Listen,
logistics are boring.
Food, ambience, service, that's what we're here for right.
To wax lyrical about provenance - This restaurant is run by the Gladwin Brothers who have their own farm where most of the produce hails from - or gush about special service.
But if the logistics are not there, all the above means nothing.
The Sussex is a lovely restaurant on the site of auspicious forerunner Arbutus.
It's cosy, the panelled walls are painted a pleasing racing green, giving a nod to the British fare on offer. The wine label art is funky. There are a load of nooks and crannies to hunker down. The welcome is also warm.
And the nibbles are straight out of the Gladwin Brothers' sister restaurant in Notting Hill's book. Fun, inventive, tasty. The cod roe cornetto and the Marmite pastry choux thing with truffle were delicious.
The rest was a shambles.
Not so much the service itself which remained upbeat and smiling throughout which is testament to them because down below I'm sure they were busy stoving each others heads in with frying pans.
But the mains were belligerent and came out when they wanted. And when they did so they were stone cold. Which is surprising since judging by my pork chop, they had seen a hell of a lot heat at some time in the past. Potatoes had been left out for a good 20 mins. Same as the dry Yorkshires. The veg came out as a mirepoix. One spoonful of bitty mixed veg hiding as if scared under a stone, for that was the texture, of the overdone meat. It didn't seem right at all. The cauliflower cheese had not seen a grill or oven, ever. It was just an amalgamation of cheese sauce and boiled cauliflower served carelessly in any space around the plate that could be found.
The 90 day reared chicken was excellent. But it should have been called 91 day aged because it came out so long after the pork. It was shown to its recipients like a Dover Sole is and then whisked away to be jointed. The jointing took 10 mins. So the already presented veg, which was Luke warm to start, was by the time the chicken arrived stone cold. Tasty as the chicken was having been cooked under coals I think - there was certainly a lovely smokiness to it - it couldn't save the meal.
I looked around. The table to my right complained of all the things I state here. To the left, the friends who spent the whole time before their food arrived on their phones lit up when it finally did. But that excitement soon turned to polite explanation to staff of why they couldn't eat any of it. Again stone cold. Two tables down to the left of me the poor chap was clutching each potato like a grabber machine to test whether it had any residual heat left. No such luck.
So this wasn't some one off failure we were unlucky enough to endure. This was everyone around us receiving stone cold, extremely clumsily cooked and plated food - my mustard pot was like my one at home, a manky mess. You're allowed at home. In a restaurant it's a sign things aren't working.
Logistics see. Something had gone badly awry in the logistics dept. Maybe head chef fell ill. Maybe the gas went off. Whatever it was I wouldn't have been surprised if Gordon Ramsey popped up screaming like a loon "CLOSE THE PLACE NOW!!!" It would have been the best thing but they plugged on gamely and I feared for the crowds who were coming in as we left.
Puddings continued the Frank Spencer theme of clumsiness. Cream with raspberry sauce did the job. But Orange and Polenta cake was again well overdone and sticky date pudding had a crust on it thicker than some parts of the San Andreas fault. Stick what we left there and the earthquake threat goes down I guarantee.
I love the provenance thing and I love the inventiveness and charm of some of the menu at The Sussex. But Sunday Roast is a different beast. Ordered by voracious customers who want it all and want it now. It's a logistics thing. And there's definitely a lot of working out to do before they should attempt it again. read more