Roast Dinner: £9.95-£11.95
Avg drinks prices: Bottle cider £4.05; pint lager £3.90; soft drink £2.30
The Victory is one of my favourite pubs in Brighton. With its open fire, welcoming atmosphere and distinctly 'old man' feel, it retains a lot of character that many bars *coughNewWetherspoonscough* lack nowadays. With a friendly staff, limited floor space, funny old layout and varied, charity-shop decor, one gets a sense of coming home when they walk through the doors. It's always warm, there's always someone to chat to and even though it's in the centre of Brighton, it's rarely frequented by idiots - though maybe that has something to do with Shrek, the formidable doorman who can be found there every weekend without fail. Serving real ales, a large selection of wonderful-but-expensive ciders and hosting an annual cheese-and-cider festival, the place attracts a specific but comfortable clientele. One gets the sense that they could grab a space on the sofa and stay there all afternoon - a great little Winter retreat, though they do have a small terrace out back for the smokers and sun worshippers amongst you.
Recently, The Victory has earned it's Five-Star Score on The Door, which means that it kicks ass when it comes to cleanliness in the kitchens and throughout the bar. This meant I just had to sample the food. I started by checking out their chicken burger earlier this year and wasn't disappointed - no processed sh*te in this place; just succulent, perfectly-spiced breast atop a herby ciabatta with glorious wedges of potato. It was an excellent start, and a good indicator of what was to come when roast time came round.
Here, it's good old-fashioned order at the bar - though the waiting staff are happy to help if needed.
When we finally decided to make our way down there one sunny afternoon, we were delighted to see that they were serving an adventurous menu including ostrich and zebra. The chef was obviously feeling confident and I always appreciate a deviation from the norm. However, this doesn't mean I'm always brave, and eventually the lemon and herb chicken tempted me away from the more frivolous options - I mean, come on - who can resist half a chicken?! I let my good friend Ray sample the ostrich for me and my partner settled for the lamb. Oddly enough, The Victory also provides veggies with the option of fish pie, which to my veggie friends is a welcome change from nut roasts and mushrooms. Inspired choice, chef. All roasts come with 'all the trimmings', and the trimmings sounded phenomenal - creamed parsnips with black pepper, roast potatoes, cabbage, honey roast carrot and the all-important Yorkie. We were expecting great things to arrive not long after.
When the food arrived we were not disappointed - the wait was adequate to know that the chef hadn't shoved anything into the microwave but not so long that we became bored or, in my case, rage-filled due to hunger. The food looked succulent, crisp and fresh with a thick, dark gravy filled with herbs. The Yorkie sat atop, nothing especially huge but still resplendent and soft, keeping slightly crispy edges. My chicken was crusted with herbs, crisp skin splitting to reveal moist flesh below. It was an entire half, too - leg and all. It tasted awesome. Slightly lemony but not overpowering, with a distinct tast of thyme, it melted off the bone and worked well with the peppery creamed parsnip, which was unusual, but awesome. The skin was something else - I rarely eat chicken skin but, like The Bath Arms, this was lovely - subtly salted and giving off lovely flavours.
Ray's ostrich - well, I find it hard to comment as I've never really looked at ostrich before. I have to say, it looked like beef, though a little purple at the edges. According to Ray, it was 'okay, but a little dry - though I'm not sure that's the chef's fault.' It did look a little less appetising than the others, mainly due to it being cut like the pre-packed roast beef you get in W**herspoons, but again, I'm not sure that's the chef's fault.
Dan's lamb was crusted with garlic and rosemary, and it was slightly pink, crisp at the edges and thickly cut. He remarked 'ooh, that's good', whilst devouring a mouthful; praise indeed from such a man. I did sample a portion and it was lovely - not fatty at all, not chewy - just soft, herby and delicious.
However. This was not the perfect roast. And when the letdown came, boy, was it a big one.
