Yes, it’s been a long time coming! And yes, it’s still very much a work in progress, so there’ll be lots of tweaking to digest as the days, weeks and months roll along. But I firmly uphold the opinion that diamonds in the rough have much more value than even the most highly-polished fakes… so here I am, in my ramshackle, unpolished state.
It’s my aim to use this website to promote all that’s good about Bath’s independent food scene at a time when our hospitality industry need it the most, free of the kind of ‘advertorial’ and ‘sponsored’ commercial copy that increasingly dominates food-related sites, and instead laden with honest, genuine reviews, news and opinions about the food scene in the city I know and love. Coming soon: a brand new review of much-loved fave rave The Scallop Shell, a Moorfields revisit, fresh takes on both Yak Yeti Yak and Chez Dominique, a catch up on all the exciting pipeline plans from The Grapes/Budō Bā’s imminent unveiling on Argyle Street and my thoughts on the brand new branch of Pieminister (Westgate Street). Phew!
But where does the ‘… and Beyond’ part of the new name fit in to that remit? Well, have words, have thoughts, have opinions – will travel! Liverpool (my second home) is a regular pit-stop, and I’m eagerly anticipating making reservations to finally meet superchef Porky Askew at his fabulous Art School, plus dinners at both Antonio’s in Knowsley Village and Lu Ban in the not-too-distant future. Who knows where else my travels may take me? You will, when I get there!
For now, thank you for reading my very first PP post. Got something to say? Tweet me @ThePigGuide (ah, I couldn’t let the name go completely, could I?) or drop me a line; after all, I’m all yours!
It’s 7.30pm on a drizzly Friday night in January. The restaurants, bars and pubs in Bath city centre are so quiet that even a tumbleweed invasion would liven things up; the lights are on, but everybody’s at home.
Widcombe Parade, however – a 5-minute trot south-east of the bright lights, behind (and just over the river from) Bath Spa Station — tells a different story. Small plate/fab wine/cocktail hotspot The Halfpenny has got its chillaxed, date night hat on, The Ram is packed with end-of-working-week/pre-rugby revellers, Bikano’s is a bright beacon of proper curry house cosiness, the various takeaways are doing a roaring trade… and, thriving at the heart of it all, the Ring O’Bells is more of a hubbub of arrivals and departures than the nearby station. We, however, are checking in for a linger-long duration — and we couldn’t have found a better destination.
Proprietors Sarah and Paul are fairly new to the Ring’O — they only took over curatorship of one of BA2’s longest-standing watering holes in autumn of last year. But in the same way that Paul has already worked his magic (in more ways than one) at The Ale House on York Street, the couple have already re-established this popular hostelry as the proper neighbourhood pub it should be.
Warm, inviting and friendly from the get-go, the gentle buzz of live rugby on a couple of screens adds to rather than detracts from the chilled-out vibe — heck, even the large, friendly dogs dotted hither and thither underneath various tables aren’t in the slightest bit perturbed by the rise and fall of rucks, scrums and conversions so I’m definitely not going to be out of place sipping my thoroughly decent rosé in a corner, Maggie Smith style. I will eventually, however, need food if I’m to keep my Violet Crawley wits about me — and if you too need proper, hearty, really good grub to maintain your wit, look no further.
Chubby, pleasantly smoky Pigs in Blankets (they’re definitely not just for Christmas) and a massive pulled pork croquette in a pool of jus that I could easily have drank more of, through a straw. Elegantly hearty Chicken Supreme served with perfect mash. Malabar Fish Curry: a generous, pearlescent slab of hake nestled in a super-fresh, enticingly harmonious sweet/sour/punchy sauce and topped with a mahoosive chargrilled king prawn, resplendent in its shell-on glory. An intensely saucy Sticky Toffee Pudding and a decadent Chocolate Fondant, both of which defined the very definition of almost salaciously satisfying desserts. Oh, this was a Friday night dinner indeed – and one that would serve you well on any night of the week (okay, perhaps skip the puds on a school night?)
Throughout it all, I felt like I was properly out-out but without the kind of stress, pressure and high prices that being properly out-out can bring about; home-from-home with a buzz, cosy but convivial, lively but relaxing.
Whether you visit the Ring O’Bells for the food and stay for the vibe, go for the vibe and stay for the food, or simply drop by for a pint and stay for another one… chime in.
Okay, so Mike and I are more Magenta and Riff Raff than Brad and Janet and the light at the end of the route from Bear Flat to Combe Down that we’re searching for is a pop-up kitchen, not the gothic mansion home of a flamboyant Transylvanian, erm, scientist.
But then: crash, bang, wallop — we’ve bounced over a drop kerb! Now we’re flirting with the possibility of our own flat tyre to deal with, might we actually be caught up in the real life version of our own late night, double-feature picture show?
