8
Unit 8,
8 Centenary Square,
Birmingham;
0333 772 9329,
about8.co.uk
T
he road to 8 is long and
complex. There are the
emails after booking,
more than 1,200 words
of instruction, terms
and conditions, links
and questions. (“Please
ensure you complete
the pre-visit questions
as soon as possible as
failure to complete
them may mean an important
aspect is overlooked ... for which
we cannot be responsible for
[sic].”) There’s a phone call: will
we require an extra 12th course?
Do we want the drinks pairing?
Dunno, pal — can I decide on
the night? Then there’s actually
getting there, over the Black
Sabbath Bridge, along the canal,
through a fake flower bower and
back out again as we’re in Craft,
8’s sister restaurant, and finally
led by a leather-aproned youth to
the bowels of the International
Convention Centre. Phew.
But it’s worth it for the
exceptional cooking. The chef
Andrew Sheridan has been
brought on board to address the
shambles that was the sprawling,
multipart Craft (when even
local press savages a restaurant,
you know you’re in trouble).
I get the sense that being given
autonomy over his own chef ’s
table set-up might have been
the carrot to get this peripatetic
star-chaser to take the bigger gig.
As we sit in purple-stained
gloom, banger after banger
arrives on the spotlit counter.
Eleven courses, we’re told —
though a couple of them might
be stretching the definition.
Let them have the smoke and
mirrors because they’re
beautiful — glossy Japanese milk
bread, sweet and comforting,
with fine butter; a tiny cup of
glittering, limpid broth thattastes like the lifeblood of every
great vegetable, as energising
as a shot of caffeine. (But even
counting these and a duo of
petit fours — oh my, the tiny
cronutty thing — I only get to
ten. Nitpicking, I guess.)
Dishes seem to be themed
around the number eight for
reasons too arcane and
convoluted to go into. Oh, OK,
a perfect scallop and apple
course — the sweetness of the
shellfish highlighted by the fruit,
its sauce ringing with something
powerfully umami, perhaps
katsuobushi, maybe a touch of
sorrel oil — is titled “8 Days a
Week”. It’s something about the
Beatles and Apple and Sheridan
coming from Liverpool, I think:
I’m joining dots retrospectivelyas there’s no menu and nobody
tells us much about anything.
On one wall is a frozen-screened
TV — apparently it used to
broadcast the “story” of each
dish; having now seen some of
the ponderous clips, I can only
count this a lucky escape.
Still, it might have helped
during the opening salvo, which
I find out afterwards is picnic-
themed: delicate tartelette of
beef tartare, funky with ceps,
truffles, mustard (meat pie?
Steak bake?); an eggshell with a
creamy layer topped with the
pop of salmon roe (salmon and
cream cheese? Egg mayo?); an
airy gougère stuffed with suave,
cheesy-oniony emulsion (cheese
and onion crisps?). Whatever:
each tiny mouthful is mighty.TA B L E TA L K●Marina O'Loughlin
A procession of dreamy dishes
with a side order of sinister
We’ve decided against the
drinks pairing, which could be
a mistake. A big mistake. During
all the pre-dining instructions it
might have been helpful to know
there’s only a perfunctory wine
list. (They offer us La Chenaye
Sancerre, a luscious sauvignon
blanc, for 80 quid — retail
about £20.) But the homemade
cherryade that accompanies
this first course, insanely sweet
and cloying, boozy Benylin,
makes me think we might have
had lucky escape No 2.
Anyway, dish after dish
continues to thrill: a thick disc
of cod, seared almost into a crisp
on top but flaking lushly into its
curry-kissed champagne sauce,
inky smoked roe giving it a butch
bass note (“Chip-shop curryCod is seared almost into a crisp
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46 • The Sunday Times Magazine