The potatoes looked well-done; from the outside they were crisp, slightly charred and waxy. I was really looking forward to eating them. However, when I cut into them, they were dry and powdery and needed the assistance of the remaining gravy to help allay the arrid texture. With the meat, they were ok, but nothing more than just that - ok. I was expecting phenomenal, and I felt truly let down. After all, spuds are, following the meat and Yorkie, the most important part of the plate - no?
On the whole, though, the portion was a good size and you do get your money's worth at this place. They don't scrimp on veg - I had a good five carrots on my plate and a hearty lump of cinnamon-spiced cabbage - and they don't drizzle the gravy on, like some pubs do. You have to hand it to them, they're not stingy.
I do feel that I have to remove some marks from this place for the prices of beverages, though. Over £4.00 for a bottle of cider might be the shape of things to come in Brighton, but I really do resent it. It's one of the most expensive 'old man' venues in the city and you do pay for the atmosphere. A night out post-roast could end up costing a packet. However, if it's what keeps the idiot army out, then I suppose I should be all for it.
7/10
6 Duke Street, Brighton BN1 1AH
Tel: 01273 326555
Credit/debit cards accepted
Limited seating; get there early
Showing posts with label alternative roast. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alternative roast. Show all posts
05 January, 2011
24 April, 2010
No Name Pub
Roast dinner: £8.50-£9.50
Avg drinks prices: Pint lager £3.80, bottle cider £4.00, half pint coke £1.60
Desserts approx £4.50
After reading up on No Name on the net, and following rave reviews by friends and acquaintances, I was greatly looking forward to sampling what promised to be an utter delight. We decided not to attempt to climb Everest - Hanover and I do not mix, ever since I dated a guy on Whichelow Place (the relationship just wasn't worth the, quite literally, uphill struggle) and whilst I am not unfit, I do like to be alive when I eat my roasts. So, a taxi it was, and up we went to the crest of the mountain, where waited a very inconspicuous looking joint. No Name is not a fancy schmancy gastro-pub; instead, it delights on being low-key and unpretentious. This is a good thing. The more 'old man'-style a pub is, the more points it racks up on my list.
However, on entering we were disappointed to see that the biggest table, the table that would have held all seven of us, had been swiped by none other than Brighton's biggest foe - the Middle Class Family. And not a big family, but just two small children no older than five, a distressed-looking mother and a father who was actually sat on another table across from the aforementioned Goliath table. Truly, truly infuriating. Plenty of smaller tables around, but would they budge so we could sit together? Would they bloody hell. So instead, we had to spread ourselves out over three smaller tables, one of which was a good three metres away from the others. This is where the nightmare began.
My friends went to order their roasts before us, so we could save their tables. It was looking good - the menu had a wide variety on offer, including some more fancy and unusual meats - I spotted venison, ostrich, wild boar and springbok. We all went for a wide range, taking advantage of the opportunity to try something new. However, once our friends got back and we headed for the bar, we realised that this was not to be. Our arrival at the bar was followed closely by the arrival of one of the barmen's friends, and so he duly ignored us (despite us getting their first by minutes) and proceeded to have a chat with his mate, who then decided to order twelve drinks, one at a time (Guinness last, natch), followed by twelve roasts, one at a time. This absolutely infuriated me, but the barman did not seem to care. We waited at the bar for a grand total of twenty-three minutes before being informed that the aforementioned customer had taken the last of the venison and springbok. Great. Non-apologetic, the barman continued to converse with his friends instead of focusing on us and did not offer any explanation as to why we had been overlooked. Instead, we reluctantly plumped for beef and sat down to wait.
This is the point at which it becomes a Tale of Two Roasts. Ten minutes after we'd finally ordered, our friends' roasts arrived. They looked delicious. Sumptuous, if small, portions of meat sat atop the potatoes, which were were slightly burned at the edges and creamy in the centre and the gravy was plentiful. The veg, served in a separate bowl, was honeyed, crisp and colourful. The sounds coming from the tables indicated that they were enjoying what they were consuming. We watched, jealousy flooding our veins, waiting on our not-as-exciting beef to arrive. In fact, we were still waiting as our friends polished off their dinners altogether and went to order dessert. We were still waiting when those desserts arrived. And we were still waiting when those desserts were polished off. In the end, it was a grand total of one hour and twelve minutes before our dinners finally arrived - and that was, quite conspicuously, after we made a request as to where they were.