No. The tyre is fine, it’s not raining hard enough to warrant creating makeshift umbrellas out of newspapers and, in a sparkly little hut at the end of a cute little lane off one of Combe Down’s major thoroughfares, we finally reach foodie nirvana: chef Will Gillbard’s innovative pop-up Thai dining experience Raya’s Thai Thali.
One-night-only foodie events are currently more talked about in and around Bath than individual restaurants are. Collaborations between hosts and pop-up chefs from grab’n’go to full-on foodie support existing cafes, pubs and venues without the commitment of employing permanent chefs and adding to increasingly demanding overheads, while hob god maestros get to flaunt their fabulous thing at grass roots level — and Raya’s Thai Thali has a cult following at the spearhead of the revolution: food from a hob god maestro in grab’n’go format.
RTT regularly pops up in all manner of locations from suburban neighbourhood locations such as the Ex-Servicemen’s Social Club in Weston Village, Bathampton Methodist Church and Bathford Royal British Legion Club to established pop-up hosts including Picnic in the Park and the Village Cafe and Bar in Larkhall by way of pubs (the Fox and Badger in Wellow; The Scrandit in Bristol) and a regular stall at Green Park Station Market.
We popped out to pick up our RTT goodie bag from Combe Down Rugby Club where Will and his woks pop up every second Friday of the month. All is calm, all is bright at journey’s end: the moment we open our car door we’re met with a waft of intrinsically Thai aromas and there’s smiley Will himself at the epicentre of his calm foodie storm, stirring and frying and generally working his magic.
Our pre-order is waiting for us (and please note, pre-ordering is pretty much essential; on the evening we visited, RTT’s recently-unveiled new menu was already sold out) and our return journey home was, thankfully, uneventful. Our feast, however, most definitely wasn’t.
Two ‘small plates’ of Coconut Panko Crispy Chicken turned out to be not that small at all: mounds of sweet, succulent chicken thigh, still properly crispy and perfectly hot despite being transported home in covered tubs, supplemented by creamy coconut/satay sauce and invigorating pickles, sesame seeds and little flavour bursts of delicious little morsels of delicious stuff.
To follow (we kept our mains warm in the plate warmer — resourceful, yes?), complex, nutty and deeply umami chicken Massaman and a Thai Thali Bowl: a ‘little bit of everything’ including more of that Massaman, an abundance of robustly-flavoured, deeply umami Spicy Pork Krapow (also available as stand-alone option), crispy cauliflower, more of that chicken, more of that satay sauce (thank goodness, ‘cos I couldn’t get enough of it), more of those pickles and mounds of softly steamed .
This was a takeaway like no other: fresh, fragrant and flavourful, laden with intelligent balance and attention to detail, and still managing to look beautiful despite the grab’n’go format… all for less than £50 for a feast that would easily have served four normal appetites.
In the velvet darkness of the blackest night: Raya’s Thai Thali, lighting up everybody’s life.
Chef Rob Clayton has been doing his cheffy thing at his beautiful little brasserie that lights up George Street with radiant, fairy-lit fusion for 12 years. 12 years! In restaurant world — particularly in the current climate — that’s a massive landmark indeed.
Today, this cornerstone of Bath’s independent restaurant scene is wholly deserving of its local institution status — and, to celebrate that status, I recently talked to Rob for a feature published in the December issue of The Bath Magazine.
I’m fascinated by chefs and have interviewed dozens of them in my food-writing career, but talking to Rob is always an utter joy; few chefs I’ve encountered down the years are as ego-free, affable and good-natured.
“I just really, really love to cook,” he told me, several times throughout our conversation; “I like the creativity, I like the routine — I like having a job that I like to do. When you speak to people who hate going to work, or chefs who say they’re doing it for the money, that makes me really sad — I just don’t get it. Of course we all need money, but isn’t it nice when you earn that money doing something you love?”
And so our conversation rolled along as we delved into the past, analysed the present and shared a couple of predictions for the all-important future. We talked about Michelin stars, the vital importance of provenance… and Ernie! (and now you’re going to have to read the full interview just to find out who Ernie is…)
But what with The Prandial Playground majoring on Bath restaurant reviews, I believe it’s only fair to share a handful of highlights (of which there were many) of our most recent meal at one of Rob’s ‘kitchen’ tables… with extra-added flourish.
There are some experiences in life that represent pleasure, privilege and sheer joy all wrapped up in one glorious parcel — and eating at Clayton’s Kitchen is one such rare experience.
A starter dish of Pembrokeshire Little Haven Crab with a shellfish bisque sauce dotted hither and thither with all manner of oils and flavour-bombs was almost — but only almost — too beautiful to disturb with my fork, while a second starter of pan-roasted scallops — loads of ‘em, each and every one as voluptuous and juicy as a scallop can get — came resting on a sweet, nutty Jerusalem artichoke puree laminated with lemon oil and crunched up with apple and toasted hazelnuts, resulting in what could’ve been a perfect stand-alone lunch dish in its own right.
