|
Possibly the last people in Chester to do so, we ate at the Blackhouse grill on a wintry Saturday night. We had attempted to eat here several weeks earlier but, even with a twice confirmed booking, the restaurant had failed to get us to a table and we ended up leaving, empty-bellied and angry. So, as we made our way up Pepper Street, we were apprehensive, anxious that we weren't about to relive our previous ordeal. As it turned out, we were right to be nervous.
There is a small bar at the entrance to the restaurant. It was populated by people, like us, who had booked a table, arrived on time, and were waiting for it to become available. It was also populated by people who hadn't booked but were hoping for a table anyway, by people who had already eaten in the restaurant and fancied a nightcap on the way out, by people who wished to smoke a cigarette between courses and by people who - apparently - consider it a suitably stylish and attractive venue in its own right. It was, in short, heaving.
It was also poorly stocked. There are not many occasions where I would voluntarily request a bottle of Heineken, but as far as the beer went, this was the best on offer. Tracey, on the other hand, was delighted with a French martini. We sipped these gingerly, our elbows tucked into our sides, the crowd swaying, pressing against us, carrying us to and fro. It was an unpleasant experience and it went on for far too long.
Indeed, it was forty minutes before we were eventually led away to a table. By this time I was rattled, irritated, hypoglycaemic. Only my wife's saintlike calmness soothed my agitation. It seemed to me that the night was already lost: no matter what happened from now on, there was no way it could be turned round.
But things started to pick up. There was a whispered apology from the maitre d'. Our waiter emanated competence. A bottle of wine and some deliciously fresh bread arrived quickly. We relaxed and began to take in our surroundings.
It is a most attractive room, deep, high ceilinged, with large windows running the length of the premises. The kitchen is open to view, gleaming, busy and noisy. Exposed brickwork and dark leather banquettes give character, while suspended halogen lights lend each table intimacy. Busy as it was, there was no sense of hurry. Yet the courses came and went with smooth efficiency.
Calamari were wonderful - small squidlets fried whole, contrasting with succulent chunks from an altogether larger creature. A chicken brochette - on a lemongrass skewer - had perfect mouthfeel. A half lobster served on a wooden trencher was a simple, fresh delight. Sirloin steak was good, and would have been even better if I'd ordered it medium rather than rare. Chips were from the top drawer. My bearnaise sauce was a little too acid - the mayonnaise tasted better. A lemon cheesecake was OK. It looked like a factory job, but by now we were in a positively charitable frame of mind and enjoyed that, too.
The wine list was a concise collection, nicely balanced between old and new worlds. Starting at under £12 it stepped up to seventy-odd quid, with several champagnes into three figures. Our Chilean cab-sav at £14.50 was eager to please.
As a meal, it was splendid. As an experience, it left something to be desired. The owners (who also have the Living Room chain of bars) need to forget about trying to create the ambience of the Living Room (which is a place for people interested in finding new sexual partners) in the Blackhouse Grill (which is a place for people interested in eating cows). Until they can do that, and crowd management becomes less of an issue, I will restrict future visits to lunchtimes or Tuesday nights.
|
