A review by Raymond Rodgers
The review that sparks an inter-generational war between an old school print critic and the vlogger/you tube generation. Let the battle begin.
Nix O’Hares, by Raymond Rodgers.
As I enter Nix O’Hares I am immediately taken back that this might be a pub masquerading as a restaurant. Have I made a mistake with my little sojourn to the countryside. Why has my editor send me here. Perhaps I am to do a penance for some hideous culinary crime lurking in my closet.
I am shown to a rather small table, by the chap who seems to be in charge. Mind you he is so casually dressed he could easily be somebody who works in one of those high street fashion chains, maybe Primark. Waitress number one is the timidest creatures I have ever encountered. Might be American, but probably Canadian as she doesn’t seem as brash. If that wasn’t bad enough, waitress two looks like she has come straight from the tattoo artists table. Why do women butcher their bodies in the pursuit of art. What will she look like at seventy when going on holiday to the Costa del Sol.
It is in inauspicious start, that I sincerely hope doesn’t permeate in to the food.
I was asked to come here off the back of a rather sickly review by Yum Yum Foods. You all know the type, a couple of silly young girls decide that their niche is reviewing restaurants. It is said that to be an expert in any sport, you need to dedicate at least ten thousand hours to it.
Dear reader, I have put in these hours, whereas these interlopers have merely connected to the internet. No formal training just an adequate Wi-Fi signal.
I commenced my journey with the Burrata, Heirloom tomatoes and chilli jam. Surely, we have gone past this silly little phase of re-imagining perfect dishes. The Caprese salad, invented for the avant-garde of Capri, is a classic and should be protected against this sort of chef banditry. The tomatoes were certainly heirlooms as they had been lurking around far too long in the fridge. The coldness destroying the flavour, definitely not autumnal. For the cheese, I expected a delicate but creamy stracciatella, instead I suffered a rather insipid Mozza.
On to the main event. I like to think that the way to truly judge a restaurant is how they deliver on the fish. I opted for the Bream, saffron butter, and asparagus. Sadly, they failed to deliver.
The fish was overcooked, more Michelin tyres than Michelin Stars. The asparagus was like a limp pencil, failing to have any personality at all. The role of the saffron butter was to light up the plate with a dazzling vibrant yellow. Instead, it was just a little…beige.
Mr Primark managed to drag himself away from generally faffing about like a social butterfly, to suggest a Sauvignon Blanc. It tasted like grape flavoured radiator fluid.
The two waitresses went back and forward from the kitchen without ever looking at me. I know I have reached a stage in life where I have become invisible to the young, but possibly in a restaurant they should check I am alright. Perhaps the tattooed one could not see through those enormous fake eyelashes.
The sight of crème caramel on a menu evokes memories from my child. My Mama would present her wide-eyed son with a wobbly dessert full of syrup. It didn’t take me there I am afraid. The custard was like something that you might cough up from a bad cold. I have no idea who Mary might be, but she certainly can’t make a crème caramel.
The chef-patron of this place is Olivia Johnson. They tell me that she is a feisty little Scot from the Lowlands of Scotland. She has been steadily building a reputation out here in the country. I asked to meet Miss Olivia, but alas she was far too busy to meet an old hack from the city.
So dear readers it is with a heavy heart that I must tell you it is one thing to be popular in the echo chambers of the blogosphere, it is quite another to consistently operate at the highest levels. It’s a no from me.