The Prickly Pear, Bruton: 'Get this man some butter, stat'

In which chilli-averse George Barson cooks Mexican

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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.

It was just like being back in Mexico

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.

As pale as me before I left for Mexcio. And when I returned.

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.

If you told me that was a tasty taco, you wouldn’t be telling porkies

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.

No es de Terry, es mio

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

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