Blue moons, it seems, do appear in our skies at times. It must be so since the chances of finding me in horrible Digbeth on a Saturday evening are only those which would match up with such an astronomical phenomenon occurring, but there I was, feeling rather, I should think, as 83 year old Ian McKellan might have done playing 30 year old Hamlet (I had travelled to Windsor to see this great moment in modern English theatre only two days before). I would not have been there except that I was finally making my way to Kray Tredwell’s sixteen-seater 670 Grams in the heart of the Custard Factory (Brummies will know what I mean) having made a reservation as soon as the third lockdown was ended. Small and easily walked past, I finally identified the restaurant’s location and was rewarded by a seat at the only table on the balcony (though normally in the theatre I prefer the front stalls though to be fair my table was in the front stalls, a couple of metres away from the pass and the minute kitchen where Chef himself, at least for the first part of the meal, was a soloist.
And what a treat. Chef, down to earth, without any drama, delivered a spectacular performance in his minute theatre revealing why Michelin decided that he should be named Best newcomer of 2021. Cutting edge, restrained eccentricity, inventive genius, mischievous, witty, humorous with a dark side - all thoughts that can come to mind in the presence of Tredwell’s cooking. And you might add “frequently delicious” and scattered with “wows” and full of unexpected surprising pleasures and flavours and textures. Great stuff and this performance is taking place at a small gastronomic theatre here in Birmingham and nowhere else.
We might think also that a chef of this calibre might work in a larger establishment and make a lot more money but here he is in a sort of Bohemia (well, perhaps that’s a little too romantic a word to apply to Digbeth) with a maximum of 16 covers. This surely is the Chef as artist. Though presently at any one performance he is an artist with a small audience but he certainly had one member of that audience ready to give him a standing ovation at the end of it all just as Ian McKellan had received 2 nights before as Hamlet was sung to his rest by flights of angels.
So, what did I have?
There’s a hotel in Weston Super Mare, dating back to the 1960s and often visited by Lucy the Labrador and I when she seems to be in need of a swim in the sea, which still serves melon balls as starters. This came to mind when Chef delivered to my table-with-a-view, a funky little plate with two small slices of charred melon on it. Of course they had been worked on, apple and sake had been involved, and fine little bites of melon they were. A witty little start. And made all the happier accompanied by the cocktail I had chosen - surely one of the most enjoyable I have consumed in my forty year-plus history of cocktail guzzling - Practical Magic, a sublime frozen Margarita raised to the highest heights by the presence of fennel, more liquorice than aniseed.
Let’s move along. A natty little poached oyster served with an unlikely but brilliantly matched strawberry and kimchi soup and enough ocsietra caviar to make it worthwhile. Memorable. The little dishes kept coming. Miniature instances of luxury; particularly so was Bread, a litotes of a name if ever I have heard one. Very edible bread flavoured with the products of preparing lobster, and the flavour was wonderful, with a glorious ‘butter’ of herb oil and cheese spread all served with a claw of lobster made exquisitely luxurious with a little decoration of gold leaf and served as a lobster Mac. So far - oyster, caviar, lobster, gold; Chef you are spoiling us to paraphrase the old Ferrero Roche advert. And we have got no further so far than the serving of the bread.
Fish courses proper next. First a very pretty plate with finely cooked halibut on it with slivers of black radish - which did not seem to do too much for the dish in respect of either flavour or texture - plus buttermilk which was more relevant. Then a piece of robust salt cod with ackee, crispy wild rice and plantain. Heavy in flavour, the little crunches of rice adding texture to the sensitively judged salinity of it all.
And now meat. I relived McKellen’s Hamlet performance with the vaguely gruesome but hilarious sawn-through skull ceramic dish held in my palm, Alas poor Yorick-fashion, the cavity full of shiny, garishly red, fresh road kill-like crispy chicken in a spicy sauce (Hamlet might have tortured Ophelia with a sight of it causing an instant meltdown) and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Then pork belly cured in soy braised (for six hours I think) in a south East Asian style with lemon grass, chilli, egg yolk - a generous portion but I thought a little dry but still very tasty and eatable. Inevitably I especially enjoyed the sweet chunks of pineapple in the dish which rounded it off in a very happy way.
