The Woolpack, Slad: 'Truly a pub rather than a restaurant in pub’s clothing' - review

A double header in Stroud and Slad

Despite having over a decade of tweeting about food under his belt, Chris, a.k.a PXandTarts, has never written a full length restaurant review - until now. His wit, vocabulary and extensive restaurant knowledge never fails to impress me, so I do hope that this will be the first of many times I’m able to persuade him to apply his writing talents to The Bristol Sauce. I’m sure you will find the following review most entertaining - and if you do, I’d recommend following Chris on Twitter (now sadly renamed X) where he is clinging on to the most incredible archive of tweets in a sea of Musk-fuelled right-wing nonsense. You can find him at PXandTarts.

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Juliet was last on my radar in secondary school as part of an Italian death cult. As far as I know nothing of the sort is happening in Stroud’s newest restaurant. Here, Juliet is the younger sibling of The Woolpack Inn, a nationally-recognised gastropub given a new lease of life in 1999 by local sculptor Daniel Chadwick.

This Juliet crept into my stream of consciousness, which consists largely of pastries and sandwiches, by snagging a man of many talents, William Rees, as head chef. After a spell at Bristol’s best restaurant, Wilsons, Rees was last spotted at The Clifton gastropub where hulking plates of beef rib cooked over fire appease the haughty locals.

A bistro-type affair, Juliet was always going to be catnip to the national critics, Francophiles to a fault, and this has already proven the case. Being barely more than half an hour from Bristol, and with The Woolpack five minutes up the road, a day trip to check both out seemed like the sensible thing to do. A very light early lunch, more reconnaissance than meal, consisted of baguette with Bungay butter (£3), a salad of puntarelle, Tropea onion and prosciutto (£10), and elongated strips of grilled red pepper slumped over plump cannellini beans (£9).

Can we make a pun of puntarelle?

But the original purpose of our excursion, and the subject of this piece, was never really meant to be the new, debonair little sister. It was of the OG in all its isolated, understated 17th century if-not-glory then solace. The sort of place American tourists roll over themselves to visit even before finding out it was Laurie Lee’s local, even if the most cursory smidge of research would tell them as much. Thus we headed a few miles up Slad Road and, incredibly, found ourselves in Slad. The purpose of our visit? To find Laurie Lee's dead body. No, wait, to eat.

Have you ever seen a more perfect pub?

Meg of The Bristol Sauce suggested we didn't need bread since we’d had baguette for lunch. It’s nonsense like this that makes me question whether she should really be in charge. Of course I overruled, emboldened by a thick pint of Guinness. We were rewarded with four hench semi-ovals of sourdough, each an inch thick, warm, spongy and an altogether heartier affair than demure baguette. Extra butter was requested within seconds.

Currently number 33 in the UK’s Top 50 Gastropubs list, The Woolpack has been reviewed by Grace Dent, who has also done the double, Tom Parker-Bowles and Giles Coren, among others, so it definitely qualifies as a Hidden Gem™. The most likely of the three food critics to be cancelled - probably, but you can never rule out the royal family in such matters - rightfully praised the devilled kidneys (£12); four commas, taut and densely meaty, thin skin almost popping in the mouth as you bite through to flesh, their sweetly boozy, sticky juices soddening a slice of toast.

Better the devil you know

A haphazard assembly consisted primarily of large dandelion leaves so big that, if found in your local park, you’d assume the council had been neglecting weeding duties. I guess if you source much of your vegetable produce from a nearby valley, as The Woolpack does, you can’t be picky at this time of year. At least these weren’t seasoned with petrol fumes or dog’s piss. They came scattered with nuggets of pig’s cheek that were described as crispy but came off more satisfyingly chewy and a large, slippery tangle of roast shallot (£12), the whole effect much better than the compost heap vibes it was giving.

You’d be thrilled if you found this in your local park

So similar to lunch’s puntarelle affair was it that even if there had been more than the four hours separating meals, immediate comparisons would have been drawn. Long chlorophyllic leaves, gently wilted to tame inherent bitterness, porky shards, silken allium. No need to change a winning formula, a mindset equally applicable to the pub’s overall execution. And this truly is a pub rather than a restaurant in pub’s clothing; the snug front bar full of natives cricking their necks in confusion as we snuck a peek - in which I’d happily while away an afternoon. Or a whole day. Maybe our next double header should be lunch and dinner in Slad.

Onglet, chips and green peppercorn sauce (£26) which I would describe as Cafe Cecilia-esque in its stark execution, the sort of white-plate-here’s-your-dinner Instagram-aesthetic, were it not for the fact that The Woolpack obviously got there first. Rosy red, gently ferrous meat fringed with an almost-blackened crust, sitting in a glossy almost-gravy invigorated with the zip of pepper.

Pink to make the Slads wink

Equally no-nonsense a was mound of lentils and soured cabbage piled with confit duck and smoked pork belly (£27). The sort of dish you, or a critic, would dream about stumbling into in a little French village before remembering it’s no longer the 1980s, despite what Gregg Wallace might think.

Two meats one veg - a planetary catastrophe but very delicious

A slab of ginger loaf with butterscotch sauce and vanilla ice cream (£10) reminded me of something similar regularly ordered at Clifton’s much-missed Wallfish Bistro. This Cotswolds version was a little less dense, which, to my mind, is a negative. If I’m going to eat dessert - and invariably I am - I want to know about it for at least the rest of the evening. “There are only two things I would do to improve this dish”, I said to your pre-eminent editor, offering typical unsolicited thoughts. She swiftly nailed both: a flick of Maldon, and a few nuts. Then she stole half of the pudding she hadn’t even wanted.

At that point, I’d have happily squished into our little corner with another Guinness and some crosswords but Meg asked me to write about what we’d just eaten, and I’ve been stressed ever since. It’s just not Twitter. But, then, neither is Twitter these days. At least we can rely on The Woolpack to remain true to its ideals, whacking out hearty terrines of pheasant and pork or mutton chops with borlotti beans, rather than descend into right-wing anarchy. Probably. I don’t really know what Slad is like.

Words by PXandTarts, photos by Meg Houghton-Gilmour

The Woolpack Inn, Slad Rd, GL6 7QA

Juliet, Old Music Centre, Stroud GL5 2AD

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