With the scripture of seasonality, sustainability, root-to-fruit, nipple-to-scrotum worshipped as loudly as it ever has been, especially in Bristol — a city that couldn’t be any more left wing if it had Ryan Giggs’ curly mop flying down the flank on his way to shag his brother’s wife — a certain Stokes Croft veteran seems to have been left out of the conversation. Poco was once the darling of a nascent green scene, both locally and nationally, from its dainty corner site overlooking the immortal Turbo Island. Yet, when it was announced in January 2024 that it was to close later that year, with a vague sense of inevitability I had almost forgotten it was even there, and I probably wasn’t the only one.

Like the gorilla-chested Manchester United midfield star of the 90s, the UK’s food scene can be somewhat incestuous. From Poco to (recently closed) Silo, Mallow to Fallow, you can’t throw a regeneratively-farmed artichoke without hitting one of these little vegetable-forward spots. If Poco was a trendsetter — and it was definitely among the early adopters and even awarded best ethical restaurant by the Observer in 2013— then that trend is now well and truly sat; plonked firmly onto its favourite sofa with no intention of budging any time soon.

So when Poco announced a reprieve under new owners three months later, it seemed to be met with a little murmur of enthusiasm but mostly indifference. The overriding recollection from my handful of previous visits was one of unfulfilled potential; inviting menu, cosy spot, generally good cocktails, inconsistent execution of the dishes. A plate of pork belly, beautifully wobbly and crisp in all the right places, tarnished by drying slivers of curried kid goat that followed after.

Poco was probably two-thirds full upon arrival mid-evening on a Thursday, suggesting there’s still some legs in dishing up trotters. Some appetite for stomach. Well, maybe not quite stomach; probably heart at a push. If you want the real good stuff you might need to head to Tasty to Go by Bristol Beacon. Or Shah’s in Easton for a brain curry. Other cultures still seem more capable of appreciating the unique tastes and textures of the forgotten bits, and without as much of the holier-than-thou fanfare.

Kicking off, as any sane restaurant-goer does, with bread and butter, we ordered a couple of dips to mitigate the risk of poor butter to bread ratios. As it turns out, the butter didn’t arrive at all. We would have asked for some but getting the attention of the front of house team seemed to be as difficult as running with sceptres, coincidentally exactly what I was trying to order when the same issue resurfaced after we’d finished our first round without feeling suitably quenched. In a similar vein, menus were taken away after we’d ordered but a couple of snacks, turning the meal into some sort of impromptu memory exam.

The generously proportioned hunks of sourdough, properly pockmarked with bubbles, had an air of being exposed to…air; that slight stiffness to the edges that isn’t exactly staleness but on its way there, suggesting they may have been scythed from the loaf at some point earlier that evening.

Smoked cod’s roe taramasalata had a touch of the supermarket to it, though more emollient than Tesco’s version and without the alarmingly pink, almost nuclear, glow of the worst examples. A pool of olive oil did little to boost the rather muted flavour, though maybe some people are still a bit scared of the idea of fishy egg sacs.

Merriam-Webster’s 2025 Word of the Year was meant in reference to the nonsense AI-generated videos currently mushrooming all over TikTok, befuddling grandparents and idiots up and down the country into believing there is an epidemic of babies jumping out of hospital windows. ‘Slop’ could equally have applied to the taramasalata’s fungal cousin. That’s not to say it didn’t taste good — the parfait was more than edible; cool, dank, oily — but, like TikTok, was infinitely more enjoyable with your eyes closed. Its unsettling hue was the same greyish pink as the mould that grows between tiles in damp bathrooms.

‘Devon Cheese Croquette, Venison Bacon Chilli Jam’. Any combination of those seven words I can come up with makes a delicious-sounding bite, and fortunately Poco came up trumps here. In a nod to their eco-credentials, the restaurant virtually always has venison on the menu, and as well as being pulverised into the sort of condiment that would brighten up any sandwich and blobbed on top of a pair of oozing orbs with the gentle funk of blue cheese, it was served as haunch with quince, hen of the woods and parsnip. I recall Poco once serving wild rabbit confit as a means of attempting to curb a snowballing wild population and the attendant ecological consequences. Now it seems to be mainly deer on the menu instead. Good job since these tree-munching, woodland-destroying ungulates are currently breeding like, well, rabbits.

A dish of pork jowl glazed in sherry and served with pommes anna was a clear front-runner on the menu, but had unfortunately been 86ed. Our chosen replacement was a nicely-cooked little red mullet fillet, skin glinting and glimmering, with buttery butter beans draped in wilted ramson leaves and studded with smoked eel and preserved lemon. Nice. A couple of incongruously large and crunchy radicchio leaves were just too bitter to play nicely with the rest of the participants, like a sadomasochist at a teddy bear’s picnic. The soft lines and odd blobs somewhat recalled a Rorschach inkblot, although it’s probably not wise to infer my psychological state.

Leeks and mushrooms, fittingly two dishes from the vegetable arsenal (no, not that fan caught eating broccoli at the Emirates) were largely successful, though still with the odd miscalculation. The former arrived as charred, stumpy, slightly stringy lengths blobbed with harissa, salsa verde and some sort of beige, bubbly foam in a let’s-throw-all-the-condiments-at-it-and-see-what-sticks approach that was more pleasing than it sounds.

A bundle of deep-fried enoki had their inherent umami nature boosted by both caramelised yeast — surely ready to take the reins from miso — mayonnaise and a rubble of pumpkin seed XO, their slight rubberiness and scattering of seaweed giving ‘vegan takoyaki’ vibes, but the batter had absorbed too much oil. Close, but no devil’s cigar (it’s a type of mushroom, look it up).

A neat summary of the meal, perhaps, although a surge of terminal lucidity, came in the form of a light ‘dark’ chocolate ganache with ice cream and an almost-jam of sweetened confit Kalamata olives, like salted caramel dialled up to eleven; fruity, sweet, pulpy and moreishly savoury. Olive oil and chocolate is an established pairing these days, but using the flesh is certainly more novel, although I recall The Olive Shed doing just that with a near-identical and similarly successful dessert in 2021.

When we have the likes of green-starred Wilson’s and Root making vegetables the hero in ever-more innovative, exciting and just downright delicious ways, Poco, for all its undeniable history, seems a little old hat by comparison. Because I am very cool and more than a little autistic, I make notes on (and rate out of ten, obviously) every plate of food I eat in a restaurant, and also overall thoughts on the meal. When I look back at the notes from my last Poco meal in October 2021 — which probably says all you really need to know without the neurodivergence — I wrote ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed.’ Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

All words and photos by PXandTarts

Poco Tapas, 45 Jamaica St, BS2 8JP

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

Picture the scene: you’re sat outside RAGÙ sipping a locally-made wine, toasting another productive week of being a quintessential Bristolian (pulling down statues/flying hot air balloons/petitioning for new cycle lanes/making stop-motion animations/extolling the virtues of moving to Easton - delete as appropriate) as the sun sets in the sky. The last rays reflect off your sunglasses and warm your shoulders, kissing them farewell until tomorrow. It’s been a lovely, warm, boozy evening; you finished work at five, heading straight for the last remaining table outside Junction where you started with a pint, and you actually think you may have caught the sun a bit too much as one pint turned into three. You notice your cheekbones are looking more than a little flushed as you wash your hands in the Wapping Wharf toilets after popping into Pigsty to double check the entry code. Oh well. One should never take an evening in the British sun for granted…

Stop right there. Have you noticed anything slightly off about the above paragraph?

You see, you can never achieve such an evening of dreams, because Bristol’s harbourside is wrong, all wrong. It is completely the wrong way round. The setting sun casts the entirety of Wapping Wharf and all its restaurants and terraces in an enormous, cold, looming shadow from the neighbouring M shed and flats from about 6pm. You cannot enjoy the sunset from any of those terraces, you can’t grab a Squeezed dinner and sit by the water in the last gasps of the day’s fading warmth unless you’re willing to delay your prandial gratification to walk all the way around to the Arnolfini, where you will have to dodge the boozers to enjoy your rapidly cooling burger and fries. The only place you can enjoy the sun is the Olive Shed — but good luck getting a table when the weather is nice.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the water sits the aquarium. A building with no windows which closes at 5pm. There’s also We The Curious, which does have windows — albeit tinted ones — but nobody goes for that, and anyway, they’ve also vacated the place by sunset. Then there’s the Lloyds building; an office block hogging all of our precious rays. Don’t get me started on Za Za Bazaar. I’d rather try to catch myself a fish from the murky harbourside waters than force myself to swallow a plate of their claggy noodles and three day old chicken tikka masala.

So you see, it’s all wrong. They don’t need the sun over that side. Those of us, punters and restaurateurs alike, hoping for a prime al fresco Wapping Wharf restaurant experience this summer really do.

To me there are three obvious solutions to this problem. Number one — we simply pick up the shipping containers and dump them on the other side, where they really belong. This is the best thing that could be done for the food lovers of Bristol. Shipping containers are literally designed to be picked up and moved. We must take advantage of this. We were planning on moving them anyway, weren’t we? This is a far more logical set up. We’d have to demolish both the Lloyds’ buildings, but that’s no great loss. The Lloyds people can move into Wapping Wharf (or, indeed, anywhere else) and us restaurant goers can enjoy the setting sun over the water alongside our umami bomb from freshly-relocated Bertha’s, the best pizza in Bristol now within stumbling distance of Watershed.

Alternatively, we use the often vacant space in the Lloyds Amphitheatre to install a giant, angled mirror. I am talking the Jodrell Bank of mirrors. There’s a town in the mountains of Norway called Rjukan that doesn’t get any sun from September to March where they have done exactly this, apparently with great success. I expect our mirror would become something of a tourist attraction in itself. It would be like the new planetarium, everyone would come to take selfies in it. A boon for the local economy on both sides of the harbour. Wapping Wharf would be sunny all evening and Bristol once again known for being a pioneering, problem-solving city. This would have been the perfect job for Brunel, but I guess these days we’ll have to enlist the guy who built that massive water slide down Park Street.

Or, we simply stack Wapping Wharf’s shipping containers on top of each other like a giant, restaurant-y game of Jenga so that they tower far above the neighbouring buildings and thus we can enjoy the sun late into the evening. Simples.

I suggest we set to it immediately. Judging by how long it takes Bristol to complete any project of scale, by my calculations if we start now, we might just about be ready to enjoy a summer of sun by 2035….