Following on in style… it takes a super-inspired chef indeed to lift roasted Cotswold chicken breast on cep risotto out of the beige/brown doldrums to spectacularly variegated heights, while perfectly complementing his gloriously fresh catch of the day (in this instance, a huge, fat sea bass) with pickled fennel, sauteed almonds, lobster sauce and toasted fregola can only be described as inspired.
On we went, waltzing through the heaven on a plate that is Rob’s Caramel Chocolate Mousse with salted caramel ice cream, poached pears and candied almonds while we made plans to return for more.
Like legions of Clayton’s Kitchen fans from “Lady so-and-so to groups of lovely, polite bikers in their leather jackets” (it’s all in the full interview, kids!) we will indeed be returning again and again… not least of all because the restaurant’s 25th anniversary, just over 12 years from now, will be a spectacular event; I already look forward to raising a glass to Clayton’s Kitchen with Ernie.
For him, it was Hawkwind in 1988. For me, the Chippendales, 1993. But by 2006, we (and our eclectic tastes) combined to create perfect harmony: Sparks, September 2006.
The memories came flooding back as we took to a table adjacent to the very same historic, sandstone steps that we once stood on while queuing for tickets for the box office at Bristol’s former Colston Hall, surrounded by Bristol Byzantine Victoriana in all its imposing glory… that nobody took much notice of, back then.
Today, the Colston Street frontage of the original venue has been restored to prominence with columns and a glass front in the original entrance space, where the gleaming, spacious all-day brasserie Colonnade compliments the vibrant live music hub that is the Bristol Beacon, the restaurant taking its name from the full-length, 7-column portico that now seamlessly slides into the Beacon’s impressive grand design.
A couple of nights ago, the legendary D.A.M Trilogy were playing at the Bristol Beacon for one night only (as Bowie himself did back in 1973, when he brought Ziggy to the west country). Now that our days of scoffing a pre-gig bag of chips from the Rendezvous on Denmark Street on a bench in the nearest bus stop are long since over, we made a very grown-up pre-theatre restaurant reservation to honour the occasion — and the Thin White Duke himself would most definitely have approved of our choice.
Refined wow-factor impact scales full contemporary heights at Colonnade. Gleaming glass; scrubbed-up, honey-coloured stone; panoramic interior vistas; bold lighting; marble-effect flooring; proud potted palms: it’s an exhilarating space indeed, further enriched by Head Chef Noah Chasteau’s own brand of foodie flamboyance.
Chasteau joined the Colonnade kitchen team as a Chef de Partie when the restaurant opened in January 2024 — and it’s easy to see why he so swiftly worked his way up the ranks: his menus reflect a clear passion for sustainability and ethical sourcing alongside the kind of creative genius and innovative flair that chefs with decades more experience might struggle to showcase.
But here’s the rub, for me: Noah’s menu is a Small Plates affair, a format that I’ve developed a deep-rooted aversion to for all manner of reasons, one of my main bugbears being that, when I go out to eat, I want to trust the chef to determine the pace and synthesis of my dinner rather than being left to create my own expensive mistakes. Colonnade’s fascinating array of dishes, though (circa 14-16 on the evening we visited) coupled with self-assured but still politely unobtrusive recommendations from our waiter allowed me to kick my scepticisms to the kerb, where they remained ignored and unattended for (almost) the rest of the evening.
When are chips not just chips? When they’re Pommes Anna chips: layer upon layer of thinly-sliced confit potatoes pressed into neat ingots of deep-fried indulgence, super-buttery beneath their super-crisp jackets topped with a parmesan snow storm and a smattering of truffle somewhere in the mix, and accompanied by a little pot (two pots, actually — we just couldn’t hold back) of ambrosial aioli. If Chasteau’s chips are definitely not just chips, his cabbage isn’t just cabbage either: it’s confited, and drizzled, and nudged hither and thither with all manner of enticing enhancements, while colourful carrots are served on a silky butterbean purée enlivened by sweetly smoky hot maple and uplifted by subtly briney preserved lemon — not just carrots, okay?
We had pork, too: neat slices of creamy belly complete with perfect crackling served flanked by a complex, intense burnt apple purée and red cabbage that told a pleasantly fruity backstory of its own. And oh, the lamb shoulder! The softest, sweetest, most robustly-flavoured incarnation I’ve ever encountered, the inherent richness of the meat intelligently offset by vibrant mint salsa verde and a carrot purée that grounded an exquisitely balanced little dish that, being so intensely-flavoured, would have been too big in large plate format but proved to be a flavour-bomb superstar of our mini mix’n’match selection.
The only slightly dissatisfying — and still, only very slightly dissatisfying — plate of our chosen array was the Salmon Tartare. Okay, so it came served in two almost ethereally frangible filo cases topped with shimmering jewels of trout caviar resulting in a tasty bite experience indeed, but £10 for what was ostensibly a couple of canapés didn’t quite hit the small plate metamorphosis peaks that the rest of our supper so gracefully ascended, briefly rekindling to my gripes about small plates.
