JONATHAN MEADES strikes me, from his television appearances, as a
lugubrious type, but I enjoy reading his restaurant col- umn in the Times and, in particular, noting the marks out of ten which he gives the var- ious eating places that he reviews. He seems to know what he is on about. So I made a special note some months ago when he gave nine points (his highest score, from my observations, and usually reserved for the much-publicised `superchef restaurants in London) to Markwicks in Bristol. With a daughter at university there, it seemed entirely appropriate that we should go to Markwicks for an end-of-term, pre-Christ- mas lunch.
Bristol is not short of good restaurants, several of them — Harveys, Howards, Hunt's — named after their proprietors. Mr Stephen Markwick is the co-owner (with his wife) and chef at this restaurant in the basement vaults of a former bank, situ- ated in the commercial centre of the city. The Commercial Club rooms above Mark- wicks, and the imposing Barclays and Coutts bank buildings on the other side of Corn Street, bespeak a seriousness of pur- pose as you descend the stone steps to the restaurant. The impression is sustained by the solid, semicircular, dark-stained wood- en bar which stands near the entrance, and only slightly dispelled by the Art Deco bunches of grapes which shade the ceiling lights.
The next thing you notice is the space between the tables: the main room beyond the bar seats no more than 20 people, and there is none of the jostling and squeezing that is such a tedious feature of many larg- er restaurants. Here you enjoy the equiva- lent of first-class travel on an aeroplane. Nor is there any danger of interruption by a status-seeking chef touring the tables to receive the plaudits of his customers. Mr Markwick stays in the kitchen; his status is not in doubt.
Three menus were placed before us on the bar: a la carte, a £17.50 three-course lunch, and a separate sheet of paper head- ed 'Fish'. There was grilled red mullet with a salad of rocket and pine nuts, crab salad with pink grapefruit, haddock soufflé with crabmeat sauce, roasted salmon with creamy cabbage, seabass with fennel and `You're allergic to nuts? Wow, that's serious stuff for a blue tit.' red pepper sauce, brill baked in cider with thyme, mustard and tomato sauce, and roasted monkfish with a sauce of mussels and saffron. Mr Markwick is said to be a passionate cook of both fish and offal; unfortunately, however, and possibly because of recent rumblings about BSE and diseased animals, I could find no liver, kidneys or sweetbreads on the menu. Lambs' offal tart, one of Markwicics' best- known creations, was not on that day.
From the set menu I started with what was described as red wine risotto with pigeon breasts — which indeed it proved to be, though with the delicious additions of wild mushrooms (chanterelles, I think) and slivers of fresh parmesan. The flavours and textures seemed to complement each other perfectly — the pigeon pink and tender, the risotto and mushrooms a point — and it was a dish that I shall still remember after many months. My daughter's haddock souf- flé was properly light and thinly sauced.
From the a la carte choice, she dithered over roast duck breast with sauternes and puy lentils, guinea fowl with apples and cal- vados, and cassoulet of goose, duck, lamb and spiced sausage. But I persuaded her to go for the monkfish, suspecting that she might not like it, in which case I would hap- pily finish it after my cod baked in a pesto crust, with spinach and a mustard sauce.
The cod was flaky-fresh and delicate. It is an underrated fish, especially good when small, and I am not convinced that it bene- fits from the strong flavours of both mus- tard and pesto. One would have been enough. Pronouncing the monkfish to be `fine', my daughter declined to leave me any; and I was able to sample only the sauce, which I thought tasted a bit too strongly of saffron. She entered her own minor criticism, at being served from her right- rather than left-hand side; but it was something of a pot-and-kettle situation, as I pointed out that she appeared to be hold- ing her fish knife in an unconventional way.
We passed on such puddings as 'choco- late silk with walnut and hazelnut crust' and opted modestly for a strawberry and orange sorbet, and a good selection of British cheeses, together with a slice of quince 'cheese' (almost as good as my home-made damson one).
I was delighted to find an albarifto wine from the Rias Baixas in north-western Spain (seldom available here), though at the pretty steep price of £18. With a bottle of this, plus mineral water and coffee, our bill came to just under £70. We decided to award Markwicks at least eight out of ten, as we climbed up the steps and into the gathering dusk of a mid-December after- noon.
Markwicks, 43 Corn Street, Bristol. Tel: 0117 926 2658.
Simon Courtauld
Nigella Lawson is away.
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