All words and photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour

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Castle Combe has apparently been voted prettiest village in England multiple times. By who, or exactly how many times, I can’t be bothered to find out. But the point remains — if you took a group of American tourists to this little Cotswolds village with its honeypot stone houses, imposing market cross and overflowing abundance of all-round, monarchy-loving, poppy-wearing, winning-the-World-Cup-Once-and-never-shutting-up-about-it British quaintness, they’d refuse to return to gaudy Bath and its ostentatious, obvious baths. A more romantic location could hardly be imagined for a pair of (food) lovers fleeing the oversaturated, soapy sentimental Valentine’s nonsense of Big City Bristol.

I had booked a table for two in the murky depths of 7.30pm. Arriving ten minutes late only compounded our missed opportunity to explore the setting for both War Horse, which I haven’t seen, and the superb thriller-cum-black comedy Slow Horses.

Dinner was at The Castle Inn, which dates to the 12th Century, making it several hundred years older than Machu Picchu and only slightly younger than Donald Trump. And a much better bet for finding half-decent food than either, with a menu that largely plays it safe — soup, fish and chips, steak — but with the odd flourish of cherry harissa or tom yum broth to frighten said slow horses.

Returning from an unplanned tour of the oak-beamed, stone-walled labyrinth on a hunt for the bathroom, I weaved through a group of gathered tweens, evidently bored by the whole fraudulent romance of their respective parents, but still knowing enough to dole out pearls of wisdom to each other. “You can kiss when you’re 18” and “Valentine’s isn’t as good as Pancake Day anyway” (so true) still ringing in my ears, I glanced bashfully across the table at my one true love: bread. A domed brioche had appeared in my absence. Its matt brown surface, cleaved into three mounds, was surprisingly un-shiny, but the crumb was light and buttery, if a touch dry. It came with what was described as “whipped yeast butter”. Ideally the only time I want yeast mentioned over Valentine’s dinner.

I can’t be the only panophile in the south west, as I observed, with a mixture of ridicule and desire, Valentine’s offerings plastered with the slogans “You’re the loaf of my life” and “We’re butter together”. I think if I’d dared present one of those cringe-cards to Meg I’d be walking around with a baguette shoved where the sun don’t shine until a chance at birthday redemption.

Crispy artichoke presumably wasn’t shoehorned onto the menu for its “hearts” in the same way as oysters or, less subtly, aubergine, can be this time of year and anyway, as Cupid famously said, fritta è buona anche una suola di scarpa. The grassy, slightly nutty hearts were far more fun than a pile of salami shaped into a rose.

As I bisected a haggis Scotch egg — the best way to make an egg truly Scotch apart from drowning it in whisky or dressing it up in tartan — I watched the gloriously sunny yolk start to ooze over the coarse, peppery meat and thought “maybe I should review this place”. It doesn’t get much more romantic than that. It truly was an egg worthy of being paraded around the room on a silver salver to the whiny din of bagpipes, surely the most amorous of all musical instruments. If ever a poem was going to be written to address a Scotch egg, it would be this one, lying there on a smulch of pulpy homemade brown sauce, staring at you like the disapproving eyes of prosaically-named furby-ish owl Duo when you’ve forgotten to practice your Swedish.

Pig parts were deployed again in the form of tenderly smoked cheek on tomato and ale ragu, like gravy’s fruitier cousin. The cheek pulled apart into pleasingly fatty strands which clung to the fork, but a surfeit of pickles brought an unwelcome acidity to what should have been a coddling dish of wobbly meat in a sticky, savoury embrace.

Like yeast, any mention of crabs is a potential date-killer, and the tempura’d soft sheller on top of a thinly-sliced platform of pork rib eye would have had me walking out on mine had I not needed a lift home. Whoever was in charge of the fryer had presumably abandoned post and rushed to the broom cupboard for a quickie, as this spread eagled Sebastian was soggy and oozing juice, and not in a good way. The meat underneath was soft and mild, although I prefer mine a bit pinker and a bit fattier. Napa cabbage kimchi and tom yum broth both over promised and under delivered (see also: beef dripping chips) but I’m the last person who should be critical over such shortcomings.

After a flying start, our meal had hit a couple of hurdles. Still, always ones to flog a dead donkey, we soldiered on. Weighing up salted caramel fondant or an intriguing s’mores-type affair with miso marshmallow, malt biscuit and cereal ice cream, I reminisced about the first-rate salted caramel tart I had enjoyed the only other time I’d come to The Castle Inn, with my ex-wife. Which, as you can imagine, went down an absolute treat with my next wife. Unable to come to a decision, we reverted to tossing. Premature, you might think. But the coin called it: rhubarb and custard tart.

Many an average meal has been saved by an excellent dessert, like a last minute thirty yard screamer when you’ve been under the cosh for nine minutes. Sadly this was more like when Spurs are 2-1 down with ten minutes to go; you’re better off cutting your losses and missing the traffic.

Despite looking the part initially, lipstick pink stalks arranged geometrically over a custard the colour of aged parmesan, it soon became clear the tart was all fur coat and no knickers. Or, all undercooked pastry and grainy filling, and no buttery base with velvet custard. The rhubarb did its job properly — winningly, wincingly tart, just tamed by a little sugar and barely denatured by heat. The pastry, though, was as pale and depressing as a Reform Christmas party, as flabby as their leader, and almost as thick, having the same depth as the custard. Ratios all off.

That’s the last time I, a true tart lover, bona fide pastry proselytiser, reject a caramel tart; queen of puddings. Not actual Queen of Puddings, barely more than a glorified hot trifle which, owing to a lack of pastry, can barely be considered more than a princess among genuine pudding aficionados. All I wanted was a fleeting slice of the season wrapped up in the fragile embrace of butter, sugar and flour. What I got was a rhubarb-flavoured doorstop. It’s the hope that kills you. Or, as the shoddy, grimy yet somehow unimpeachably, sardonically prudent Jackson Lamb would say whilst slipping out a fart “it’s not the hope that kills you. It’s knowing it’s the hope that kills you ... that kills you”.

All words by PXandTarts, all photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour

Castle Inn, West St, Castle Combe, SN14 7HN

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

A one-off: Poco Tapas X Henry Wadsworth

I had planned to recommend Caper and Cure’s collaboration with WANGS as our one-off in April, but it has sold out, unsurprisingly. However, this seems like an opportune moment to inform you that the team at WANGS are now proudly in possession of an authentic Cantonese charcoal roasting oven, shipped over recently from China, and are starting to release dates for their initial barbecue sessions — sign up to their mailing list to be the first to know.

But Poco Tapas teaming up with Henry Wadsworth is a more than worthy alternative, especially since Poco’s recently joined head chef Dorin Jeler was previously at

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Ibrahim describes the trucks that trundle down Stapleton Road in the still hazy morning hours, holding up traffic with the peaceably languid air of a Pope visit. Carcass after carcass, these men dressed in red dole out their wares wholesale, to the numerous restaurants studding the banks of this culinary tributary; the central stitch in the fabric of suburban East Bristol’s food scene.

For as long as I’ve lived in Bristol, this road has been the main conduit by which I traverse it, or at the very least my jumping off point. So, the story that this buoyant restauranteur weaves for us chimes in harmonious resonance with my own vivid recollections of the same. On more than one occasion, stood before my boss, hat in hand, I blamed my lateness squarely on the butcher’s lorries and their trademark languorousness. Happy memories. And, to be perfectly clear, I would have it no other way.

To say that this area moves to its own rhythm would be an understatement. But it’s precisely this kind of chaotic un-preciseness that has kept me in the neighbourhood for so long. With each passing year, a community operates in continual defiance of expectation and structural adversity and I witness this wonder grow before me.

One of the newest additions to Stapleton Road’s cornucopia is Afghan Restaurant. True to its (prosaic) name, it boasts a menu of the quintessential Afghan delicacies you’d expect and some of my favourite things to eat, bar none. My housemate, similarly giddy at the prospect of feasting on Qābilī palaw and mantu, is a long-time frequenter of London’s much-celebrated Ariana II and is an all-round Afghan food zealot.

As we enter, the space is gleaming white and greetings are warm. Ibrahim commands the front of house with an effortless calm, I get the feeling he is at home here. And no wonder, for his father is the chef, making up the other half of this decidedly family affair. We share the dining room with two other large families, babies in high chairs having their food cut up for them by attendant parents.

The chapli kebab (£15) arrives first, two sauces, salad and a stack of flatbreads in tow. Ground lamb, spiced heavily with coriander seed and onion is then pressed flat on the grill. Brought to a toothsome crisp while still managing to melt in the mouth, this Pashtun variant of the skewered kebab’s name comes from the word for ‘sandal’; we’re informed gleefully. Thankfully, the obvious dimensions of it are where the similarities begin and end.

Sorry everyone, but if dumplings are to ever enter the chat, it will take me a solid five to realise that I’ve been the only one talking, so fervent is my adoration of them. Mantu are no exception. These (£9) come filled with lamb, typically drenched in a godly amount of garlic yoghurt, a lentil and tomato sauce, garnished with chickpeas and dried mint. I am a self-professed easy win here but even with the evident layers of finery, I must regretfully say that I am not completely bowled over by this particular iteration. These do the job but are not as flavoursome or juicy as I would expect.

The chicken achari (£9.50) is a crowd favourite. Cooked down in a spice paste, meant to mimic the flavour profile of traditional south Asian pickles with fennel seed, mustard, fenugreek, and nigella being at the fore. This dish is warm, comforting, and gone in minutes.

The aforementioned and much hyped Qābilī palaw (£15) is presented with a visual splendour that is undeniable. Slow-cooked lamb shank sat atop and lending its juices to a mountain of sweet rice, jewelled with carrots and raisins. Stoics say that comparison is the thief of joy and, being a food writer I’d be remiss if I didn’t state that this is a large part of the job, sadly. But it is true that I have eaten many forms of Qābilī palaw in my life and, although this stands above average, it certainly doesn’t take the top spot. Tender enough and suitably scorched, the lamb glistens with a prerequisite sheen of collagen and fat but when I think of comparable dishes at a similar price point in the Bristol area that shall remain nameless, consider my joy stolen.

The vegetable dishes however, come through shining. Loobia (£7) and bamia (£7), red kidney beans and okra, respectively, are perfectly balanced and sate even the most curmudgeonly of us diners. The split pea dal (£7) is all well tempered spice and rounds the meal off nicely. These three dishes are promptly inhaled.

A divisive palate cleanser comes in the form of the Afghan lassi (£2). Not as sour as some yoghurt based drinks such as ayran, which can be found in many of the west Asian grocers local to the area, the lassi is primarily Greek-style yoghurt, blitzed to high heaven with milk, ice, mint and salt. I have a deep affection for yoghurt drinks in all their forms and believe that, in the context of a hearty meal, nothing goes down better than the salted variety. Not all agree. Oh well.