But ah, so what? It’s not often you go to a gig and the support act proves to be as memorably impactful as the headline superstars. Dinner at Colonnade: a fantastic voyage indeed.
I’m not a fan of the Sunday Roast; why, in this day in age, would I get excited about a plate of dull meat served with sloppy, often unidentifiable veg, soggy spuds, a jug of dark brown gloop and an undercooked pancake batter iceberg?
Oh okay, I know that I’m supposed to get all misty-eyed about one of our apparently best-loved ‘Great British Institutions’ and claim that the very whiff of roasting beef takes me back to the Sundays of my childhood or draws me into the nearest decent pub. Fish and chips: yes! Steak and Kidney Pie: bring it on! But a Sunday Roast? Wake me up when the dishes have been done. But so it came to pass…
If SouthGate is Bath’s own little version of New York’s Columbus Circle, Ludo is our Three Monkeys — except it’s only a stroll away from the shopping/eating action but an elevator ride up to another level altogether, adjacent to Bath Spa Station at platform level towards the rear and offering panoramic cityscapes from the front, with spacious terraces that make full use of those views during the summer months (or even right now, if you wrap up very warmly) on both sides .
The bar/diner itself, meanwhile, could be described as cavernous were it not so artfully divided into various subsections offering a well-considered collection of lounge-around chill out zones for all from couples and small groups to family get-togethers and party people. Meanwhile, in keeping with Ludo’s USP, a collection of massive HD screens bring grandstand views of all manner of live sporting action to your table wherever you choose to sit. Somehow, though, the sporty shenanigans add atmosphere rather than irritation to those who don’t know a scrum from a backline; we arrived halfway through the Leeds United vs Aston Villa Premier League showdown, and the rise and fall of the roaring crowd wafting through the speakers was, to me, soporific rather than intrusive.
The food menu at Ludo kicks along to a similarly upbeat but mellow rhythm: all-day breakfast butties give way to pizzas, nachos, picky bits, fish and chips, chicken wings, steaks, burgers and even a coupla salads as the day rolls along; if you can’t find something to eat here, you’re simply not hungry. Visit on a Sunday, though, and — despite the full selection being available — there’s really only one way to score a foodie goal.
Roasts at Ludo go large. Having seen several hefty servings pass by our table as we quaffed our obligatory Sunday Bloody Marys, I kicked my cravings for a Green Chilli Cheeseburger to the relegation zone and went for the EPL Sunday order of choice: chicken for me (£20), beef for him (£21), with roast potatoes, savoy and red cabbage, glazed carrots and parsnips, Yorkshire puddings and gravy all coming as standard — but still the temptation of side orders of Pigs in Blankets and Cauliflower Cheese (both a mere fiver) proved impossible to resist.
Dull meat? Sloppy unidentifiable veg? Soggy spuds? An undercooked pancake batter iceberg? Not at Ludo! As perfectly cooked as both our meat-centric centre-forwards were, they almost faded into significance against competition from the midfielders bolstering the team. I even had my deep-seated, negative Yorkshire Pudding perceptions challenged, Ludo’s being cartoonishly huge and absolutely scrumptious, laden with that frangible crisp/fluffy personality that everybody raves about and refusing to turn soggy despite being liberally doused in a deep, thick, rich, velvety gravy as far removed from dark brown gloop as Tommy Freeman is from Alan Carr.
Gosh, who’d have thought it: me, in a sports bar, keeping an eye on the footie while tucking into a Sunday roast! Stranger things have happened on a sports field. And as Lionel Messi once said, “there are more important things in life than winning or losing a game”; as it turns out, a Champion’s League-worthy Sunday roast as Ludo is one of those very important things.
A snapshot of Lower Bristol Road, Bath, at 7.21pm on Thursday 20 November 2025: haphazard buses and hefty trucks. Foolhardy Deliveroo drivers and kamikaze cyclists. A group of exhausted tourists struggling with a broken wheelie bin (sorry, suitcase) en route to the Holiday Inn, a group of jubilant students en route to their next round of Lageritas, an elegant elderly lady with Pomeranian under her arm en route to…I dunno; a Patrick Hamilton short story, perhaps?
The road is slick with rain following a recent icy shower and oily rainbow-puddles are dissolving in the gutters. The bus shelter lights flicker to an ad-hoc beat that seems to be attracting the attention of a security guard silhouetted in the windows of the office block on the other side of the traffic — or perhaps he’s simply testing out his new binoculars?
To an over-imaginative writer, it’s a captivating tapestry indeed. But far more captivating — seductive, even — is the reason I’m even standing on the pavement taking it all in while I wait for my trusty playmate to park our car and join me for an investigation into Café 84, the cheerfully-lit, independently-owned Italian café/pizzeria/trattoria that I’ve driven or walked past for as long as I can remember; in fact, I might have forgotten it was there had a couple of très-foodie friends of ours not visited for supper last week and highly recommended for review purposes.
