REVIEW: A stylish setting, best views in Stratford-upon-Avon and tasty modern cuisine earn the RSC Rooftop Restaurant a standing ovation
You know what it’s like when you go and see a show at the RSC, you always come out picking a favourite performer? And so it is with the theatre’s Rooftop Restaurant.
Naturally, as you might expect from the classy and chic establishment, the people that work there are charming and efficient – stars one and all.Head chef is James Eaves, who studied at Stratford College before working at a number of prestigious hotels and the University of Warwick.
So a local chap who, where possible, uses local produce and suppliers such as Barry the Butcher, Marks Cotswold Bakery and Jude’s Ice Cream.
I rarely make it up to the third floor of the RSC (nothing to do with fitness, there is a lift) so it’s always a bit of thrill to remember just how fabulous it is. The huge floor to ceiling windows overlook the Avon river and canal basin and opulent greenery further afield – where perhaps Midsummer lovers frolic in Arden bliss (er, apologies – I’ve started waxing lyrically, the view will do that to you).
As husband Steve and I take a seat, attentive and charming manager Andrei offers a cocktail. After going googly-eyed over the large selection I opt for a Love Triangle. It isn’t just any old ordinary cocktail – this is a renowned RSC Rooftop job – and comprises of a divine mix of Malibu, Bacardi Bianco, lime juice, gomme (sugary syrup) and cream, and is ‘such stuff as dreams are made on’, as Prospero might rave.
Maybe it’s the Love Triangle talking, but as the sparkling lights of the town dot the dark night sky providing the perfect backdrop for our meal, all seems – briefly – right with the world. Here we are in the home of Shakespeare among sophisticated diners and their clever chat as they await the evening’s performance of Twelfth Night (on its last weekend). Around us is a palpable buzz of expectation.
And what is the best thing to go with such a buzz? Pigs in blankets is the correct answer. Served as part of the pre-starter ‘nibbles’ section, they come perfectly cooked and drenched in honey and mustard. Heaven.
As I knew I was reviewing, for starters I went for warm smoked salmon and dill tart with lemon creme fraiche, and micro watercress, having felt I needed to rigorously test the pastry… a good pastry being a real barometer of kitchen excellence. I can happily report that this was a buttery delicacy that boosted the tart to perfection.
Steve had ham hock and pea terrine with piccalilli, pea shoot tendrils, and toasted sourdough – lovely, and especially so as he let me scoff all the utterly ace pickle.
For mains he followed up with the slow cooked Long Compton pork belly, which for me proved to be the only ‘bit player’ of the night – I like mine super crispy and this was a little lacking in that department.
Luckily my own main, breast of chicken with savoy cabbage, bean and choirzo cassoulet and crispy pancetta, was bursting with flavour and wintry beany heartiness and left me contentedly stuffed… Not too stuffed to not contemplate pudding though.
As a homage to the post-festive season, I went with Baileys crème brulee. I do like booze incorporated into dessert, and the opulent creaminess of this fella was an absolute winner. As is often the way with this category of pudding, it came with shortbread. Usually these are delicate things, proffering up a few ladylike niblets. This one though was a stonking brick – seriously, you could put a bank window through with it. It was a cheeky chunky cinnamon-flavoured weapon. So big was it that I was too full to even contemplate eating it, so I wrapped it in a napkin and took it home.
The next day it joined me for breakfast (well, actually it was breakfast)... My first bite was a bit like the scene from the film Ratatouille when the food critic is transported back to his childhood by the deliciousness of the cuisine. For me, this mighty shortbread melted away reality, and I was in my Scottish granny’s kitchen in Skye, munching on the sublime buttery crunch of her comforting shortbread. My chunky friend was the star of the show, and fully deserving of an encore.
Steve, a man of simple tastes (except for his sophisticated wife, obviously) declined pudding, and gave the piggies in blankets top billing.
Sausages and Shortbread… could be the title of a new Alan Ayckbourn.
