The Times Magazine 81If I’d known they weren’t, I wouldn’t
have booked a space at the counter at Burnt
Orange in Brighton last week; I’d have tucked
myself away in a corner like I used to. But
I was travelling up alone to have a look at
what the guys behind the awfully successful
Salt Room and Coal Shed were up to, and
thought that a bar seat would be less lonely.
It’s a beautifully refurbished site on Middle
Lane, just left off the main road down from
the station before you get to the sea, full of
wood, stone, leather and umber tones that
speak of food grilled rustically over smoking
coals, long before you get to the open kitchen
at the back, where four young men are grilling
rustically, over smoking coals.
They put me on the corner stool at the end
of the bar, in front of the pass, looking straight
at head chef Peter Dantanus as he plated each
dish. Behind him, the firemen, the choppers and
flippers and roasters, huddled and mustered.
Normally, it would have been fine, but I’d just
seen Boiling Point the night before. So suddenly
I noticed the guy at the back look over at me,
double-take and nearly chop his finger off.
I saw him whisper to the bloke next to him and
tell him not to look. The bloke waited seven or
eight seconds and then turned and looked at
me and then up at the ceiling behind me, as if
checking the extractor unit was still there. And
then he told another guy and he told Dantanus,
but he already knew and shuffled them quietly
back to work. And I just felt terrible.
Look, maybe they didn’t care what I thought,
maybe they actively hated me for things I’d
written before, or for any number of perfectly
good reasons, but on the other hand maybe
they dreamt of a great review in The Times,
or knew that their mum did, or their financial
backer. Maybe, like in the film, one of them
was in catastrophic debt, one was self-harming
from the stress of the kitchen, one had just
left his wife, and it was all they could do to
get food on plates for normal punters, let
alone the bastard critic sitting there, staring
at them, like a big, fat, judgmental toad.
Was that vodka in their water bottles, like in
the film? Were they all off their tits? Was there
a big bag of coke in a desk drawer out back?
I would say, to these last questions,
categorically not. Because service was
seamless, quiet, mellow, respectful and the
product quite wonderful, both visually and in
the chewing. It was just me that was on edge,
primed by the movie to regard myself as a
potential catalyst for terrible stress and them
as, well, people with actual lives that could, in
theory, be made less livable by me.
So I kept my head down and stared at my
menu of snacks, starters, “wood-fired” things
and sides, although I chose what to eat from
the dishes being crafted in front of my eyes, as
Dantanus took things from the men behind him
and finished them with tweaks and flourishes.
There was wood-fired flatbread, brown
and pitta-like, rather than fluffy and naan-ish,puffed up like a football, then slowly deflating
under a pool of hot brown butter; spiced raw
beef, heaped onto rectangles of crispy polenta
then covered with grated pecorino at the pass
and scattered with chives; and crispy smoked
lamb shoulder cigars which I couldn’t not
order, having watched Dantanus slice one
and lay it criss-cross over a pat of Padrón
pepper-piqued yoghurt with caperberry slivers
and sultanas and possibly za’atar (which plays
its own villainous role in Boiling Point).
The grilled marinated prawns also looked
amazing, but they were hefty ones, and there
were four of them and I knew that they would
kill me, appetite-wise, for giant prawns are
truly the carbohydrate protein, a huge natural
cannolo of superdense flesh. Nor could I risk
the huge tangle of spiced calamari fritti with
preserved lemon aïoli, for that is beer food
for sharing with friends, and I didn’t have any.
Beer, that is. Or friends, for that matter.
But the grilled Sussex halloumi looked
too good not to have: two wide slices bubbling
on the skillet to be slid onto spiced fig honey,
pine nuts and mint. And from there I couldn’t
quite make it to actual meat, great though
the mangalitza pork belly and lamb kofta
sounded. So I kept it plant-based with
some super-slithery smoked miso aubergine,
disciplined with crispy onions and sour cream,
and a plate of barbecued pumpkin, charrily
meaty in its own way, with spiced ricotta
and pickled mushrooms.
No room for pudding, obvs. I’d already
snarfed down eight dishes after my server
had expressly instructed me to choose two or
three, maximum four. And that gluttony led
me to my only quibble. Not a complaint, Lord
knows. I don’t want you to think I was sat
there like some goddam line judge shouting,
“Fault!” when tiny things displeased me.
My overall verdict is, “Hurrah!” But when
a kitchen is doing so much with each dish,
putting so many flavours on each plate, you
can start to feel a little overwhelmed. Certain
notes can seem to repeat quite often, in a meal
that is honestly not repetitious in the least.
But, like I said, that’s my own fault for going
alone and ordering too much and getting in
everyone’s way and freaking everyone out.
Especially with all their debt and stress and
marital problems and drug habits and... Oh
no, wait, that’s not Burnt Orange, that’s Boiling
Point. Must try to separate truth and fiction.
Last thing I want is Stephen Graham coming
at me with a meat cleaver. nBurnt Orange
59 Middle Street,
Brighton (01273 929923;
burnt-orange.co.uk)
Cooking 8
Location 8
Vibes 8
Score 8
Price There is a
nine-dish sharing
menu for two or
more people priced
at £35pp, which is
absurdly great value.