Ibrahim and his father do much to inspire a convivial and warm atmosphere here at Afghan Restaurant and I will certainly be returning for a second helping at some point in the future. I can only put the few short-comings down to a set number of teething problems. In the meantime, I personally hope they can persevere and that the surrounding community can see what a jewel in the rough they have on their very doorstep.

All words and photos by Jason Jay Pridham

Afghan Restaurant, 390 Stapleton Rd, Easton, BS5 6NQ

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

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1. The March digest is here and is full of local insights, breaking news and hot gossip. If you want to read all of it, you’ll need to be a paying Saucer, which brings us onto…

2. In two days time, the cost of a Bristol Sauce paid subscription will be increasing — but only for new subscribers. If you want to lock in our lowest cost forever, this is your last reminder!

Here’s hoping April brings good things and sunshine. Thanks for reading! Meg X

The news

First up — some of Bristol’s best burgers are on the move. Fat Dads have once again moved further down Cheltenham Road and can now be found at The Full Moon in Stokes Croft. I do admire Paul’s determination to move no further than a few hundred meters at a time, leaving nothing more than a trail of breadcrumbs and burger grease, like a Bristolian Hansel.

Danny’s Burgers, currently based at Fierce and Noble in St Werburghs, may also be on the move — the group are investigating a second, bricks-and-mortar site in Brislington. More as we have it!

Press

We might as well rename this section the Dongnae edit. The Chandos Road favourite was reviewed in The Observer at the beginning of the month by Rebecca Nicholson, who loved it. Naturally. Here’s a quote: “Like a plain white T-shirt on a supermodel, everything about Dongnae simply shrugs: yeah, I know.” In addition to this rave, Dongnae has been praised by The Guardian, Financial Times, The Telegraph and, perhaps most importantly of all, The Bristol Sauce, which surely just leaves Giles Coren or Tom Parker-Bowles to come. Well done to the team for once again earning Bristol some national attention!

The Good Food Guide have released their list of the top 50 bakeries in the country, and very kindly put it behind a paywall. Fortunately the good folk at the Evening Standard have listed all fifty here for anyone interested. Three Bristol bakeries made the list: Farro, Hilda and Hart’s — huge congratulations to them, and here’s hoping for a couple more additions next year.

Closures

It’s all change on Stokes Croft: both pan-Asian street-food joint Tuk Tuck and The Spaghetti Incident (Italian, in case you didn’t guess) have announced closures only a week apart. Though it seems a proper goodbye for The Spaghetti Incident, you will still be able to order Tuk Tuck goodies via Deliveroo from their sister restaurant Pocha on Whiteladies Road.

Interlude Coffee have left their original St Michael’s Hill site with the promise of opening new premises, but a location has yet to be announced. We — and many others — hope they’re back soon and bring their Picky Bits with them.

According to Companies House, Hyde & Co — the group behind several Bristol restaurants and bars — have gone into liquidation. The group manage Bambalan, The Ox, Seven Lucky Gods, Hyde & Co and The Milk Thistle, all of which seem to still be open as normal, suggesting perhaps the businesses have been transferred to another company.

I’m rarely pleased to see a hospitality business close, but I was quite happy to see the back of the two Bristol Brewdog bars following the sale of the company at the start of March. However, the Millennium Promenade branch will apparently be reopening and is looking for staff. I wonder if James Watt will try to weasel his way back in.

Leading us nicely from closing into openings is Flour House, who have moved from Park Row to North Street. With the opening of their new North Street site in what was previously home to Kitchen by Kask, the Park Row operation is now closed.

New openings

After a tortuous wait, purveyors of the finest loaded roti in all the land Brother Thai are finally opening their Bristol branch in the Carriageworks on Stokes Croft on Thursday, 9 April. This will be the group’s second branch — the original site is in Cardiff — though you may remember them from pre-Covid Harbourside Market appearances. Read The Bristol Sauce review of the Cardiff branch.

Following the dissolution of East Bristol Bakery late last year, the now vacant site on St Mark’s Road is set to reopen as Staple Bakery on Saturday, 4 April. Staple Bakery promises pastries, drinks and bread with sourdough made from British milled organic flour. Staple Bakery is being opened by the team behind well-established Chai Guy on the same road.

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Why are we putting the price up? I’m keen that The Bristol Sauce remains utterly transparent, so here is my reasoning. In short, as we pay for everything when reviewing restaurants, the costs to our reviewers are going up because the cost of eating out continues to rise. Therefore I must pay our reviewers more. I have also considered for a while now that The Bristol Sauce is breaking even but in reality, it is not. I have not been accounting for my time — time to write, to edit, to research and to commission pieces. I hope that as the Sauce continues to grow, and hopefully with this small change in pricing, that some of my costs will also be covered. I want to be able to continue running The Bristol Sauce for a long time, and to keep growing our readership and our coverage. But to do that, it must be sustainable. Thus, there will be an annual increase in pricing every April to tide with inflation and other economic factors.

A paying subscription gives you access to all of our new content and our entire back catalogue, including our full monthly news debrief (coming on Monday) and a curated guide each month with suggestions of where to eat. Most of our content remains free to access for now, but this in turn is made possible by the people that chose to support us with a small contribution.

Finally, an important note - the cost is only going up for new subscribers. That is to say that if you become a paying subscriber now, you will lock in The Bristol Sauce’s lowest ever price — forever.

Thank you so much for reading. Meg X

“Hot dog, jumping frog / Albuquerque”

Interestingly, Albuquerque is notable for being the hot air ballooning capital of the world. In your face, Bristol (I don’t mean that, you know I love you).

It was the second time I missed the forgettably elegant signage to Castle Farm on the left that I saw the warning sign of frogs crossing. Which led to me to wonder — what sort of volume of frogs are were dealing with? Is it merely rural due diligence to an unusually high number of our amphibian friends amongst the populace, is it a yearly exodus or perhaps a grim portent of a great frog crossing tragedy of yesteryear when whole colonies perished on the highway?

Rumour has it when the moon is low you can still make out a symphony of anguished chirps and croaks dancing upon the Somerset wind.

As we blunderbussed into the bucolic beauty of the Midford Valley, Tom Parker Bowles’ gusty exhortation was ringing in my ears: “Curry? At a farm? It’s barnstorming”. He loved it, obviously. And I was indeed, at a farm.

The entrance was mid-noughties speakeasy bar-level discreet, and only the politely busy car park and insistent messages from our lunch friends suggested what lay beyond the chic, blue barn door.

It brought to mind a little Riverford’s Field Kitchen, but when our very friendly and painfully young waiters brought over some menus it became clear the food offering is a little less evangelical than the Totnes organic juggernaut. Incidentally, I recently spent some time at the Bull in Totnes and was genuinely knocked sideways by their passionate approach to sourcing, sustainability and organic produce but, idiotically, I hadn’t known it was an outpost of the multi-millionaire Riverford ownership. I suppose morals are a little less impressive when you remove any financial peril. Banging spot nonetheless.

However, here in Midford we are lunching on ‘curry Friday’ which seems to be some manner of cultural movement in these here parts. This means that the fun rolls all day— so we were able to order a roti with curry sauce (£4) for lunch and a sweet version for afters if we wanted to double trouble.

The single was fine. It came with what was a essentially a chip shop curry sauce that, whilst being one of my absolute favourites of the low art, trash sleaze sauces, was aggressively salty and two dimensional in all the wrong places. A flatbread came with goat’s cheese, honey and nuts (£7) and, although being as pale as a night out with Thomas Straker, was pretty tasty — if pallid and a little garden centre-y. Also the orgy of micro-herbs sets off my spidey senses quite strongly, suggesting energy and money perhaps not being put in the best of places.

It should be noted that the alcohol free (I know, what have I become/we used to be proper country etc etc) Brew Below pale ale (£5.50) was excellent. Crisp and quenching like ice on a bonnet. Whilst to be applauded, good shopping will only get you halfway there without a bit of help.

Spiced parsnip fritters with lemon and aioli (£8) were serviceable in that way that something deep fried served with something runnier than the deep fried thing is enjoyable. Spicing was negligible and the seasoning made me fear the long shadow of Covid again.

The ‘salad’ option was roasted winter roots, feta and pearl barley (£7). Nothing here to scare the high-fibre horses but the barley tasted a little stale or overly vinegared and the whole shebang was fridge cold, relying on the scant feta for a lot of the heavy lifting.

No such issues with the milk bun with grilled lamb sausage, feta, mint and harissa (£14). There was (and I do not say this lightly) a lot of feta involved. The milk bun was decent but the sausage lacked the merguezy hit I craved. The harissa was either muted or forgotten and I think torn mint leaves might get a little less stuck in the teeth than the whole ones. It had potential but was too polite. A hot mess that was fridge cold and didn’t want to play.

The owners who decide what goes on the plates are I think of a mixture of Scandi/ Indian background so the menu embraces these two rich cuisines, meaning you can get a dhal and an open Swedish skagen sandwich sharing the same table. I suspect the curry nights may indeed be fantastic, and I have heard the Sunday roasts are worth negating frog crossings for.

No such travels with our desserts. There is a tea shop overlooking the harbour in Brixham that has a display model cream tea in the window that has been immune to the march of change for as long as I have memory. It features chipped scones, mauve aged jam, both dead flies and interchangeable fruit scones and a sort of yellowing, thick-skinned cream that had been piped many a year ago.

It wasn’t quite like that, but I think it was on this day that I took on a new understanding of what’s meant by food being called ‘fridgey’ . Both puddings came with the same over whipped, taut Chantilly cream that looked almost geological in its granite-like firmness.

Chocolate torte (£6) was vast, dense and agricultural. If I was to give it a Sherlock eye then it may have been made a couple of moons ago and not with top-shelf chocolate. A generous serve nonetheless.

Cinnamon bun cake (£6) was a lot better with a decent spicey hit but came with even more of the same problematic cream and had a compote thrown into the middle which made the dark blood red leach unpleasingly out of the cream. It brought to mind that toffs’ nickname for rice pudding and jam; ‘nosebleed pudding’. It was also strewn with a micro-herb (amaranth perchance) which of course brought nothing to this farmhouse table, so I wondered if its cost may have been better redistributed to bumping up the quality of that chocolate.

At such a point in human history where total global annihilation now seems to be racing towards us, it would be quite the balm to find oneself nestled in the cocoon of Castle Farm waiting for the tyrants, ghouls and fools to decide who gets to drop the bomb first. Over-whipped cream or otherwise, it feels like somewhere that wants to feed and nourish you whilst the Armageddon blows over.

