Emberwood, Bath: ‘Polished marble surfaces, chandeliers dotted hither and thither, furniture never knowingly underholstered’
The ex-head chef of Paco Tapas has taken up residence on Queen Square
Emberwood is the newest Bath entry in the Michelin Guide, and with Dave Hazell manning the grill, it’s no real surprise the restaurant in the newly refitted Francis Hotel has earned its place. But the Michelin Guide and The Bristol Sauce are two very different beasts. One is world-famous, worth millions, considered among the most trusted arbiters of restaurants. The other is just a load of anonymous middle-aged white blokes propped up by tourism boards.
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Paco Tapas. RIP. One of Bristol's most divisive restaurants. I loved its commitment to top quality Spanish produce treated simply. Its gregarious service and slick, polished interior. I loved sitting up at the counter witnessing the skilled chefs at work.
Others, and to be fair there were many, griped about food too unadorned to warrant the Michelin star it held for seven years, and seemingly high prices. I’d argue that they didn't close because they were making too much profit.
Still, when I heard one of the guys I used to love watching in action, former head chef David Hazell, was soon to be found behind a similar counter in front of a similar fire focused set-up at Emberwood, it quickly made its way to the top of my list.
At one point said list was neatly organised by city but by now is almost indecipherable, not helped by the constant revolving door of chefs and restaurants. Thank God, then, that I remembered to visit Emberwood when we were in the vicinity of Bath, even if I hadn't realised it was to be found within rather old-money The Francis Hotel on Queen Square.
After co-fermented pet nat, superlative Landrace bread and butter, gossamer salami and effortlessly louche yet unfailingly friendly vibes at 18 Green Street Wine Co — which felt almost too cool for Bath, but a hugely welcome addition — it would be fair to say Emberwood felt a bit staid. Polished marble surfaces, chandeliers dotted hither and thither, furniture never knowingly underholstered. It was like The Ivy had come to Bath, if Bath didn't already have an Ivy. Obviously. My friend arrived wearing crocs and immediately felt underdressed. We're not in Bristol any more, Toto.
Staff did their absolute utmost to disguise the venue's lack of easy conviviality with warmth, understanding and generosity, although Meg's petit fours joke fell on deaf ears. In their defence, it was bad enough not to bother repeating in print.
Early sustenance came in the form of a big old slice of Bertinet sourdough (£5.50) - no Landrace, but perfectly acceptable for slathering with a rather genteel whipped butter, as if liberally applying SPF 30 before a day at the beach - chopped across its width into soldiers, reassembled, then plonked onto a plank — à la Claire from Come Dine With Me.
This was swiftly followed by a duo of starters. Scallops (£18) and beef tartare (£16). Surf and turf, if you will, although as far as I am aware no brave chef has yet thought to combine the two. ’Tis but a matter of time. The raw beef was pretty classic; creamy but piquant, deftly chopped though just rugged enough not to be dull. A few beef tallow crisps were buried into the meat mound, which could have been more thoroughly tallowed for my liking. What wouldn't fit onto the crisps was swiftly deployed on top of the remaining soldiers. Coal-roasted Cornish scallops were similarly textbook, suitably pearlescent and drowning in garlicky butter. Whose idea was it to use up all the bread?!
Pork belly and steak, though far from disastrous, didn't reach the heights of the smaller courses, as is so often the way. Is it that mains are objectively worse than starters, or is it that we are just less hungry by that point? The early plates in a meal do often have a more experimental bent, but is the law of diminishing returns equally important; your first bite of steak glorious, the tenth just…the same?
Said pork belly (£23) came slumped on top of a tasty, lip-sticking sludge of spiced black pudding and borlotti beans, like a British feijoada, painted in salsa verde and crowned with a curl of pork scratching near enough the width of the plate. While this crack(l)ing display of generosity looked the part, it was so chewy that we resembled a pack of sabre-toothed tigers attacking three day old microwaved poppadoms in an attempt to masticate the fucking thing.
In ordering, Meg had performed some saucery sorcery and managed to choose peppercorn jus over beef fat béarnaise before I had even noticed, presumably because the former is vaguely analogous to gravy. Bavette (£25) was nicely cooked, a blackened exterior, carmine interior, ferrous and chew-worthy, and imbued with smoke from the impressive hearth. Koffman chips were fine, and at least the great chef hasn't resorted to flogging Flora à la Ramsay; enough to ruin any meal.
Wye Valley asparagus (£13) came showered with local pecorino and similarly benefitted from a smoky shawl, reminding me why the spears are worth seeking out when they are in season. Sadly Isle of Wight tomatoes (£15) were too mushy to do the same, while the burrata meant to lend its luscious milkiness came across more like a bad mozzarella.
With my friend's car parking running out in twenty-five minutes, the aforementioned petit fours gag landing about as well as Gregg Wallace’s Instagram reels, and a rather bare dessert trolley being wheeled round - proof that everything from the 80s circles back eventually, which is why racism is currently having such a resurgence - we weren't overly optimistic about our dessert prospects.
But if there's one thing that will cheer me up in almost any given scenario, it is a well executed tart. And the only thing better than one tart? Two tart(e)s. Tatin (£9) was a touch of caramelisation away from one the sisters themselves would be proud of, but was still all squidgy, toffee-d fruit, and puffed, buttery pastry, while a miso custard tart (£8) was so seductively slick with an addictive backnote of umami, it had me suggesting to my friend that maybe he should check on his car after all. “I'll look after the tart.”
If we hadn't brunched on cookies, croissants and tartes fines at Landrace Bakery for brunch (yes, as well as 18 Green Street - we do this for your benefit, not ours. Please subscribe), I would probably have had the rum baba as an aperitif.
So: Emberwood. Good food. Classic U-curve meal trajectory. Despite the impressive executive chef on board, and despite the enticing menu, it's not Paco. But then it was never really going to be. It's very much Bath.
All words by PXandTarts, all photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour
Emberwood, 5 Queen Square, Bath BA1 2HH
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