It was not worth the wait. Our roasts looked nothing like the ones we'd seen previously. A limp, lacklustre slice of fatty beef swam in a congealed puddle of gravy; the potatoes had become soggy and the only veg we'd received in our separate bowl were overcooked peas, limp (suspiciously looking like frozen) carrots and mushy cabbage. It was a mess. However, we were so very hungry that we decided to tuck in; we couldn't risk having to wait another hour for our dinners to arrive. Big mistake.
The meat was cold, the gravy was thick and had a skin on it. The veg were sloppy and overdone. In comparison to the sounds of delight we'd heard earlier, the sounds I now heard were sounds of disgust. It was truly disgusting. The plate was extremely hot, which suggested that it had been sat on a hotplate for some time while the waiters did whatever with their time.
After choking it down, we noticed that different tables around us had started to send their roasts back. It was here that we realised that we should maybe have done the same - after all, I come from Hove and was a long walk from home, having paid the taxi fare to get there in the first place. We counted - fifteen roasts went back to the kitchen. We decided to speak up.
I managed to grab the waiter and told him of our woes - he was extremely apologetic and took our plates up to the kitchen. On his return, he stated that the chef was willing to offer free desserts, but they couldn't do much else as we'd eaten the roasts. Fair enough. We accepted the free desserts (except one, who couldn't face any more 'food') and plumped for white chocolate cheesecake, which was excellent - rich and creamy, with a tangy orange kick. It was a shame the rest of the meal didn't match up. We were told that the kitchen were a porter short and that a barman had not shown up - I did not accept this as a decent excuse as to why the food was so horrific. I got the vibe that here, the barpeople were more concerned with image and socialising than with decent customer service, which led me to believe that they could have had thirty staff on, and we still would have had a terrible experience because we did not wear fake glasses, or wear skinny jeans and loafers without socks, or have backcombed hair. The waiter we spoke to was the only one we'd interacted with who seemed to care, and he got the brunt of our rage - I'd like to apologise to him again, because he really was the only one who treated us with respect.
In conclusion - I don't think I'll ever be visiting No Name again - despite the gorgeous roasts I'd seen, it's just not worth the taxi fare or the risk.
3.5/10
No Name Pub, 58 Southover Street, Brighton BN2 9UF
Tel: 01273 601419
Credit/debit cards accepted
Avg drinks prices: Pint lager £3.80, bottle cider £4.00, half pint coke £1.60
Desserts approx £4.50
After reading up on No Name on the net, and following rave reviews by friends and acquaintances, I was greatly looking forward to sampling what promised to be an utter delight. We decided not to attempt to climb Everest - Hanover and I do not mix, ever since I dated a guy on Whichelow Place (the relationship just wasn't worth the, quite literally, uphill struggle) and whilst I am not unfit, I do like to be alive when I eat my roasts. So, a taxi it was, and up we went to the crest of the mountain, where waited a very inconspicuous looking joint. No Name is not a fancy schmancy gastro-pub; instead, it delights on being low-key and unpretentious. This is a good thing. The more 'old man'-style a pub is, the more points it racks up on my list.
However, on entering we were disappointed to see that the biggest table, the table that would have held all seven of us, had been swiped by none other than Brighton's biggest foe - the Middle Class Family. And not a big family, but just two small children no older than five, a distressed-looking mother and a father who was actually sat on another table across from the aforementioned Goliath table. Truly, truly infuriating. Plenty of smaller tables around, but would they budge so we could sit together? Would they bloody hell. So instead, we had to spread ourselves out over three smaller tables, one of which was a good three metres away from the others. This is where the nightmare began.