All words by Seldon Curry, photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour

Castle Farm, Midford Rd, Bath BA2 7PU

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

The four days I spent in Naples 2022 were spent meandering through dense cobbled streets, dodging vespas and crowds of tourists blindly following flagged guides, all in search of the next thing to eat. The first port of call after landing was famed L’Antica for a margherita and a beer, eaten on some sun-drenched steps around the corner from the babbling masses. Then there was fried seafood hawked on the side of the street in a brown paper cone; startlingly hot, just-crisp and as fresh as it gets; never having seen the inside of a fridge or freezer. There were rounds of bulbous arancini — some better than others. Pasta, of course, in bowls, but also I wasn’t going to turn down the option to try a slice of the frittata di spaghetti being offered over a counter to hungry passers-by. And then there was pizza fritta.

It was Stanley Tucci who introduced me to fried pizza. Not personally, sadly, but via his TV show Searching for Italy. Before that, my only impression of fried pizza was much more likely to resemble a hulking triangle of batter and regret that you’d find in a Scottish chippy, where almost anything is fair game as long as it will fit in an industrial deep-fat frier. And most things will. But the half moon creation I devoured in Naples, at the much-garlanded Sorbillo, was gravity-defying — if I’d let it go I’m sure it would have floated up into the sky like a helium balloon escaping the grips of a distracted toddler. Biting through the crisp carapace revealed barely cooked tomatoes, milky mozzarella and pungent basil; which had only had the briefest time to familiarise themselves with each other during the minute or so the fritta had spent in the fryer. It was one of those food moments I’ll never forget — it was exceptional.

I was told, however, by the Neapolitan couple that run L’Oro Di Napoli in Brislington, that Sorbillo’s pizza fritta is not nearly the best in their home city. We’d been lured out to this unprepossessing roadside joint with its brightly-illuminated sign depicting, presumably, a stylised Vesuvius behind the name, on yet another wet, wintry day with a somewhat disobedient dog in tow, by pictures on Instagram. Seemingly how all custom for restaurants is earned these days. These images showed thick, blistered Neapolitan crusts emerging from an oven hitherto unknown to The Bristol Sauce — a visit became inevitable.

I didn’t actually know until we arrived that L’Oro Di Napoli also serve pizza fritta. On the menu you’ll also find a wurstel (£14.30), which is pizza with slices of German sausage and fries on top. We ordered both, an arancino to start and a negroni.

If everything were riding on the negroni (£9.50), I’d have evacuated after the first sip. A negroni is the safe shelter in a turbulent and risky cocktail list; it is very hard to fuck up something that only requires equal measures of three ingredients. Hard, but not impossible: helped considerably by swapping the vermouth for soda water. Do not try this at home. The result is a sort of negroni-squash, a watered-down drink that satisfies nothing and somehow still costs the best part of a tenner. In fairness to my new Neapolitan friends, they had written the ingredients out on the menu, I had just failed to read it. And, in my defence, ‘negroni’ should really only mean one thing.

Fortunately it was uphill from there on in. Arancini should be crisp on the outside, revealing a molten centre of soft risotto and oozing cheese within. This one (£8), stuffed also with ragu, nailed the brief and only fell a little short on seasoning.

I have a lot of time for potato on pizza. Double carbs = double the fun, and one only needs to look to Bertha’s umami bomb for further justification. But chips on a pizza? That is a new one, even for me. But apparently it’s everywhere in Naples, and sausage and chips on a pizza is commonly fed to children. They only told me that after I’d ordered it, and possibly explains why they removed a third of the alcohol from my cocktail.

Had I eaten this aged 10, I think I would’ve filed it immediately under ‘greatest meals ever’. As an adult, however, I’m less convinced. The dough suggests that other pizzas would absolutely be worth returning for; it had clearly been crafted by expert hands. The chips, in fairness, were crisp and well seasoned, but I’m not a fan of hot dog sausages really and putting them on a pizza does nothing for me. All in all, I think I can chalk this up to a case of bad ordering, which this time is entirely on me. The only time I can really imagine wanting my pizza topped with a mountain of chips is when I’ve had a few too many weak negronis and need something to soak it up.

The pizza fritta, here filled with mozzarella, ricotta, salami and tomatoes (£16.50) was intensely creamy — I could only manage a couple of mouthfuls before it became too rich. This relative of the fritta I was so enamoured by in Naples was tasty, though more of a distant cousin to its Italian forebear rather than an identical twin. It needed longer in the fryer to achieve the crunch I was yearning for, and it is my opinion that, on this particular - very rare - occasion, one cheese is enough.

Not to be defeated by too much cream, we finished with a forgettable tiramisu which was lacking a boozy punch, much like the negroni. Despite the food being far from perfect, it is clear that I could have ordered and that L’Oro Di Napoli, like a young Diego Maradona (a portrait of whom is framed on the wall), has potential by the bucket full, not least because of the innate affability of the staff.

Brislington is a world away from Napoli, and I can only imagine how much the couple that run L’Oro must miss their home. It would be nigh-on impossible to recreate those narrow, cobbled streets with their vespas and street vendors in South Bristol — just imagine the Bristol City Council planning application process — but these two have succeeded in bringing proper Italian generosity, hospitality and some damn fine dough to the area. Rumour has it Stanley Tucci is already planning a trip.

All words and photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour

L’Oro Di Napoli, 3 Birchwood Rd, Brislington, BS4 4QH

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

There’s a reason people go to chain restaurants. Perhaps it’s that they’re predictable, they offer vouchers or discounts, they show calorie counts on the menus or because they have massive marketing budgets meaning they are able to remind you they exist through regular emails, push notifications and billboards. There’s considerable evidence to suggest they are unfairly prioritised in Google Maps too. Look at the image below — this is the area to which I refer, and when I search for ‘restaurants’, the majority that show are chains. Back Garden Pizza, Ramen Monster and MeetUp Noodle Bar are nowhere to be seen.

But I know they are there, and that they are definitely worth your patronage — far more so than many of the surrounding chains.

There’s nothing outright wrong with chain restaurants as such, it’s just that by visiting an independent instead you are putting your money directly into individual’s livelihood and back into the local economy, rather than into some London-based investor’s wallet. You’re keeping our high streets filled with local businesses that are unique and individual, rather than allowing them to be steam-rolled into something that looks just like a street in Manchester, or Brixton, or Milton Keynes. And more often than not, the food is genuinely better: when a chain restaurant takes off and gets financial backing, the goal is to make as much money for the shareholders as possible. This in turn means corners are cut — cheaper suppliers are chosen, staff hours cut, small gestures are no longer priority. In an independent, you’re far more likely to get the care and attention that you hope for when you go out to eat.

With that in mind, here’s where to avoid in Bristol’s emerging Little London, and where to go instead. And, if this is the kind of journalism you appreciate, please consider supporting our work by becoming a subscriber. Thanks!

Avoid Flat Iron, instead go to…

Pasture (12 minute walk away) or Cow & Sow (5 minute walk away).

Flat Iron is a recent arrival to Bristol’s Clare Street and is a chain that has become known in London for affordable steaks and utilitarianism. Although nearby Pasture now also has sites in Birmingham and Cardiff, it is a homegrown Bristol success story with a big focus on sustainability and great hospitality. The short rib croquettes are a must-order, unless you don’t eat meat, in which case the vegetarian options are also surprisingly worth seeking out.

If a trip to Pasture is too much of a stretch, just around the corner from Flat Iron is Cow & Sow on Queen’s Square, which also does a great steak in comfortable surroundings.

Pasture | £££ | Booking advised | Lunch and dinner seven days a week | pasturerestaurant.com

Cow & Sow | ££-£££ | Booking advised | Lunch and dinner seven days a week | thecowandsow.co.uk

Avoid Pizza Pilgrims, Franco Manca and Rudy’s, instead head to…

Back Garden Pizzeria (2 minute walk away).

Okay, so Rudy’s is somewhat of an outlier in this list as it started in Manchester and not London, but the same principle applies — which is that we should be spending our money with independent Bristol brands wherever possible. There seems a pizza on every street corner in the centre of Bristol, but not all are created equal. Franco Manca and the soon-to-arrive Pizza Pilgrims both originated in London, and all three of these chains serve Neapolitan pizza. But to get the satisfaction of that thick, chewy crust while supporting a Bristol independent head to Back Garden Pizzeria, which started in a bonafide Redfield back garden and serve some of Bristol’s best slices. BGP have something for everyone on the menu, including great vegan options.

Back Garden Pizzeria | ££ | Dinner only Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday, lunch and dinner Friday - Saturday | backgardenpizzeria.com

Avoid Rosa’s Thai, instead try…

Jean’s Bistro (15 minute drive away).

Admittedly if you’re in the centre of town then a trip up Gloucester Road to Jean’s Bistro is a bit of a mission, but it’s well worth the trip and any money spent on an Uber will be saved with the joys of Jean’s bring-your-own-booze policy. Jean’s is the best Thai restaurant in Bristol and laden with authentic flavours from Jean’s home of central Thailand. It’s cash only, but there’s an ATM opposite. Jean’s has got ten times the personality and flavours of Rosa’s; a chain which started in London and now has over 50 sites.

If you’re desperate for the flavours of the far East without wanting to go so far, check out what’s on offer at The Scrandit (7 minute walk away), who often have pop-up chefs cooking Thai, Cambodian, Filipino and more.

Jean’s Bistro | ££ | Booking advised | Monday - Thursday dinner only, Friday - Saturday lunch and dinner | jeansbistro.co.uk

The Scrandit | ££ | Bookings only taken for groups of 6+ | Wednesday - Friday dinner only, Saturday lunch & dinner | instagram.com/thescrandit

Avoid Tonkotsu, instead go to…

Ramen Monster (3 minute walk away), Tomo No Ramen (20 minute walk away) or MeetUp Noodle (less than 1 minute walk away).

Sometimes only a big bowl of ramen will cut it, and in such trying times, it can be easy to fall into the lap of Tonkotsu. Their ramen is good — but supporting a local brand will feel much better. Your closest alternative is Ramen Monster — a mere three minute walk away — which serves very authentic ramen in a simple setting and does a very good vegan bowl for our plant-based pals. For something a little more sophisticated, make the short journey across Castle Park to Tomo No Ramen, where owner James has been honing his craft for years and has gotten his bowls of broth down to a very fine art.

Alternatively, MeetUp Noodle is 50 yards from Tonkotsu — that’s less than a one minute walk — though it is Chinese, so not quite the same. But, did you know that ramen originally comes from China, and not Japan? MeetUp Noodle Bar offers warming bowls of Chinese noodles in broths and other dishes, and is cheap and friendly.

