Guts
Utrechtsestraat 6, 1017 VN Amsterdam
Venimus, vidimus, vicimus. Ok, it might lack the pithy punch of Caesar’s veni, vidi, vici. But Tottenham Hotspur came to Amsterdam, saw Amsterdam and, if they didn’t quite conquer Ajax in a scintillating Champions League semi-final second leg, then they certainly snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. In one of the great nights of Tottenham’s history, Spurs overturned a three-goal deficit in the second half, Moura’s crucial goal scored with the very last kick of the game. Against a young and rather brilliant Ajax. Who had dominated for the first 45 minutes. Dear God, they never make it easy.
In terms of decoration, it could be in London, Liverpool or New Orleans, with bare brick walls, naked filament bulbs, and dishes brought to the table by the chefs
A week or so on, and I can still barely speak, my nerves julienned, my vocal cords ground to a low rasp. It was a night of stirring glory. And guts. Which brings me, not entirely spuriously, to another kind of guts, this time a small Amsterdam restaurant that used to be known as Guts And Glory. Since shortened to Guts. And a place where we had our pre-match lunch. JD and Gary had been before and raved about the place. Serious cooking, they said, world-class stuff. Nothing fiddly or silly, just excellent modern European food.
In terms of decoration, it could be in London, Liverpool or New Orleans, with bare brick walls, naked filament bulbs, and dishes brought to the table by the chefs.
There’s also a mildly confusing menu, involving a set menu called ‘Guts’, about which we’re told nothing. A surprise and all that. To which you add various ‘small plates’ of ‘Glory.’ Even Giles, a fellow restaurant critic, is mildly flummoxed. And actually asks the lovely young waiter to explain one more time.
Once the ‘concept’ is eventually grasped, there are some really good dishes. Barbecued carrots, heavy on the butter and cumin, with a fat, lactic splodge of yogurt. The texture is still firm, and each bite gives a whisper of the Middle East. Razor clams, with just the right amount of chew, are chopped up, and served with a rich, home-made XO sauce. It’s a subtle, elegant dish. Again, blissfully simple, with an innate understanding of flavour. Just like the langoustines, cooked just under, and topped with a salty sea fennel salsa which accentuates, rather than overwhelms, their natural sweetness.
There’s a German-accented salad that mixes a 60-degree egg with white asparagus and black pudding. Various pickled vegetables add welcome sharp notes among all that yolky excess. And some well-sourced cecina de Léon, the dry, smoked beef from Spain. And sweetbreads, clad in the lightest and crispest of batters, covered with an acid green tomatillo-and-chilli-spiked salsa verde that lights up the palate, and brings these spongy organs alive. Crushed barbecue potatoes wear a good lick of smoke and are doused in a sharp seaweed butter.
There’s also a mildly confusing menu, involving a set menu called ‘Guts’, about which we’re told nothing. A surprise and all that
Yet other dishes don’t quite work. