Restaurant review: Blackmore's of Alnwick

Jul 4 2008 by Jane Hall, The Journal

WE’VE a new regime in our household. It wasn’t a democratic process, just a sneaky suggestion that wormed its way in and has become the status quo.

It started with an observation that someone was doing all the cooking and it was a skill the other person should be honing, in case it was ever needed. That thin-edge-of-the-wedge proposition sounded reasonable enough. What I didn’t see coming was the follow-on, that the cook plans, shops for and cooks all meals for a week all by himself.

Now, I don’t mind turning my hand to an occasional dinner, but seven days on the trot is a bit much. It took a while but, with some wily thinking, I came up with a plan and made a massive pizza pie of Desperate Dan proportions that lasted three days.

Admittedly, on Pie Day Two there was bit of carping about the sameness of the meal and day three produced some déjà vu-related comments, but there was no repetition clause in the agreement, so I ignored the bleating and soldiered on. With only four to go, we went out with friends one night and then there was a review meal, which whittled my kitchen duty down to two.

On the review night, as we made our way along the A1 to Alnwick, she persistently tried to renegotiate the contract’s terms, but I feigned wounded innocence until, through gritted teeth, she gave up, squeezed the car through the wing-mirror tight archway into Blackmore’s car park and slewed it to a halt on the gravel. Victory is the sweetest dish!

The restaurant’s super-stylish interior brightened her demeanour, helped along by a glass of Merlot and some warm rolls.

The menu promised more choice than she’d seen all week and I thought it best to give her free rein. Tactics are the secret to a successful long-term relationship.

After a brief interval her starter of smoked duck and orange salad with toasted pine nuts and pesto verde arrived, and very pretty it looked too with slices of raspberry pink meat edged by creamy fat on a mound of salad leaves.

Fragrant orange slices, toasted pine nuts and pesto verde corralled the ensemble. Although very pleasing to the eye, the meat was so under-flavoured that if it hadn’t been described as smoked, I wouldn’t have known.

My Gratin of stuffed portabello mushroom was a luscious dish, with a palm-sized mushroom dripping with sautéed leeks, topped with a toasted crust of Berwick edge cheese.

We moved on to main courses and a five star dish of local venison loin. Perfectly cooked medallions, encircling a buttery pastry case cradling more of those sautéed leeks, had all their meaty juices sealed in to be released into the port jus with the gentlest cut.

A generous side dish of broccoli, carrots, potatoes and deckle-edged courgettes went well with this dish and mine, roast chunk of cod on a bean ragout with herb pesto.

The marble white fish fell away in moist flakes around the colourful, chilli-seamed ragout. This was a very happy state of affairs but, sadly, the last course plummeted us from culinary high to dessert depths.

I may not cook as often as certain people would like, but I do know an iced parfait when I see one and what Blackmore’s served up was not parfait.

A gelatinous, room temperature dollop of sickly sweet, white chocolate flavoured blancmange was nowhere near the mark and the peanut butter cheesecake fell into the same trough.

A sugary, soft landslide topped with a thick layer of chocolate was a deeply unpleasant experience and possibly the worst ’cheesecake’ I’ve had the misfortune to encounter.

What a rollercoaster of a meal! I’ll hold on to the memory of the cod and venison and hope Mr Blackmore has words with his dessert chef. I, meanwhile, have other things to focus on, like how to manage my next stint in the kitchen.

Any ideas about meals that last a week will be gratefully received.

This was a very happy state of affairs but, sadly, the last course plummeted us from culinary high to dessert depths