Ramen Monster | ££ | Booking advised | Lunch and dinner, Monday - Saturday | ramenmonster.co.uk

Tomo No Ramen | ££ | Booking advised | Tuesday - Friday dinner only, Saturday lunch and dinner | tomonoramen.co.uk

MeetUp Noodle Bar | £ | Booking optional | Lunch and dinner, seven days a week | meetupnoodlebar.co.uk

Avoid Gail’s (like the plague) and instead go to…

Pipp & Co (1 minute walk away), Little Bagel Co — Baldwin Street branch (9 minute walk away) or Mokoko at Wapping Wharf (15 minute walk).

I’m not going to get into the many thousands of reasons that you should not be patronising Gail’s — we’d be here all day — but I will share one: the products do not taste good. It’s no wonder given it’s all baked in a central warehouse and then shipped to stores where staff are allegedly treated appallingly and trained using an in-house AI called ‘BreadGPT’. Anyway. I said I wouldn’t get into it. Instead just a few metres away from Gail’s on College Green in the lovely Pipp & Co, who make the most wonderful doughnuts, sweet treats and coffee. If you’re after something savoury, look no further than Little Bagel Co on Baldwin Street, who will craft you a brunch or lunch that you’ll be thinking about for days afterwards. And if you’re in need of a loaf of bread, try Mokoko just across the water in Wapping Wharf. All are Bristol brands, and all deserve your support far more than the faux-artisan monstrosity that is Gail.

Pipp & Co | £ | Breakfast, lunch and afternoons, seven days a week | pipp.co

Little Bagel Co | £ | Breakfast and lunch, seven days a week | littlebagelco.co.uk

Mokoko | £ | Breakfast and lunch, seven days a week | mokokobakery.com

Avoid Mowgli, why not try…

Urban Tandoor (2 minute walk away) or Nutmeg Street Kitchen (4 minute walk away).

Again, Mowgli technically started up North, but with now over 27 sites across the UK I think it’s fair that we can afford to give the Corn Street branch a miss. After all, once you’ve gotten past the gimmicky fairy lights and swings, there’s very little to it. If it’s gimmick you’re after, head instead for nearby Urban Tandoor of TikTok fame and there’s a good chance you’ll end up accidentally starring in a viral video. The food is still pretty good though. Or, for a more relaxing evening, you can do much worse that Nutmeg Street Kitchen which offers some of Bristol’s best Indian food against a plush, comfortable backdrop.

Urban Tandoor | ££ | Booking advised | Lunch and dinner, seven days a week | urban-tandoor.com

Nutmeg Street Kitchen | ££ | Booking advised | Dinner only Monday - Tuesday, lunch and dinner Wednesday - Sunday | nutmegstreetkitchen.com

Why on Earth are you going to Bella Italia when you could be going to….

Pasta Ripiena (2 minute walk away) or Cotto (2 minute walk away).

I’m reasonably confident that I won’t have to convince many of you to give Bella Italia a miss — this chain restaurant peaked in about 2005 and has been on a steady decline ever since. It’s massive, comprising over 90 sites, and is part of The Big Table group which also owns Frankie & Benny’s, Cafe Rouge and Las Iguanas.

For Italian food that’s actually good and not just lining shareholders’ pockets, try Bianchis Group restaurants Pasta Ripiena or neighbouring Cotto. Ripiena specialises in stuffed pasta and Cotto is part restaurant-part bar with a focus on delicious Italian small plates. Both will leave you inspired.

Pasta Ripiena | ££ | Booking advised | Dinner only on Tuesdays, lunch and dinner Wednesday - Saturday | pastaripiena.co.uk

Cotto | ££ | Booking advised | Dinner only Monday - Wednesday, lunch and dinner Thursday - Saturday | cottowinebarandkitchen.co.uk

Don’t bother with Honest Burger — you’ll have a much better burger at…

Squeezed (12 minute walk away).

Honest Burgers are actually pretty good, and true to their name, they are transparent with their sourcing and ethics. But they’re still a chain and still from London, so it’s only fair they go on the list. Bristol’s Squeezed is a burger joint in Wapping Wharf that was voted purveyor of Bristol’s best burger by The Bristol Sauce in 2025, and we stand behind it to this day. So next time you’re headed for Honest, try this shipping container spot instead. We promise you won’t be disappointed.

Squeezed | £ | No bookings | Lunch and dinner, Tuesday - Saturday, lunch only on Sundays | bristolsqueezed.co.uk

The final boss — don’t go to Turtle Bay. You’re much better off at…

Rice & Things (23 minute walk away) or Caribbean Croft (17 minute walk away).

There’s a whole host of reasons you shouldn’t go to Turtle Bay — not least that the food and drinks taste of little other than cultural appropriation. Did you know that the chain ran a marketing campaign in 2015 called ‘Rastafy Me’ in which they edited customers’ selfies to give them blackface and dreads? Yeah. Don’t eat there.

Bristol has a wealth of amazing, authentic Caribbean restaurants. Perhaps the forerunner is Rice & Things on Cheltenham Road, in which diners can get a true taste of Jamaica in a humble interior. Enjoy proper curry goat, ackee and saltfish or if you’re lucky, whatever they’ve got on the barbecue that day.

Slightly closer and more accessible for those less familiar with Caribbean flavours is Caribbean Croft, which is a lively Stokes Croft establishment with dishes from across the West Indies including fried chicken, jerk salmon, curried goat and rotis served alongside a generous collection of rums.

Rice & Things | £ | Booking optional | Lunch and dinner, seven days a week | riceandthings.co.uk

Caribbean Croft | ££ | Booking advised | Dinner only Monday - Thursday, lunch and dinner Friday - Sunday | caribbeancroft.co.uk

All words by Meg Houghton-Gilmour, photos as labelled

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

I love a place that does what it says on the tin; you know exactly what you’re getting with no room for ambiguity. Vegan India fits this bill. Although, I suppose if we’re being pedantic, you might assume you were getting a vegan version of the whole of India, which kind of disproves my point.

With the matter of what you can, and can’t, call plant-based alternatives the subject of some meaty debate lately, the extensive menu might raise some eyebrows among animal protein purists. But it has gained Vegan India a loyal following among people on a plant-based diet hankering after a traditional curry house experience.

The name shines out over Gloucester Road on a gloomy Saturday evening. The premises that has been home to Vegan India for around two years was previously occupied by Atomic Burger. Different demographic, same love of a bright green sign.

Beyond the front door lies a magical jungle, adorned with beautiful pink and purple floral displays, the name lit up in dazzling pink lights; at least, as seen through the eyes of our entranced three-year-old daughter. Viewed through more a world-weary lens, it’s another fake foliage wall designed for a picture-perfect-pose-loving Instagram generation.

The smiling welcome is real though and the opulent, dark green seats are designed for a long, lingering meal.

Vegan India is now the only venture by the team behind the former Tikka Express on Stapleton Road in Easton. The extensive menu includes almost every classic curry house dish, but vegan. There’s vegan butter no chicken, vegan rogan josh, vegan jalfrezi, vegan tandoori mixed grill and the British national dish of tikka masala, which, presumably, is also vegan.

Just as the menu boasts the influences of ‘Old India’ and ‘British’ curry shop classics, so does the décor. Some of the tabletops depict typical London landmarks, while others feature vibrant spice baskets from India.

Much like the London skyline rapidly being covered in dishes before us, this is a meal of highs and lows.

Starting off strong, the poppadoms (99p each) are an instant hit, with something for everyone among the array of accompanying sweet and spicy chutneys (£3.50). The tarka daal (£5.50) is rich and hearty, while the vegan sag no paneer (£5.50) is pleasantly creamy once you get used to the ‘paneer’ — squidgy lumps a disconcerting hue of orange, reminding me more of a president hell bent on war than a mild, squeaky cheese.

I’m someone who will travel the length and breadth of Bristol and beyond for the love of a good samosa, but I really wouldn’t bother leaving the house for the two pint-sized pastry parcels (£3.95) perched on our plate. Sure, they are crisp and plump with an adequately flavoured filling, but they pale in comparison to, say, the mighty Jeevans on Stapleton Road. It’s like putting a garage-bought Ginsters next to a bronzed steaming Cornish pasty eating with the wind whipping sea salt in your face on the shores of Kynance Cove. Technically the same creation, but you really can’t compare the two. The highlight of the dish was an elegant cucumber crudité that was swiftly devoured by the three-year-old, surely counting as one of her five-a-day. Parenting: achieved.

All is almost forgiven with a bite of a peshwari naan (£3.50), which is as hot, fresh and blistered as you could hope for. For those who don’t eat dairy, this is a particularly special treat. And no-ghee-whizz — it’s as good as any I’ve tasted.

With our mains, we are taught a valuable lesson that not all vegan alternatives are created equal. The ‘chicken’ in the ‘no chicken ceylon’ (£10.95) holds its own among the rich, lightly spiced, satisfying curry. But the ‘chef’s special’ kodu curry (£10.95 with tofu) would have been better without the pieces of flaccid tofu floating in an otherwise pleasant butternut squash sauce.

The menu’s description of coconut rice (£4.45) ‘cooked with coconut and sultana’ is, it turns out, to be taken literally. We found one much-coveted sultana among the grains of rice. Still, it was a fragrant and tasty accompaniment, as were two ice cold beers.

We could have ended on a high but for the ill-advised ordering of the vegan kheer (£4.95). Lured by the promise of a homemade dessert cooked with tapioca, vegan milk, raisins and a mysterious ‘other’, we were disappointed by the overly sweet, runny dish of molten liquid that was served.

Despite being a meal of hits and misses, Vegan India offers something many are longing for: a proper, filling spread reminiscent of many curry nights gone by.

We devour our food — the good, the average and the questionable — and we pack our leftovers into boxes, wipe our faces on the warm wet wipes from a plastic packets and merrily pocket the dark chocolate square (vegan, of course).

Vegan India is a place that does what it says on the tin, offers service with a smile and a healthy dose of nostalgia for curry lovers of old. Pick your way carefully through the menu of non-meat options and you’ll walk out with a smile and a guiltless conscience.

All words and photos by Ellie Pipe

Vegan India, 189 Gloucester Rd, BS7 8BG

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

A one-off: HookedOn pop up at Bruhaha, Totterdown

I’m taking a punt on HookedOn, as I haven’t actually tried and tested it for myself — so this recommendation comes with a small disclaimer. But you’ve got to trust your gut, especially when it comes to food, and my gut is telling you to get to Bruhaha this weekend or next.

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A buzz alerted me to the fact that someone had sent me a post on Instagram. I opened the message and gasped. A place in Berlin had created something I’d never even conceived of; a combination of my favourite Mexican food and my favourite Japanese food. Birria ramen. It was genius — you could envision how delicious it would be. The birria broth would lend itself so well to a ramen base and the noodles would allow a slurp-ability you could never achieve with a taco alone. On top they’d piled the slow cooked birria beef, diced onion and fresh coriander. I started planning a Berlin trip immediately.

