and recipe publications: plates, empty but for crumbs, bones and ends. I’m often in kitchens and see the despondency on the faces of chefs when plates of what they know are their best offerings come back as if picked at by some fussy, anaemic flibbertigibbet. Some chefs have to be restrained; their instinct is to grab the plate and charge into the dining room to confront the miserable non-partaker.
But when back comes mopped- and licked-clean crockery, the chef can surmise that they’re doing something right. The empty, dirty plate is not the most appetising of images, but it’s one of the things that all chefs dream of.
The Clifton in Bristol is a restaurant that enables the good and proper sight of a gratifyingly empty, dirty plate. And it’s not just because the kitchen delivers flavour and texture and the normal incentives that drive one to clear a plate. It’s rather more than that, a deeper thing. Most of the dishes served are of the type that make one forget the idea of a knife and fork, appealing directly to one’s primal instincts.
No, it’s not because they do burgers; they don’t. It’s because they serve dishes that you want to dive into, to elbow others out of the way to get to and to lap up. It’s not pretty or decorative and there’s little symmetry or order. You may have seen those chefs who start their dishes with a pen and paper, creating their perfect assembly – well at this place you get the feeling that they start with stuff they like, add other stuff they like to it, and then chuck you the results.
The Clifton is indeed in Clifton, in an old pub with the kitchen in the centre, more pubby at the front and diney at the back. The decor is simple with half-wall panelling (the lower half a dark green), simple wooden tables, Windsor chairs and a few dried flowers hanging on the walls. The staff have a seriousness about them, which I appreciate: dishing out the ugly stuff is indeed a serious business. But an occasional smile from our server would have been welcome.
The menu offers plates, mostly small, some large, to either share or order as an individual meal. Sharing, we started with the sourdough, soda bread and rich house butter, and British coppa – plain slices of delicious cured pork. Next, charred leeks (a wonderful thing from a ferocious oven) were soft inside (of course) and came with a fine eggy sauce (gribiche) and some texture from breadcrumbs and crushed walnuts.
Then two plonk-on-plate-heavenly-tasting dishes arrived that were bang on. First came the crispy pig’s cheeks (fat little ugly chunks) hiding among bitter radicchio leaves and a scattering of peas and onions, with a drizzle of mustardy sauce – rustic bliss. Then a dump of new potatoes with heaps of melted butter nestling on a plate with mussels, crab and a little chive. Again, not one for your Instagram grid, but sweet and moreish and violently tasty.
There was more form to a whole grilled bream scattered with brown shrimps – a reminder that these guys really can chef. We had it with dauphinoise potatoes that might have been cooking since about the 14th century. They were medieval – dangerously hot to touch, charred on top and, beneath, an endlessly warm and spirited deep-dive of creamy, buttery potato. It was all tempered by a plain side of cabbage.
This was a succession of seemingly simple, hearty dishes, but there are real brains and thought in the kitchen. Perhaps unattractive to some, but to my eye a true beauty, this lunch was a tonic in an age of vain self-love.
