The instructions from Dad were clear; somewhere warm, not too noisy, ideally with table clothes. Nothing mentioned about the food funnily enough, the importance of which clearly diminishes with age. I send a shortlist over to him – all places I have wanted to dine at – including Tom’s Kitchen, where I neglect to mention the lack of table clothes. I’ve been looking forward to eating here since it launched in January. Dad, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to live without linen for the evening.
The restaurant is in a curious location on the first floor of the Mailbox, tucked away by the escalators, well away from the mediocre chains that dominate the waterside bars and restaurants out back. Like me, the interior is classy and well groomed, all dark wood and oversized mustard leather sofas. It could be improved with white table clothes. Ha! Not really. I’m shitting you.
The menu is mostly bistro classics given the Tom Aikens treatment. And fermented carrots. I have to mention these because my Dad thinks the notion of them is hilarious in only the way a man in his mid-sixties from Macclesfield can. He insists that we have them for the table. The fine slithers have a little bite and the hint of spice. The fermentation process has imparted an almost curry-like flavour. They are the future. I know, I’ve tasted them.
I’m not adult enough to be able to resist burrata, but I’m not convinced that the orange dressing and linaseed cracker are the best accompanent for the cream rich cheese. I quickly enforce a hostile takeover of my boyfriend’s rabbit rillettes on account of him looking far too happy. His loss is my gain, as I scoop the mild meat and crunchy piccalilli on to the thinnest of toast. It makes me want to eat rabbit more often.
My main of duck is delicious; the meat is cooked to medium, the skin crisp. The mushroom risotto is all parts delicious, accurately timed and deep with umami. A broth sits around the edge of the bowl that packs a mighty hit of mushroom flavour. At £24 it’s not cheap but it’s well worth every penny of Daddy’s money.
A burger is one of the cheaper mains on the menu at £17, but for that money it needs to be a bloody good burger – especially given it would buy two at OPM and leave change. It is very good – a fat puck of properly aged cow that blushes pink in the centre. I have a little issue with the brioche bun, the bottom half of which quickly breaks down to a nothing with the wet elements. The chips are delicious. I try a bit of Dad’s trout and get why he is so enthused. The skin is crisp, the flesh moist. The parsley and lettuce sauce is vivid in colour and flavour. It is simple and so tasty. The trout, that is, not my Father. That would be weird.
Only one dessert is ordered which divides opinion. I like it, which is all that matters. It is listed as a rum baba, a description that sends the other half into a fit of anger when it arrives. It’s not a baba blah blah blah he says. It’s just noise. The cylindrical sponge has the faint kick of booze and splodges of chantilly cream. Strawberries are present in freeze dried, ice cream, and fresh form. I don’t care how authentic it is, because it’s very, very nice.
I don’t see the bill, but fifty quid a head with wine is probably about right. I think that’s fair for what was a really excellent meal. Everything we ate was executed with skill and precision; as far as bistro style food goes for me it ticks all the boxes. Apart from table clothes, that is. But that’s another story all together.
Find Tom’s Kitchen in The Mailbox, Birmingham, B1 1RS.