When I got to Berlin, the two market stalls that had collaborated to make this ramen of dreams were no longer working together. I was devastated, consoled only by some very good tacos al pastor. But the itch needed scratching. If you want something doing, sometimes you have to do it yourself.

Back in Bristol I got to work. My then-employers Bristol24/7 had a food event coming up, and so I pitched a collaboration to Bristol’s ramen master — James from Tomo No Ramen — and Bristol’s birria kings — Gourmet Warriors. It’s one of the things I love so much about Bristol’s food scene: people almost always say yes, even to the most madcap of schemes. We got together to plot and test. The birria broth cut with Tomo’s house stock and a miso tare. Noodles made on site. A cheese crisp, fresh coriander, onion. A birria taco for dipping. It wasn’t perfect, but it was damn good. I said to both parties that they should continue the collaboration, but as so often happens in the busy and challenging hospitality industry — the less fun tasks are the ones to take priority.

But then 2026 rolled around and brought with it the news that Gourmet Warriors would be popping up at The Gallimaufry, serving, among other things, birria ramen. Gloucester Road’s premiere indie pub The Gallimaufry has a very good reputation for food, having been home to Sky Kong Kong and Fat Dad’s last year, and every run-in I’ve had with Gourmet Warrior’s birria tacos has always ended with me sporting a giant grin and consommé-flecked fingers. A match made in food heaven, surely.

Gourmet Warriors have taken this opportunity to expand far beyond tacos, and beyond even just Mexico and Japan. The menu now reads like a Race Across the World challenge; there’s siu mai (Chinese) stuffed with Thai pork and prawn. There’s a laksa dip (Chinese/Malaysian/Indonesian), sambal matah (Malaysian) and Korean fried chicken, along with the birria tacos and ramen. All of those places produce outrageously good food, but difficult to do them all justice in what is essentially a pub kitchen. It suggests a madcap attempt to capture evasive food zeitgeist rather than a well thought-through menu — but that didn’t stop us hoping for the best and ordering most of it.

I barely need cover the birria tacos (£13.50 for 3), which were as good as ever — meaning they were flawless and actually better than a good chunk of the ones I’ve polished off on various trips around Mexico. The Better Call Seoul Korean fried chicken tacos (£12.50 for 3) were made up of quite good fried chicken but bad everything else. Something had gotten waylaid in the composition and the combination of corn tortilla with Korean toppings just didn’t work, despite that country’s affinity with corn. It may have been the sad iceberg lettuce. It may have been the miso mayo. Having waited nearly an hour for the food, I was too hungry to pick apart each component, but something wasn’t quite right.

Sambal street nachos (£8.50) read like a bad hungover cupboard raid or a Deliveroo mix up — corn tortillas mixed in with prawn crackers and served with two sambals and a salsa. Now this is fusion cuisine. In fact, I think they may be onto something. Though you can hardly call them nachos as none of the toppings were, well, toppings — it was more chips and dips, but nevertheless a very enjoyable mix and match type affair.

Birria siu mai (£6.50 for 4) let the side down; too loose, flabby and bland. It takes a very skilled hand to make good dim sum and these hands are trained in the far more fast and loose form of birria tacos. Why siu mai? It seems like an odd choice to me. Why not load the birria onto chips or something else more easily achieved and pub friendly?

And finally, the ramen (£14.50). Really good ramen takes years, nay, decades, to perfect. Chefs dedicate their lives to it, toiling away in search of the optimum noodle bite, the most sensual mouthfeel, the deepest umami flavours. Gourmet Warriors have not done that. What they have essentially done is take their birria — which as we have already established is very good — and combined it with overcooked, cheap packet noodles. The result is something you’d be quietly chuffed with if you’d made it as a random leftover lunch, but it’s not a patch on what it could be if someone who actually knew ramen was involved. Here it was garnished with a very chewy and quite unpleasant cheese crisp, pickled red onion, raw red onion, pickled carrot and heaps of coriander. None of the toppings were particularly good and they didn’t do anything to distract from the very overcooked noodles.

So the search for a birria ramen continues. I still have resolute faith that it can be done and can be done very well. It is not being done here. Go for the birria tacos and maybe the ‘nachos’, but don’t stay for the rest of the menu. After all, Fat Dads have only moved down the road to Blue Lagoon. Burger for dessert it is.

All words and photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour

Gourmet Warriors, currently in residence at The Gallimaufry, 26-28 Gloucester Rd, BS7 8AL

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

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The news

Sad news for those that really appreciate the Venn diagram crossover between Michelin stars and rotisserie chicken: Jan Ostle and Mary Wilson are no longer involved in Chicken Lunch Club. The Wilson’s team are, happily, too busy running their restaurant, bakery and farm, and as CLC was always meant to be something fun and easy they have taken the decision to step away. The Club is still going strong with Tristan Hogg at the helm.

COR’s younger sister RAGÙ has been recognised with a Michelin Bib Gourmand for excellent value cooking. Well done team!

After a lengthy battle with the council, Bravas’ terrace is officially safe. The team were able to prove that emergency vehicles could still get through the space with the terrace intact and the planning application has been approved. It was one of Bristol’s most popular ever planning applications, with over a thousand people writing to support the restaurant.

BristoL’eclair have moved from the top of Whiteladies Road to opposite the Everyman, meaning your cinema snack options just got a whole lot more exciting.

Press

Congratulations are once again in order for Dongnae’s restaurant manager Becca Lewis who has been named a rising star by the National Restaurant Awards. The award comes only a month after she was named in CODE Hospitality’s 30 under 30 most influential people in hospitality. It’s so encouraging to see Bristol represented in these lists — well done Becca.

Closures

Hearing the news that BoxPark on Welsh Back has been abandoned left me about as surprised as learning about Tyra Banks’ inevitable unveiling as a supermodelsupervillain. Though we have yet to hear what the space will become, my money is on flats.

Grano has announced it is not reopening, and instead the space on Old Market is now being used as an extension of Gigi’s Pizza Shop, which has been rammed since it opened towards the end of 2024. Grano Pasta Bar lives on in St Nick’s market for those with a craving for carbonara or, indeed, the bright pink beetroot and Gorgonzola special, although that may have disappeared from the menu by the time you read this.

Harbourside steak-restaurant-cum-art-gallery Steak of the Art has served its last sirloin. After a difficult year in which the Cardiff branch closed down and owner Steve Bowen had to be candid about the difficulties facing the Bristol site whilst denying rumours it had succumbed to the same fate, this had a sense of the sadly inevitable.

New openings

Wapping Wharf has a host of new residents. Market veterans Fat Rice now has a permanent (if you can call a shipping container permanent) home for its sister venture Rice Box. Around the corner, the unit that belonged to Daily Noodles will now be home to Rice and Shine, a Filipino street food stall that started in Bath. I’m really pleased to see greater representation of Filipino food in Bristol as it is otherwise thin on the ground. Taking a break from the rice theme is Toastie Queens, which is serving — you guessed it! — toasties from its new spot in the shipping container that previously housed Seven Lucky Gods’ Sushi and Shop.

James Wilks has sold the lease to Wilks on Chandos Road. We got all excited thinking that Chandos Road could be in for another high-end restaurant but alas, rumour has it the site is to become the home of a charity which may also be a cafe and event space.

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Having followed him from Cora Pearl in London for veal fillet with bordelaise and multi-striated “chips”, through Bath’s Beckford Canteen (beef tongue crumpet, harissa and Spenwood cruffin, and of course those spuds again, now christened “confit potatoes”) to Higher Farm (spring onion rarebit, clotted cream cheesecake, “chips” again — not in that order) I was starting to feel like a George Barson groupie when I turned up in Bruton.

I’d travelled to the posh-foodie-enclave upon hearing rumours of his presence at the stoves of The Prickly Pear pub. He was indeed to be found behind the pass, and fortunately didn’t appear to have taken out any sort of restraining order (one of the boons of being anonymous; you are literally above the law).

Indeed, with his Rafael Nadal-esque facial features and white bandana, though he wasn’t wearing it that night, you get the impression he might have made a good boy-band member if he’d had enough of the glamours of spud peeling and stock making. Maybe he could have teamed up with his boss from another previous gig, Jamie Oliver. I have no idea if George — or, indeed, the once naked chef — can sing as well as he can cook, but I’m not sure that’s essential in any case. Cook, though, he certainly can. I guess, given his history of cooking in a largely French and British style, the more pertinent question on our visit was: can he cook Mexican food? As long as he didn’t start whacking out Tex Mex Chicken tray bakes like helix-hating Jamie, surely he couldn’t go too far wrong.

*Please do not make this.

The Prickly Pear’s menu felt Mexican by way of Spain — which I suppose is really just Mexican in the grand scheme of history and things — with patatas bravas, manchego, and leeks with romesco nestling amongst the tacos, tortillas and paletas. Deciding to eschew any Spanish inflections and tread a fully Mexican path, we of course kicked off with focaccia (£4) and a negroni (£13). At least the negroni was made with tamarind-infused vermouth, and was bested by a very good house mezcalita (£13) that could only realistically have been improved by the addition of chilli to its salt rim. This deliberate omission was to become something of a recurring theme.

A generous mound of meaty chicken wings (£14) did not get us off to the most auspicious of starts. The skin altogether too pale and flaccid and the sriracha in which they were smothered — admirably homemade — too vinegary and too tame, without the heat, balance and fullness of the ever-popular commercial version.

We were on safer territory with guac and chips (£8.50). The avocado mush was less sprightly than you’d expect in Central America, needing a zhuzh of lime, with an unusual but not displeasing umami hum. Blue and white tortilla chips were crunchy and salty. Hard to go too far wrong.

Purple sprouting (£6), seemingly boiled then charred, and slightly more soft than ideal, came buried under a hillock of deliciously nutty, warming dukkah. A dish that wouldn’t be out of place in Bristol’s very good Soukitchen; Mexico by way of the Middle East. Very tasty swooped through the excess aioli, though no more Mexican.

Going to a notionally Mexican restaurant and not ordering tacos is like going to Peru and not bothering with Machu Picchu, so we opted for two carnitas (£15). Burly strands of juicy pork were stuffed into tacos, presumably brought in but fit enough for purpose, on a dribble of guajillo salsa that was more suited to Bruton than Zacatecas. Fair enough given we were indeed in Bruton not Zacatecas. Google Maps confirmed this.