And so it came to pass that, having been greeted by a very warm welcome indeed, we took to a corner table beyond big sparkly picture windows and a shiny bar and suddenly… what Deliveroo drivers? What bus stop? And who cares about the purpose of the security guard’s binoculars?
Were the overhead lights to be turned down just a fraction in the evenings, Café 84 could easily morph from workaday coffee/breakfast/lunch pitstop to cosy, downhome, neighbourhood Italian diner, the like of which can be found dotted across suburban neighbourhoods in Italy, or New York, or central London. But in Bath, it seems, people (you, me, restaurant reviewers, ‘grammers et al) tend to tittle tattle all and only about the city centre eateries, for better or worse.
While it’s true that you can find thoroughly decent, authentic Italian food in every corner (or, in today’s parlance, ‘quarter’) of the city centre, we don’t always want the side order of bling, arrogance and hefty prices that come as standard in many of those places; if most of us were honest about it, we’re more likely to want what you get at Café 84: freshly-made, generous portions of time-honoured Italian comfort food served with genuine warmth in a convivial, home from home environment (if, that is, your kitchen smells this good when you’re cooking at home) at prices that barely put a ripple in your bank balance.
We started with a plate of Bruschetta Pomodoro to accompany our pre-dinner cheers: a classic combination of crunchy toasted ciabatta topped with vibrant flavours (garlic, basil, garlic-basil-garlic; sweet tomatoes, sweet tomatoes, sweet tomatoes… and plenty of parmesan). On from that, meatballs: richly caramelised on the outside, succulent and satisfyingly meaty within, nestled in a deeply-umami marinara sauce bubbling beneath a satisfyingly cheesy topping. We had textbook-perfect crispy calamari with punchy, garlic garlic mayonnaise too; Yum! Or rather, delizioso?
We could have stopped there — but of course, we didn’t. Oh, the lasagne! Robust meat sauce and silky pasta in perfectly-balanced harmony, the cheese gratifyingly stringy and the herbaceous undertones bringing aromatic harmony to proceedings. But for me, the Prawn and ‘Nduja Risotto stole the spettacolo. How does a chef add ‘nduja — Italy’s own (and to my mind, far funkier) version of chorizo, softer and spicier than the Spanish incarnation, laden with personality — to a prawn medley without allowing such bold flavours to turn the delicately sweet seafood into a texture-only irrelevance? Like this, as served in Café 84.
Okay, I may sound as though I’m over-enthusastic in my endorsement of Café 84 when in fact I could be even more over-the-top about just how good our supper was. And in case you were (rather cynically) wondering, this review is not the result of a PR invite nor an Insta collab arrangement; it’s just a review of where we went for supper down the road from our house t’other night on a recommendation from friends.
Back outside after our dinner, back on the Lower Bristol Road. The bus shelter lights are still flickering, the Deliveroo drivers are still buzzing around, the tourists still trundle. But the elegant elderly lady with Pomeranian under her arm has, of course, long since disappeared; I like to think that, when I spotted her, she’d just left Café 84 after her usual plate of Frito Misto accompanied by a Martini Rosso — which I’m going back for, and soon. And you should go here too, and soon, for all of it and more.
The hippocampus (there’s one in each hemisphere of everybody’s brain) has a lot to answer for. It’s responsible, see, for helping us to form long-term, declarative memories – the ones that contribute to the personal autobiographies that we all carry around in our heads.
The hippocampus is particularly good at helping us link emotion with taste and smell, which is why certain tastes or smells can trigger a sense of recall in all of us, sometimes even before we consciously remember the particular event in question. Heck, Proust’s hippocampus turned a miniature sponge cake dipped in tea (y’know, that madeleine?) into one of European literature’s most powerful metaphors, while thousands upon thousands of writers, poets, musicians et al have turned personal backstories triggered by food memories into tangible, artistic flesh (I’m not sure that Millie’s My Boy Lollipop fits into this category, even though I like to believe it does.)
But okay, here’s one for the boffins to sort out: my most recent food memory doesn’t even involve actual food… but a table. A table. A table? Yup, a table: a small, heavy table with intricately-carved wooden legs and a polished glass top, beneath which a detailed snapshot of Thai family life had been reconstructed through the medium of intricately-decorated, chiselled, sculpted wood: busy fisherman, hardworking farmers, beautifully-dressed ladies, lapping waves, the leaves of trees wafting on a breeze… that table told a story.
And in its own way, that table (or perhaps the one next to it, or the one behind that; there are many tables in the little pageant I’m describing here) told part of my story too, because I’d sat at it before, many, many moons ago, when gorgeous little Thai restaurant Mai Thai used to be in Bath city centre on the corner of South Parade and Manvers Street, which is now all part of the Hotel Indigo complex.