And still more meat - a great dish, Mutton dressed up as lamb, the scintillating, full bodied-flavour of shockingly delicious mutton - sheep at its peak of tastiness - who wants the subtlety of a poor young lamb when you can get the rapturous flavour of a sheep who has had a bit of experience in its life and translated it into undiluted taste-bud zapping pleasure? What a gem.
The finishing tape is in sight. A remarkable transition towards hints of sweetness with a cucumber cream with tiny cubes of jelly and shocks of pickle (in comes mango and lime) and a tasty cucumber crisp to eat in the way the English start an Indian meal with a poppadom (though in texture more of a prawn cracker) and splashes of raita on it coupled with a pickle and a mango chutney. Tie me down for eternity and force this dish into my mouth and I know that, though a sinner, I am in Heaven.
The fine dessert was Tredwell’s final artistic act of the evening (well, not quite final, there was a miso flavoured tuile to accompany the coffee) and it was time to go taking in the mural art on the way out (including that to be found in the lavatory) which is certainly a quirky little room.
This is not quite the smallest restaurant in Birmingham (see below) but it almost is and it is also the most exciting in the city where the standard of food and gastronomy is exceptional. Some may not feel comfortable there - some would no doubt moan about the music but it’s a question of being aware of what to expect though still leaving oneself open for the unexpected. The short wine list has some excellent wines on it. From kitchen porter at Purnell’s to master of his own kitchen, Kray Tredwell is probably Birmingham’s best example of the chef as artist. As I write, I feel the need to make another reservation for 670 Grams and experience it all again.
To coincide with my visit to 670 Grams I decided to stay at The Grand Hotel for a couple of nights and thought I would give Isaac’s another try even though my first visit had not really been a great joy to me (Blog 161). To be fair, there’s so much about the restaurant that pleases - charming and enthusiastic but not overbearing front of house staff, the vibrancy of the atmosphere (the volume of noise the diners produced on this visit seemed more bearable than on my first visit), the spectacular decor but I think I’ve put my finger on the problem - New York-style food - it’s hard to dignify with the term cuisine - is just not that good. As a concept it seems like a great idea - the throb of New York in booming Birmingham - but the stuff they eat in New York is just not that thrilling. It’s not as though the kitchen doesn’t try hard - it turns out some fine-looking food but the plethora of slaws, fries, burgers, steaks, hot dog (of which more) and dips is ultimately good on paper but less good in reality. I’m not fussy about ‘healthy food’ but there’s something disconcerting about these dishes coming out of a kitchen at Birmingham’s outstanding hotel, you just know you’re shortening your life just by looking at them.
To start I had unctious spare ribs with a tasty spicy finger-engulfing marinade oozing from them. Very edible. Then an old favourite from my infancy - hot dog (see Blog 110) - which came out looking very glamorous (minus the irritating string fries at my request - I was having a side dish of real chips, sorry, fries) with a slaw. Much of the fault is mine - I chose the hot dog even though it of course contained a frankfurter which I have never loved (though a great English banger delights me unerringly) - so I ate it with less enthusiasm than I might otherwise have done. I should have asked for the mustard to have been left off as well. The frankfurter was accompanied by some delightfully sweet onions and served on a lovely brioche. The chips, sorry, fries were as good as one might have hoped for.
Earlier on my arrival in my room I had been delighted to have a plate of Madeleines delivered as a welcoming gift. And excellent they were too.
During my stay at The Grand I followed up on my foray into the consumption of baos which had begun a week before at the Longbridge Dining Club (see Blog 168) and my bao experiences rapidly reached a Birmingham peak with a visit to the much admired Tiger Bites Pig in Stephenson Street for a lunchtime bite which necessarily had to be a small one with dinner at 670 Grams booked for the early evening. It’s a nice little eight seater place without any space for pretensions (is this the smallest restaurant in Birmingham?). I sat at the counter which was offputtingly sticky until it was explained to me that the area was clean but the varnish was sticky. So that was alright then; straight on to order a braised pork belly bao served with stir-fried pickled mustard greens, crushed peanut and coriander. A great pleasure was derived from this little cloud containing several chunks of fattily-tasty pork belly swamped in umami and pricked through by the pickle and given crunch by the peanut. A little gem that opens the door to many future visits. I drank triple ginger kombucha to wash it down.
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