Taking a pre-dessert break, I allowed our editor to ask George a few questions. It is better to be safe than sorry where restraining orders are concerned. It transpired that George had never been to Mexico, nor was Mexican food really his thing — rather it’s what the Prickly Pear dictators insist upon. Which does make sense if you have been following his career anywhere near as closely as I have. And might also explain the plentiful European inflections on the menu. Hell, apparently he can’t even handle chilli. Quelle surprise, to bring a little French into the equation.

With that revelation ringing in our ears, ordering a chilli chocolate torte (£7.50) should have given us pause for thought. But it was either that or ice cream (or sorbet or paleta…both also basically ice cream). Even in the height of summer, ice cream is not an acceptable dessert. Let alone in the grimy, frozen depths of a grey British winter. No matter how much I grudgingly enjoyed newly-opened Soft Buoys in Finzels Reach; even then mostly for the outstanding warm homemade sticky toffee pudding and caramel than the whorls of milky soft serve. Back in Bruton, the torte’s chilli zing was predictably muted. A dense, ganache-like topping perched on a tightly-packed, salty rubble of chocolate and peanuts and was rather excellent, particularly once dredged through a quenelle of orange puree zig-zagged creme fraiche. More chocolate orange than chocolate chilli, but perfectly agreeable.

There’s undoubtedly some good cooking going on in this recently refurbished high street pub, and there’s tangible potential; a quick stroll round the joint takes you past a floor-to-nearly-ceiling fridge full of ageing joints of meat, ambition signifier 101, and up the road they’ve got a kitchen garden, signifier 102. Still, at the moment eating this Mexican food in an expensively done out pub in genteel Bruton felt a little like seeing an axolotl in a zoo; somewhat exciting yet also slightly jarring. You can give the thing as naturalistic an enclosure as you like, it will never be the same as the wild. It feels a bit like seeing one of the South West’s best chefs of modern British food behind a wall of tacos and chilli, not quite knowing how to plot an escape. Maybe one day soon he’ll get his own place. In the meantime, let’s get this man some butter. Stat.

All words by PXandTarts, photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour

The Prickly Pear, 45-49 High Street, Bruton BA10 0AW

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

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I have grand plans for the Sauce in the long run. Grand plans indeed. But at the moment I am facing rather severe time and budget constraints. The good thing about constraints is that they force you to innovate, and innovate I have. In the future, I want to create a Bristol Sauce app (if there’s any web developers out there who are really good and really cheap - this is your sign to get in touch). I can’t create an app just yet, so instead I have created what we can think of as a prototype, or proof of concept, and as it actually works quite well, it would be rude of me to keep it to myself.

Behold, the Sauce map. (Please note - this does require you to have Google Maps)

See the map

Have a play around. Click on some dots. Hopefully you should see a beautiful display of restaurants in Bristol that The Bristol Sauce recommends, but for the first time ever, they’re on a map. Much more useful for when you’re out and about and hungry.

I encourage you to share this map with anyone who may be interested or find it useful. Hopefully when others use the map they will become familiar with the Sauce too, which can only be helpful in the long run. The more readers we have, the more we can write.

See the map

Each map entry has a short description that should give you a brief flavour of the place and how much it costs, plus a review that we’ve written if you’d like to read more. I’d advise you to take the actual Google Maps rating with a heavy pinch of salt, as recent research I’ve been doing suggests they are not nearly as accurate or trustworthy as we’ve been led to believe. More on that another time.

If you think there is a glaring omission from this map, please do let us know. The beauty of it is that whenever we add or remove a restaurant, your version of the map will update automatically. So if we eat somewhere and think it’s worth knowing — there’ll be a new little yellow dot next time you open the map.

And if any of this is remotely useful and you haven’t already, please consider becoming a paying Saucer. It currently only costs £3.50 a month, but the price will increase in April - but only for new subscribers. So if you get in there now, you’ll be able to access all our content forever for our lowest ever cost.

Thank you very much! Now go and eat something. Meg X

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There aren’t many places everybody seems happy to be. Glastonbury and Pride are two that spring to mind. The first half hour of a wedding, before it starts dragging. The raucous Dia de Muertos parade in Oaxaca, Mexico. Closer to home, Carmen Street Wine just off ‘vibrant’ Stokes Croft is another such place.

Last time we came to Carmen Street Wine, admittedly late on a Sunday evening, the kitchen was bare other than some very fine, meaty rock oysters. Five quid Negronis and £4.50 Guinness’ will make people hungry. Standing there drooling, like cartoon Big Bad Wolves, we were graciously permitted to order in some Danny’s burgers to chomp alongside our well-deserved magnum (of wine, not the ice cream, much to Meg’s disappointment).

This time the concise menu was bolstered by a few bonus pickings from the mothership. From a short blackboard offering of three charcuterie and two cheeses, alongside the classic 2026 wine bar signifiers of almonds, olives, padron peppers and tinned fish (smoked sardines currently), it was the truffle salchichon bellota that appealed over the plain version or lomo.

A recommendation of Fiano (£12 a glass), described as the “whitest white”, a phrase more generally heard at Reform conferences, was gratefully and enthusiastically accepted as a suitable accompaniment. The salchichon (£6.50) could equally have been described as the “truffliest truffle”-flavoured: the Torres crisps of charcuterie. I await the invention of fried egg flavour salami with baited breath.

Four thick wedges of irregularly-bubbled focaccia (£4.50) soon made their way over. If I wanted to be querulous — and lord knows I generally do, even if Carmen Street is the sort of place that makes it easy to forget any niggles — I’d have liked more than the one puck of caper-riddled beurre ravigote provided. But you could give me a whole pack of butter and I’d still wonder whether that was quite enough, and maybe it was a deliberate ploy on behalf of our server to ensure we had enough bread left for the forthcoming mariniere sauce. If I was that good at delaying gratification, I probably wouldn’t be divorced. Meg said she wished she’d saved some bread and butter to make herself a chip butty (you can take the food writer out of the north…) to then dip into the sauce. That’s another level again.

Luckily, I had assigned a slice of focaccia to keep aside for my friend at the start of the meal, because I am very kind. When, over an hour in, she still hadn’t finished it, I took it upon myself to reclaim it for dunking it in the creamy shellfish-infused broth at the bottom of a bowl rattling with shiny, plump bivalves (£13 with fries). The fries could have done with both more salt and more time in the fryer, although they remained admirably crisp despite their blondeness.

In quick succession came an off-menu treat presumably ferried in sneakily from Caper: pig’s cheek (£14), slow-cooked to a seductive, softly-sweet nugget, with some of the best, most silken pommes purée you’re likely to come across the side of the Bayeux tapestry. Winter-comfort-food-par excellence, but a snappy celeriac remoulade made sure it coddled rather than anaesthetised.

By this point, the newly-opened Bottleshop, visible through the open doorway to the left of the bar, was full of sixtieth birthday celebrators. After our food, we perused the tall, shiny bottles on offer in there, Naked orange wine in hand. Thank god for the lack of a comma there.

Carmen Street Wine’s main snug was also rammed, punters drifting in and out while we remained perched on our stools like inebriated meerkats. A quick glimpse into the older sibling, the much-celebrated Caper & Cure, on the way home showed it, too, packed to the rafters, diners happily knocking back flinty whites with their turbot heads. I mean they were eating fish, not that they were particularly ugly. It might have been Dry January and we might be in the middle of a cost of living crisis, but the denizens of Stokes Croft and beyond still know where it’s at.

Charismatic owner, Giles, channels Tom Hiddleston’s night manager as he drifts between Carmen Street and Caper & Cure, charming all in his path as he goes. You can get a taste for his character and excellent taste in wine in the article written about him just last week in Restaurant Online. Seemingly on his way to becoming Bristol’s Jeremy King, he has created the sort of cosy yet stylish spot that feels like hospitality actualised and, for that matter, hospitality’s front room. You can pop in for a glass of cremant or a Guinness, or, as we did, stay all evening (although if you are after a proper, sit-down meal, maybe book the OG). We intended the former, but it soon veered towards the latter. For that you can blame one or two impeccable negronis, skirting sweetness but never quite getting there. And maybe a couple of sips of my friend’s Manhattan. As one glass of wine became three, half of Bristol seemed to show their faces, friends were hugged, or waved at across the room, and unfulfilled promises were made. It’s a good job they don’t offer desserts yet, or I might still be there now.

Carmen Street Wine, Beckford Street, BS1 3FD

All words by PXandTarts, photos as labelled

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

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I know there are many full English breakfasts available in Bristol, but none are quite how I like them.

I was spoilt by eating one every single Sunday for about five years at the much-missed Wallfish Bistro in Clifton. Its passing left a sausage-shaped hole in my heart, along with a fair old bit of cholesterol blocking up my internal gubbins. But why, you ask? What made it so special?

Quality ingredients, cooked with care and an eye for detail by a talented chef. Beans, yes — I’m not normally a fan, but spiked with pieces of pork trotter and never, God help us, in a ramekin. Excellent sausages, black pudding and bacon. A selection of the Sunday papers and magazines to peruse. Fancy silver salt and pepper pots — on reflection probably not silver, but weighty so presumably quality.

I bloody loved it. So much so that I became a permanent fixture. I didn’t need to book, I didn’t even need to actually order, which was handy when hungover. I just turned up, slumped in my regular corner spot and was presented with a cracking breakfast. I once filled in for a KP shift when they were short-handed. I even went to the wedding of owners Seldon and Liberty!

This was high living indeed and created a breakfast expectation that is damn near impossible to meet. So when their doors closed six years ago, I had no choice. I tried a few other places but nowhere matched up. I had to start cooking my own — I’ve made and eaten a full English breakfast every single Sunday since.

There are pros and cons to hyper-fixation. Starting with the negatives — I have to purchase the ingredients and do the actual cooking myself. There’s also no fancy salt and pepper pots, or a selection of Sunday papers. On the plus side, I get to tailor my breakfast exactly how I like it and as it turns out I’m very particular.

I’ve discovered that I’m something of a fried breakfast purist so, perhaps controversially, no beans. I’ve done sod all research, but I think you’ll agree I’ve eaten enough plates of bacon and eggs to be intrinsically connected to the invisible greasy-breakfast matrix that exists in the ether and I feel like they’re an Americanisation of our national dish. Also I don’t really like them, so there. The same goes for hash-browns. Though I do actually like them and if they were home-made and not the frozen triangles of sadness, they’d be ok. Such is the series of complex internal judgements and compromises that I must consider.

Sausages and bacon should be quality, preferably from a butchers, although I rate the M&S ultimate pork sausage, available in the big fancy new branch in Cabot Circus. I’m very fond of Fruit Pig black pudding and quality eggs are a must; Clarence Court Burford Browns are my regulars now.