To get all lit-ref again, the past is a foreign country… but I’m not sure that I did things differently there, even 25+ years ago. I’d go to Mai Thai as a fledgling Bathonian on my own when the mood took me and, later on, with friends, or colleagues, or even the odd date as Bath began to morph into home rather than somewhere I had only just started to dream of laying my hat. Why Mai Thai? Because it was familiar but a little bit exotic; because it was supremely affordable but still felt special; because it was welcoming, not snooty.
When Mai Thai closed its doors on its city centre incarnation, I felt like a little part of me had closed with it; the thought of never allowing those fascinating tabletop glimpses into a magical otherworld to distract me even from the joys of a Thai menu (let alone good company) was too much for my hippocampus to deal with. But then…
Towards the end of 2017, Mai Thai did the phoenix-from-the-ashes thing and opened up in a cosy neighbourhood location on Chelsea Road (Weston), where the legendary little Indian restaurant Desh once held court. Okay, many of us also mourned the passing of Desh, but look at it this way: a glossy coffee conglomerate tried to take over the very same premises but weren’t fast enough; small mercies, eh?
And so it came to pass that, eight years since Mai Thai reopened and 30+ years since I first took a seat at one of those tables, I took a trip down memory lane that led to me celebrating the right here, right now, with a glass of very agreeable Chauvignon Blanc from an equally agreeably-priced bottle in hand and a former Mai Thai date that turned into an affair of 21+ years (and counting!) across that table from me.
It being a chilly Monday evening n’all, we were the only people raising a glass in the dining room; everybody else, it seemed, were opting for Mai Thai to-go. But we stayed put and allowed ourselves to be wrapped up in a warm fug of glittery, Thai-trad surroundings (so much subtle bling to choose from!), the tantalising smells from the little open kitchen beyond the sparking bar further nudging the hippocampus into gear.
Our Mixed Starter Platter brought spicy chicken satay, delectably saucy marinated spare ribs, moist Thai fishcakes, heavenly pork/shrimp dumplings and crispy Thai spring rolls together in one super-vibrant, super-fresh flavour party. Portions are generous to say the least, and even the dinky little pots of dipping sauces were super-pretty; attention to detail definitely goes large here… and most definitely wasn’t overlooked in our main courses.
Prawn Pa Nang (panang, phaneng, phanaeng?) is my go-to Thai dish of choice regardless of how the menu spells it – and the Mai Thai version is a corker: huge, juicy prawns bathed in a thick, semi-dry, salty/sweet peanut sauce zhuzhed up with galangal, kaffir lime leaves, lemongrass, coriander, shallots, garlic, shrimp paste and white pepper, that intrinsic, subtle complexity amped up to the max. His Chicken Pad Cha, meanwhile, ticked all those ‘complex’ boxes too, bringing wild ginger, Thai peppercorns, more lime leaves and sweet basil to a very sophisticated plate-party that couldn’t have been bettered.
We shared a huge, overflowing bowl of coconut rice, and we had plenty of that wine, and even with a tip for lovely service our bill didn’t scrape much past the £70 mark.
Familiar but a little bit exotic; supremely affordable but definitely special; welcoming, and definitely not snooty? Tick, tick, tick, all these years on. As for those tables that tell a story… priceless memories recalled, new memories made. Gotta love that hippocampus, eh?
It’s 7.30pm on a gloomy Thursday evening and the long-established pub on the London Road/Bathwick Street junction is buzzing in the way that proper pubs used to buzz before the high street casual dining emporiums started filling sprawling, vacant spaces with fake stag head wall mounts, mass-produced velvet wing chairs, phoney vintage beer ads and massive menus that positively scream ‘centralised kitchen’.
Ah, there be none of that going on at The Curfew. Instead, it’s cosy, and polished, and friendly; there’s a happy dog under the table next to ours, and lots of happy people happily chatting to each other in the way that people used to chat to each other before phones dominated all social gatherings. Meanwhile, in the kitchen…
Liam Goldstone is a very confident chef.
I’d know this even if I didn’t follow him and his gorgeous food stories on Insta, or before I found out that he’s the chef behind the hottest monthly Supper Club menus in Bath right now, or before I knew his pedigree (he’s got quite the back story). I know Liam is a confident chef because his menu tells me that he is. Refreshingly free of the dreaded ‘small plates’ diktat, or somebody telling you how your order will arrive without asking you how you’d like it to arrive, or sky-high prices, it’s a fuss-free, all-bases-covered, promising paean to honest good taste. It may not be what you’d expect to find on a neighbourhood pub menu but, in this food-forward day and age, you lived in hope that you might one day encounter – and that ‘one day’ is right now.
