It was tricky to figure out which restaurant to review first.
I wanted it to be somewhere with history and context. A place I had a relationship with. Somewhere other eager beavers hadn’t already covered.
I settled on The Lido for a number of reasons. Principally, because it’s somewhere that I used to eat, a lot.
In 2017, I had a very odd year. I’d taken on Abergavenny Food Festival, which required me to be in Wales. I was living in the woods in Tintern. But, my kids were at school in Bristol. I became someone who basically lived out of her car. I often needed somewhere to work, while I waited to taxi the family back across the bridge.
Bristol Lido became my home from home. Quietly tucked away in the back corner of the downstairs bar, I would hog the only table with access to a plug socket (I know!) and order just enough tapas to justify my presence. The head chef was a friend. The staff were kind enough to ignore me. It’s where my daughter enjoyed her fifteenth birthday, and where I used to take my teams for celebratory post-production dinners.
It felt fitting for this first experiment to be a returning. Over the last few years, I’d visited only a handful of times. Would it feel the same? Had the menu changed? How had the dining room moved on?
Because the weight of my own historical expectations isn’t enough pressure to dump on a dinner, I decide to invite my ex-partner along as my guest. We had life business to discuss. On reflection, it wasn’t a very fair test. The odds were stacked against it being a pleasurable experience.
On arrival, we were shown upstairs to a light, airy space - all blonde wood, big windows and prints of European market-produce. Our table overlooked the pool. Dusk stretched out above us, while evening swimmers bobbed below. Fairy lights reflected off damp shoulders. The effect was one of soothing calm. Ideal.
The restaurant wasn’t overly busy for a Friday evening, but sufficiently full, mostly with couples of a similar age. The Lido is the perfect spot for a date. I’d be impressed, I think, by a guy that picked it. The perfect balance of good food, relaxed vibes and an ambience, which we describe as ‘en-pointe.’
The menu feels fresh, but with some very familiar touches. Dishes I associate only with this place, still feature. Those scallops drowning in butter and herbs. A gutsy provencal style fish soup, I’ve had a few times before. The unifying theme is top quality mediterranean produce, treated with a little love and served in hearty portions. Big flavours, but a lightness of touch. A reverence for the quality of the product.
We order salted almonds and anchovies, to nibble while we decide. Settle on a crisp bottle of Grillo, from a reasonably priced and fairly accessible wine-list.
The anchovies arrive, neither fresh, nor completely cured. They sit somewhere in-between. Stronger than a fresh anchovy would be, but so lightly cured that they still have that fresh-fish bite. No overly salted, hairy little umami bombs here. These are drowning in a thick slick of pepper-fresh olive oil. The combination of the two is an enjoyable punch on the tongue.
I’m intrigued by innovative toppings for oysters. I order one single, lonesome morsel. My ex doesn’t eat them, and I ponder briefly how it is that I spent twenty-two years with this man.
This is a big oyster. The - almost too much of a mouthful - size. The kind that potentially leaves you a little overwhelmed. I’ve had some fairly sketchy oysters at other establishments recently. You’d think this might mean I’d stop trying to eat them, but no. I’m a glutten for the game of mollusc roulette.
Any fears I might have prove entirely unfounded. This oyster (by Maldon) is a joy. Topped with fresh chunks of bitter green mandarin, finished with a warm hit of chipotle. The meat is firm, not too juicy. It slips down, requiring one small bite in the mouth, leaving a lingering tingle of the tongue. I smile, and find I’m enjoying myself inspite of the company.
We opt for two starters, but decide to share a main course. Mains start at £22 for the veggie option, rising to £60/£80 for larger shared meat and fish dishes. I’m trying to ensure that no meal I review costs more than £150 for two. Here in Clifton, you can quickly surpass that amount.
The mushroom and Jerusalem artichoke is a highlight. Crispy, caramelised girolles are arranged in a messy heap, with earthy nugs of artichoke - toasty at the edges, but sufficiently fluffy inside. Curls of manchego add the salty notes needed to cut the richness. A lightly confited egg-yolk mixes beautifully. Like an Autumnal, vegetarian tartare. I drop a blob down my front. The ex rolls his eyes and sighs.
Clams come adorned with crisp chunks of belly pork in rich tomato sauce. Seafood and pig is a winning combination. But, he feels the sauce ‘could be richer,’ and I begrudgingly agree. I like my tomatoes to be a powerhouse of flavour, and this doesn’t quite hit the mark. We ask for bread for soaking nonetheless. Stretchy sourdough from The Angel Bakery is a familiar blast from the past. It provides the perfect sauce absorption ratio, although their crusts are still a bit too crusty for my liking.
A whole John Dory comes on the bone, smothered in borlotti beans, wilted spinach and a lemony buerre blanc. The fish lifts from the bone with ease and glimmers it’s audacious perlecance at me. I think about how I enjoy serving portions onto our individual plates, but wonder if some could feel a bit out of their depth? It might be a nice touch for staff to enquire whether a guest needs help.
Service overall is friendly, personable and efficient. The traditionally, Breton-striped floor staff appear at the appropriate moments, but disappear as needed. We’re balancing dinner with some fairly instense conversation, and at no point do we feel intruded upon.
There’s a lull while we wait to order dessert, but it may simply be that I’ve grown bored of the company. I am very tempted by the Valrhona chocolate mouse and a beautiful selection of raw-milk cheeses. But, we’ve made the rooky mistake of filling up early, and I don’t want to push cordial relations between me and my dining partner.
In the end, we give dessert a miss and get while the getting is good.
Once at home, I reflect on what an inordinate amount of pressure that was to put on my first meal out. We managed to cordially discuss dishes and flavours, without incident, maintain civil conversation and pay attention to our surroundings... it’s all feels like growth.
The Lido, with it’s soothing aquatic ambience and attentive service has provided the perfect backdrop for our challenging not-a-date. I’m proud. We made it through a meal together and managed (mostly) to behave like civil adults.
How fitting, I think, as I take myself off to bed, that growth and maturity might also be reflected by the kitchen. Consistency was a challenge under the old team, but this experience felt incredibly well-held. There was a confidence and calmness to service. A tone so often set by the person in charge.
After all this time, it still feels like a home from home. Safe. Welcoming. Somewhere I can dependably rely on to serve up great food, while tackling the joyously sticky business of being family.
A few days later, I popped back to The Lido, for a follow-up conversation with head-chef, Pash Peters.
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