More controversy in the form of tinned plum tomatoes: I love them. It’s partly a nostalgia thing, my family always had them on a fry-up and the fact I’ve eaten enough rock hard, uncooked, unseasonal fresh tomatoes sporting superficial charring to know where my true loyalties lie. Tinned tomatoes need to be cooked till they’re jammy and my preference is for the Cirio brand.

Bread for mopping is essential; Hart’s Bakery white sourdough, toasted and slathered in butter. Fried mushrooms, yes, and finally, the piss duh resistance — Colman’s English Mustard on the side for sinus clearing action. Again it’s a nostalgia thing. Two cups of deeply tannic tea to wash it all down and that’s that.

Now, you’re probably thinking: ‘cheeky bastardo, I know exactly how I like a full-English’ and this is entirely proper and correct. Everyone has an opinion and what you like undoubtedly isn’t what I like and that’s fine. I respect your choices, as long as it doesn’t include a ramekin of baked beans. But until Wallfish come back to Bristol — my breakfast is the best in town.

All words and photos by Dan Vaux-Nobes, edited by Meg Houghton-Gilmour

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

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Our eyes meet over a glass of red,

He plucks an olive, I dip some bread,

Music is soft, talk punctuated with laughter,

Could this be my happily ever after?

The path of true love never did run smooth.

A meat-eater with a dairy allergy and a veggie does two reluctant vegans make,

When really she wants a camembert and he wants a steak,

I wouldn’t quite say it’s a tragedy,

but to never be able to share a rich, molten brie?

You could say he’s the meat-ague to my capsican-let. Then again, you can also take a theme too far.

It turns out true love is a whole series of often unsatisfying compromises. Until one Thursday lunchtime when it isn’t.

We find ourselves in Plantuguese. Formerly a market stall that gained a loyal following in Bristol, owners Tiago and Gerda have opened a restaurant that lays claim to being the first vegan Portuguese restaurant in the UK. Not wanting any beef, I won’t question that stance.

A simple blue and white sign overlooking Stokes Croft gives little away of the cosily lit, rustic restaurant within. The premises used to be home to Caribbean Croft, which has moved down the road, but the vibe is now unmistakably Portuguese. As is the scent wafting from the kitchen.

The menu offers plant-based small plate versions of ‘authentic Portuguese cuisine’ such as pica-pau, alongside chargrilled tofu and nori ‘sardine’. It seems the Portuguese are somewhat less prescriptive when it comes to their traditional dishes. If you’d have tried offering vegan sardines to an Italian, you’d have been met with the swift rebuttal “and if Romeo and Juliet had survived, it’d be a comedy”.

Red wine has long been my poison of choice and if this glass is my last, I shall die happy. From the Dão region of Portugal, the red (£9.50 for 175ml glass or £27.50 for a bottle) is deep and smooth, the kind of wine that awakens the senses and dissipates the day’s stresses with alarming ease. It’s also organic, ethically sourced and transported by sail cargo ship by the Port O’ Bristol team, who have recently opened a wine bar in Wapping Wharf.

We’re curious about the green wine — a very literal translation — billed as Plantuguese’s house drink, but it’s sold out for the day, so we break the ice with an amarguinha spritz (£9). Chosen from a small but effective cocktail menu, it’s a sweet almond number that gives a hefty kick and conjures up hazy memories of sunshine holidays.

Frankly, Plantuguese, you had me at vino. But, by all means, woo me with some sourdough (£5) and olives (£5.50). The latter are juicy and flavoursome, and come served with tremoços, a traditional Portuguese bar snack of lupin beans marinated with garlic, bay leaf and herbs, which prove curiously moreish.

Faintly toasted, the sourdough is lightly drizzled with rich olive oil, herbs and salt. Too lightly for our indulgent mood and a dish of thick olive oil is swiftly brought from the kitchen, with some extra flakes of salt for good measure.

Skilfully cooked mushrooms are the underrated star of vegan dining (or any dining for that matter). My affection for fungi hath an unknown bottom; give me a well-dressed mushroom over a fake meat burger any day. The ameijoas de cogumelos (£8) — or king oyster mushroom ‘clams’ — are firm but tender and fabulously dressed in a white wine broth that’s devilishly spiked with garlic. Never let romance get in the way of a good dose of pungent allium. It’s worth ordering the excellent, crispy skin-on fries (£4 for a generous bowlful) just for the dipping.

‘Shredded hearts of vegan cod’ (£14.50) and ‘thick-cut lion’s mane steak’ (£17.50) are among the five main dishes on the menu — could Plantuguese be the home of Bristol’s most expensive mushroom? I must admit to some initial scepticism over a vegan take on meat or seafood dishes, but then the course of restaurant reviewing is much like that of love: not always as fun as it sounds, and dominated by middle-aged white men.

Arroz de marisco (£16.50) — traditionally a seafood rice dish — is a revelation. The chef has worked wonders to create a deeply satisfying broth that evokes long forgotten memories of gorging on mussels by a Mediterranean shore. For the curious, the prawns are made from tapioca starch, soy protein and beetroot powder. Prawns? What’s in a name? They hold their consistency well and soak up the salty, earthy flavours of the broth, the last drops of which we soak up with our remaining fries.

Plantuguese is a testament to the ethos of doing less and doing it well. Dessert options here are pastel de nata by itself (£3) or pastel de nata with coconut ice cream (£5), leaving you with the eternal dilemma: to ice cream, or not to ice cream? Although you’d have to be a blinking idiot not to.

And, wow, do they do these well. If music is the food of love, these tarts might just be the fuel that keeps it burning. When dirty messages revolve around toddler potty training updates and after-dinner small talk means quibbling over dishwasher etiquette, rekindle a common passion with one of these irresistible treats. Crisp pastry and custard still warm from the oven, it’s all the more enjoyable for usually being off limits. The coconut ice cream, confides Gerda, was a happy mistake that arrived instead of the vanilla they ordered. Turns out they’re a match made in heaven.

So, two star crossed lovers say their goodbyes.

Sated by a meal of pure joy with no compromise.

With the sweet tingle of custard on lips so soft,

They stroll hand in hand out to wander Stokes Croft.

All words and photos by Ellie Pipe, edited by PXandTarts

Plantuguese, 34 Stokes Croft, BS1 3QD

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

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But before we wade in — a favour. I’m being really grown up and actually writing a proper business plan for The Bristol Sauce, and getting some feedback from our readers will help enormously. Please will you show us a little bit of love and share your thoughts?

Thank you and a reminder - even if you’re more alone than you’d like to be this February - we love you. And we’re very, very grateful that you're here.

A one-off: Bertha’s Pizza Giro, Wapping Wharf

Not content with continuing to knock out the best Neapolitan pies in the south west, Bertha’s have announced the long-awaited return of their beloved giro. Competitive socialising via the medium of food, bring a team and out-shout neighbouring tables for the chance to try as many pizzas as possible, including never before seen experimental combinations. Don’t worry, though, you won’t leave hungry whatever happens.

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The last thing anyone wants at the moment is a reminder that America exists. Even just writing the word I feel a drop in my stomach. The Americans have given us so many horrors — ICE, ambrosia salad, and most recently, the Melania documentary, which is excitingly looking like the biggest box office flop since Shrek 6.

Thanks to our cousins across the pond there are some truly awful abominations of the English language; not least trash, sidewalk, soccer and diapers. I’ll forgive them eggplant (early introductions of the vegetable to North America were indeed small, bulbous and white) and zucchini (from zucchino, the Italian word for a small squash brought over by the swathes of Italian immigrants) and I’ll even let them off cilantro as that came from the Spanish used by the Mexicans.

But their pronunciation of buoys is something I cannot overlook. Bow-ey. Bow-ey, for god’s sake. No I’m serious, have a listen for yourself. It was this nonsensical noise that we were ridiculing as we waited, hands tucked between knees for warmth, on a picnic bench next to the Soft Buoys shack on Welsh Back, with the occasional umami waft of grilling cheese turning us into a small pack of Pavlov’s dogs.

Yet without the Americans, we may not have grilled cheese at all. And we certainly wouldn’t have had Anthony Bourdain. So without America, despite all its flaws, we would not be able to get a Buoy-dain grilled cheese (£8) from Soft Buoys, and that is really quite something. Based on Bourdain’s favourite sandwich, it comprises layers of fried mortadella, provolone, mustard and five other cheeses and ties only with another example from the same little shack for the best grilled cheese I’ve had in recent memory. The golden surface and hefty caramelised skirt is punctuated only by the two green gherkins it has been speared with, which offer the perfect between-bite sour nibble.

Taking inspiration from the other side of the world was the kimchi special (£7.50) with optional fried spam (£1.50). If you’re questioning spam in a kimchi sandwich, the nondescript spiced pork was introduced to Korea by American soldiers during the Korean war when meat was scarce and so began a nationwide multi-generational love affair. And to be fair to the Koreans, when fried and paired with Bokman’s kimchi, nori, kewpie mayo and Soft Buoy’s five cheese blend — it makes for a stellar lunch.

But the real reason I’d come to Soft Buoys was for the eponymous soft serve. You might think a near-zero day in early January would not be the ideal time for eating soft serve outside, but you’d be wrong, because it is always the ideal time to eat soft serve — especially when it’s topped with things like brown butter and sultanas, sticky toffee pudding and brownie with miso caramel and coco pops (all £6).

Now seems a good time to remind you that Soft Buoys owner James also moonlights as part of the team at Bokman — or at least, he did, pre-fire. I’m not sure whether he learnt the soft serve craft there or was the originator of it, but either way I am delighted to see the joy spreading.

The sticky toffee pudding, served piping hot, jumped immediately onto the podium of Bristol’s best examples of the genre, pipped to the post only by The Pony’s. How James is creating such exquisite desserts in this postage-stamp of cafe is beyond me. The tiniest hairline cracks started to show with the brownie, which due to the baltic environment in which it was awaiting consumption, was very hard. In fact it was no match for our measly wooden spoons, one of which snapped in half at the first sign of resistance. The brownie and friends concoction was by no means bad, but not a patch on the sticky toffee pudding. I’ll have to return (it’s a hard life) for the brown butter, and indeed, every other flavour.

There’s more reasons to lament America than there are stars in the sky, but my motto is that if you’re going to feel depressed, deeply anxious, horrified, enraged, nauseated or any of the other negative emotions that are incited by a quick check of the BBC news homepage, you might as well do it with a grilled cheese in hand and a soft serve on the way. It won’t make it better, but it will at least provide a really good distraction on your lunch break. And who knows, if the 1984 trends continue, in the near future we may well be saying that the grilled cheese was in fact invented on Welsh Back in 2025, and then we can cut all ties with America once and for all.

All words and photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour

Soft Buoys, The Kiosk, Welsh Back, BS1 4SB

The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.

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