A fish finger butty. Sardines on toast. A pork and black pudding sausage roll; fried egg-topped Bubble and Squeak; sausage and mash. There’s a promising plate of Merguez sausages with salady bits here, a fish dish and slow-braised beef shin there, and Croissant Bread and Butter Pudding (or a wedge of Bath Blue with Branston Pickle) down at the bottom – and that’s it. But if you read between the lines, it really is more than enough – especially if, like us, you decide to taste most of it.
Chargrilled, homemade focaccia accompanied by a cloud of whipped Marmite butter. Gleaming, super-fresh, slippy sardines resplendent on their toasty undercarriage, dotted hither and thither with pleasantly crunchy flakes of salt. That sausage roll: a sturdy, comforting, downhome indulgence, almost a meal in itself. And then…
You know when Rick Stein serves up a perfect Cornish plaice baked whole on, say, Saturday Kitchen? Well I’m going to bet five times the price of what Rick’s version would cost to enjoy at his restaurant in Padstow (and I’m guessing that’s far higher than the Goldstone/Curfew £25 price tag would be) that Liam does it better. Massive, sweet, moist and meaty, flaking off the bone at the very sight of a fork and liberally – and I mean, liberally – scattered with bright, briny capers, slathered with vibrant herb butter… and accompanied by a big bowl of cheerful chips. It could’ve easily served four; we pretty much downed it in one.
Restoring equilibrium to our seafaring frenzy, a tightly-packed Cumberland sausage ring courtesy of Larkhall Butchers (full use of local sourcing is writ large on Liam’s little menu) on a bed of supremely silky mash that melted into a decadent, bold onion gravy: real food, elevated to a memorable, cosy season feast.
Everything we tasted was beyond good. There were no unnecessary twists, turns or skittish, inconsequential fripperies. The execution of every element of every dish was laden with care and attention to detail. Yes, confident! But confidently restrained, too; Liam lets his food speak for itself.
He came and said hello to us after we’d eaten: he’s a lovely cheerful chef, full of friendly foodie vigour and enthusiasm. He deserves to do well.
If you too would like an up-close-and-personal encounter with Liam’s foodie vigour-laden food, he hits The Curfew hobs for lunch and dinner every Wednesday-Saturday, while his Sunday roasts have already garnered cult status around these yer parts. And if you get a ‘fastest finger first’ spurt on, you must – and I mean, must – book for one of his monthly Dinner With Goldstone supper club events that are setting tasteful tongues wagging across Bath for very good reason.
Personally, I’m going back to The Curfew one evening this week with my sights set simply on a pudding and a plate of cheese (oh okay, I might slide a Bubble and Squeak in beforehand) because – well, partly because I can, but mostly because I have to. And honestly, you have to too.
Summary of that waxing for the TLDR brigade: an overheard comment made by a passing tourist along the lines of “it looks like one of those classy little streets off the Marais.” And indeed, in a way, it does, especially at twilight, when the sparkling lights twinkle from behind various bars and restaurants and promising aromas (steaks, griddling; garlic, sizzling; various colognes, wafting) linger on the soft breeze.
Linger at the crossroads at the top of Milsom Street, however, and a brand new kid on the George Street block (sorry, strip) catches the eye: The George, née seafood restaurant Flute, now an enticing combination of old-school proper hostelry and new season proper bar where a proper bar selection, a proper(ly flexible) food menu and properly seductive surroundings all combine to create plenty of very good reasons to investigate… and then, linger long.
Decor is artfully alluring: low lights reflecting in polished wood, whimsical wallpaper, forest green walls – it’s playful in a grown up way, with a touch of Alice in Wonderland here, a smattering of Bemelmans Bar there and plenty of inviting nooks and crannies for parties of all sizes everywhere.
Oh, sit me down in this gently buzzing haven of merriment and bring me a French 75! That’s how we started – and I advise you to do the same, as there’s clearly nothing the bar staff here don’t know about rustling up the perfect French 75.
The kitchen team, it seems, are equally accomplished in their responsibilities too: think, oozy, creamy Somerset Rarebit that proves once and for all that Rarebit is NOT “just cheese on toast”; spicy, sweet, supremely tender Hot Honey Chorizo; a big, fat Scotch Egg, crisp on the outside and moistly meaty within, with rivulets of golden yolk bringing it all together; frangible calamari; rugged breaded steak strips with a punchy, poky ‘cowboy butter’.
You may have realised by now that we’re largely on small plate territory here. We’re not, however, anywhere near the really jaded small plate menu blah-blah that results in either a muddled array of over-priced dishes that don’t really hang together or a shower of supermarket-style party buffet bites that too many jaded kitchens rely on for big profits.
At The George, the small plates are (a) not that small at all, (b) classic, but with enough of an imaginative spin to elevate them to classy, and (c) exceedingly well-priced for the quality on offer: 7 for £49, with a £4 supplement for that Scotch Egg and those steak strips, both of which really are worth pushing the (very small) boat out for (although, having said that, I could have ordered three plates of Somerset Rarebit and four Hot Honey Chorizo and have been about as dazed, satisfied and satiated as dazed, satisfied and satiated gets.)