My friends went to order their roasts before us, so we could save their tables. It was looking good - the menu had a wide variety on offer, including some more fancy and unusual meats - I spotted venison, ostrich, wild boar and springbok. We all went for a wide range, taking advantage of the opportunity to try something new. However, once our friends got back and we headed for the bar, we realised that this was not to be. Our arrival at the bar was followed closely by the arrival of one of the barmen's friends, and so he duly ignored us (despite us getting their first by minutes) and proceeded to have a chat with his mate, who then decided to order twelve drinks, one at a time (Guinness last, natch), followed by twelve roasts, one at a time. This absolutely infuriated me, but the barman did not seem to care. We waited at the bar for a grand total of twenty-three minutes before being informed that the aforementioned customer had taken the last of the venison and springbok. Great. Non-apologetic, the barman continued to converse with his friends instead of focusing on us and did not offer any explanation as to why we had been overlooked. Instead, we reluctantly plumped for beef and sat down to wait.
This is the point at which it becomes a Tale of Two Roasts. Ten minutes after we'd finally ordered, our friends' roasts arrived. They looked delicious. Sumptuous, if small, portions of meat sat atop the potatoes, which were were slightly burned at the edges and creamy in the centre and the gravy was plentiful. The veg, served in a separate bowl, was honeyed, crisp and colourful. The sounds coming from the tables indicated that they were enjoying what they were consuming. We watched, jealousy flooding our veins, waiting on our not-as-exciting beef to arrive. In fact, we were still waiting as our friends polished off their dinners altogether and went to order dessert. We were still waiting when those desserts arrived. And we were still waiting when those desserts were polished off. In the end, it was a grand total of one hour and twelve minutes before our dinners finally arrived - and that was, quite conspicuously, after we made a request as to where they were.
It was not worth the wait. Our roasts looked nothing like the ones we'd seen previously. A limp, lacklustre slice of fatty beef swam in a congealed puddle of gravy; the potatoes had become soggy and the only veg we'd received in our separate bowl were overcooked peas, limp (suspiciously looking like frozen) carrots and mushy cabbage. It was a mess. However, we were so very hungry that we decided to tuck in; we couldn't risk having to wait another hour for our dinners to arrive. Big mistake.
The meat was cold, the gravy was thick and had a skin on it. The veg were sloppy and overdone. In comparison to the sounds of delight we'd heard earlier, the sounds I now heard were sounds of disgust. It was truly disgusting. The plate was extremely hot, which suggested that it had been sat on a hotplate for some time while the waiters did whatever with their time.
After choking it down, we noticed that different tables around us had started to send their roasts back. It was here that we realised that we should maybe have done the same - after all, I come from Hove and was a long walk from home, having paid the taxi fare to get there in the first place. We counted - fifteen roasts went back to the kitchen. We decided to speak up.
I managed to grab the waiter and told him of our woes - he was extremely apologetic and took our plates up to the kitchen. On his return, he stated that the chef was willing to offer free desserts, but they couldn't do much else as we'd eaten the roasts. Fair enough. We accepted the free desserts (except one, who couldn't face any more 'food') and plumped for white chocolate cheesecake, which was excellent - rich and creamy, with a tangy orange kick. It was a shame the rest of the meal didn't match up. We were told that the kitchen were a porter short and that a barman had not shown up - I did not accept this as a decent excuse as to why the food was so horrific. I got the vibe that here, the barpeople were more concerned with image and socialising than with decent customer service, which led me to believe that they could have had thirty staff on, and we still would have had a terrible experience because we did not wear fake glasses, or wear skinny jeans and loafers without socks, or have backcombed hair. The waiter we spoke to was the only one we'd interacted with who seemed to care, and he got the brunt of our rage - I'd like to apologise to him again, because he really was the only one who treated us with respect.
In conclusion - I don't think I'll ever be visiting No Name again - despite the gorgeous roasts I'd seen, it's just not worth the taxi fare or the risk.
3.5/10
No Name Pub, 58 Southover Street, Brighton BN2 9UF
Tel: 01273 601419
Credit/debit cards accepted
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