January
07
Riveted by the Kent Riviera.
It’s what everyone wants, isn’t it? A perfect neighbourhood restaurant. One that can always squeeze you in and where there will be something on the menu that you just have to have and where you will debate with yourself for oh, seconds, about whether you can justify the Tarte Tatin, which is supposedly for three people, but (you think) not three people like you.
But you are with C and he is not playing the let’s go for it game today.
And sadly, this perfect neighbourhood restaurant can only be regarded as such by the minute section of my readership based in Folkestone. Hello, Mark, I see you.
But for the intrepid traveller, Folkestone could be the start of your visit to the jewels of the Kentish Riviera, taking in such places as Ramsgate, Whitstable, Margate, Broadstairs, Hastings and Deal.
I’m not even joking.
I know, the word “riviera” seems somewhat of a stretch and it’s not really a riviera in the traditional, warm, Mediterranean coast sense, even if you look through your best rose-tinted spectacles – but bear with me. Because whilst someone with a sense of humour came up with that description, I think there’s something in it.
I believe that secretly, many people quite like the general bleakness that is an off-season British seaside resort. I certainly do.
Let’s also not discount the value proposition that these places can offer. As you drive along what is not, let’s face it, the Corniche, you will however be be all – oh look at that villa, the architecture is gorgeous, don’t you love a bit of high Victoriana and you could do something really interesting with that house couldn’t you and isn’t it wonderful to be by the sea. It’s gentrification bingo.
Which you can still play here.
I do understand that for many, the idea of deliberately going to somewhere like Margate for the day, or even at all, might still seem slightly outré, even though Tracy Emin is on your consciousness and you may even have heard of the Turner Contemporary.
And I admit, the image (at least in my head) of much of the Kent seaside was, until fairly recently, firmly stuck in the 1970s kiss-me-quick era of northern shabby amusement-park grimness that I grew up with. Me, whose best day out was Blackpool Pleasure Beach and specifically, the death trap otherwise known as The Fun House.
I still recall pushing my sister down the vertical slide of death in that health and safety hellhole.
We still don’t talk about it.
And though I truly loved all that seaside tat as a youngster (can you smell the candy-floss?) we had put away our childish things and become a sort of slightly sophis grown-up, had we not?
And the idea of spending any of one’s actual precious free time at the English seaside and particularly the Kent coast had seemed ludicrous.
Reader: things have changed.
There are now a plethora of choices on the Kent coast, even for people like you and I who have moved on from the Waltzers. Which were my absolute favourite.
Really, Kent est arrivé.
Broadstairs is quite the middle-class haven and always been a little bit in love with itself, looking down on its neighbour Margate, thank you very much. It has two spots in the Michelin guide.
And Margate? It felt like practically the whole of foodie East London decamped there pre-pandemic. It has three restaurants listed in the Michelin Guide. Three!
Deal has the added gift of Nuno Mendes (ex-Chiltern Firehouse) overseeing the food at The Rose. I mean Nuno Mendes FFS. That man can cook.
Sandgate (have you even heard of it?) has a high street so lovely that it makes you want to contemplate moving. Quirky shops and cafés, more of that great architecture, not too touristy.
And there’s more. Much more.
But today, it’s Folkestone and the Folkestone Wine Company. It first wafted into my food-consciousness via guru Zeren Wilson, of Bitten and Written and his deep joy at discovering this place led to an immediate I’ll have what he’s having‘” moment on my part.
It is a drizzly January day and I have dragged C down The Old High Street, with its quirky craft shops and vintage stores. It’s the sort of place I’d spend a few hours exploring, were I with another person, a person whose lust for tchotchkes matches my own, but I pushed her off the death slide in Blackpool in 1972.
I can see C is sceptical as soon as we walk in. We get The Face.
Perhaps it’s the size of it (tiny) or that it’s slightly rustic/homely and possibly it’s because he’s seated right next to the entrance and it’s a freezing cold day. I do not offer to swap seats.
On cue, in a that would never happen in real life sort of way, Zeren Wilson walks through the door. He does not see me.
In another sitcom special, the proprietor calls my name and Zeren looks round. I tell him I’m here solely because of him and we talk about where I might eat next (obviously) and he tells me about his new wine venture in Sandgate. Check it out. I will when it’s open.
Back to the food and C and I both go for the mussels because we are by the sea and why wouldn’t you? Pillowy ultra-fresh mussels make this a very decent Moules Mariniere. Strong, fresh parsley sprinkled over the delicate broth is a winner. There is good bread. A soda of sorts and a sourdough. I use the bread as a sponge to mop up the broth.
Given that the sourdough was once a living thing, I know that if it could speak, it would approve of its final journey.
As we are practically in the sea, I expect the skate special to be especially good and so it was. Fat, sharp and vinegary capers slid gently down the brown buttery slope of the soft, delicate skate wing. Buttery spinach beneath.
I was regretting the forgetting to order the side of new potatoes, but also quite pleased with having restraint thrust upon me. Not so fast. A large bowl of perfect, buttery, roasted, crisp, skin-on new potatoes appeared on the table, by my side. For me. Alone. As if my thoughts had transmitted themselves directly to the kitchen.
Meanwhile, I’m hearing “very good, really good, excellent” from an unexpected direction: the one who doesn’t give away praise lightly. It’s the roast lamb he’s praising; perfectly pink, surrounded by soft, fat flageolets, creamy roasted garlic and folds of buttery spinach.
Not only did C turn down the temptation of the Tarte Tatin as we sat down, but he also seemed to think it was acceptable to say he wasn’t bothered about dessert after the actual meal.
That is not how this game works.
I am simply not going to order one for myself and have to confront the fact that I have little restraint, whilst he is someone who can, without pain involved, leave food on the plate. He is, after twenty years, still an international man of mystery to me.
I suggest the sharing stratagem and with little enthusiasm, he agrees. I suspect it was the intense pressure from every fibre of my being that might have helped in his decision-making process.
Oh my word, though. Look at it. I do not want to share this with anyone. I do not care if I have to face myself later.
A slab of chocolate joy, like a thick mousse but actually a marquise. Don’t we love the word marquise? So elegant.
Gentle folds of raw cream (from the farm down the road) but the oh my God moment coming from the caramel/ginger syrup/sauce. Who knew?
It’s my new favourite combo. I mean, I had a superb chocolate dessert only yesterday, at The Sportsman and now this.
With these chocolates you are spoiling me, Kent.
Interlude:
And now I want to share my favourite joke.
There are two Jewish women of a certain age, who eat out at the same restaurant, at the same time, every week. They have been doing so for many years.
The waiter comes up to them after the meal.
“Was anything okay? He says.
But here, everything was okay. And by okay, I mean great. And I didn’t even touch on the stellar wine list, but you definitely should.
It’s a labour of love. It’s a place of welcome. It’s a little pocket of joy on a grim January day when it’s sleeting outside and you wonder why you aren’t in Thailand.
So slide into the new year with a Kentish adventure. Make sure this is on your itinerary.
The Food Judge 