But oh, hang on, there are big plate mains on the menu too, from which we chose the Braised Short Ribs with Polenta Fries and Red Wine Gravy to share over the fish and chips, steak frites, Mr George Burger and a selection of similarly promising hearties because we loved how, on the table next to ours, somebody else had gone short rib, picked one up and found themselves with just a clean, white bone in hand: that’s how properly tender The George’s Braised Short Ribs are, served with polenta fries worth fighting for (but you don’t really need to, as they’re on the small plates selection too) and a deeply umami gravy to drench them in… all of which bodes very well for the promise of a thoroughly decent Sunday Roast here too.
But this was a Friday evening, and the time had come to leave this gently buzzing haven of merriment and make my way home, away from the flowing wine (great little list; great little prices) and the Alice in Wonderland vibe but smiling like a Cheshire Cat that this enticing combination of old-school proper hostelry and new season proper bar has made a home on the George Street strip.
Blackpool has just turned its legendary lights on for the 2025 season. But as dusk starts to set on a warm, damp September evening in Bath, George Street’s own glow-up comes into its own.
Turn left from the top of Milsom Street and both Robun and The George, on the other side of the road, immediately grab your attention in a “hey, come over here, we’re gorgeous!” fashion. Further down, The Bootlegger and Clayton’s Kitchen combine to create yet more inviting, fairy lit fusion, and even The Slug and Lettuce looks radiant (albeit in that superpub/high street chain way).
On my side of the street, the waft of warm garlic emanating from Comptoir+Cuisine is as inviting as the shimmer beyond the picture windows, and even the little shops along the way are beautifully-lit for passer-by browsing purpose (those gloves in the window of Grace & Mabel definitely have my future-fingerprints all over them).
But I refuse to be distracted! I know exactly where I’m going – and I know there’s a subtle light show waiting for me when I go off-kerb, too.
If bling’s your thing, prepare to be (subtly) dazzled at Charm Thai, where gold leaf, gold braid and gold just-about-everything reflects in the mirrors, polished floors and gold (of course) mosaic table partitions. But while the backdrop may be vibrant and the cocktails being dispatched from bar to table proudly polychromatic, the vibe is tranquil, the pace relaxed.
CT has been on George Street since, like, forever (well, circa 2010 at least, when it used to be called Panasia). A Bath Good Food Award (remember those?) dating back to 2013 still hangs in the window; the woman at the next table tells her waiter, on paying the bill, that her mum and dad used to go on date nights there when she was a kid.
But still, the restaurant looks young for its age. I’m guessing it hasn’t had many nips and tucks down the years, but it still feels fresh, sharp, au courant.
Okay, so the table menu isn’t ‘hip’; it’s laminated and crammed with photos of various dishes rather than po-faced plain typeface descriptors that assume you know your Kuey Teow from your Khao Pad – and, at first glance, it’s a hu-u-u-u-uge array that may initially overwhelm. But read between the lines and it’s a simple formula, really: a classic Thai selection available in fish/meat/veggie/vegan/spicy/not spicy/a bit spicy format.
Regular readers of my rambles know that I love Thai food – Panang in particular; in fact, I’ve been ‘working’ on my list of Top Ten Panangs in Bath since before even Panasia opened its doors. So, although I pretend to flirt with other possibilities, we all know where I’m headed when I’m on Thai territory. Similarly, I can’t move past the prospect of Prawn Tempura nor Deep Fried Squid (seasoned with tagarashi pepper at CT) for an opening gamble in an Asian restaurant, so I didn’t… and I wasn’t disappointed by either here, with the impromptu addition of Salt and Chilli Spare Ribs adding bonus satisfying intrigue.
Mr “I-have-to-try-something-new-wherever-I-go” opted for Pla Neung See Eiw for his main event: a fat, super-fresh, steamed sea bass fillet in a ginger/soy sauce strewn with multi-coloured ribbons of vegetables that all tasted like I imagine supper in a Ko Samui beachfront diner might taste like. And over in Panang corner? Goal! Sweet, plump prawns in that rich, creamy, thick, fragrant, totally Thai gravy muddle-up that is, to me, the world’s ultimate comfort food.
Both dishes came with a massive mound of rice as standard in the circa £15-£19 price (I love it when requisite sides such as rice don’t trip you up at bill time), portions were generous without being wasteful and the service was unselfconsciously friendly and cheerfully efficient. I didn’t want to leave. I already look forward to returning.
Back out on the George Street ‘strip’, a gaggle of tourists were appreciating the elegant light show on the opposite side of the road. “It all looks like one of those classy little streets off the Marais,” one of them commented. No it doesn’t, madam: it all looks like Bath at its brilliantly-lit best. And if you’re after Thai food that’s gotta rank highly on the Best Thai Food in Bath charts, Charm Thai lights up the list.
The Prandial Playground, Bath and Beyond... 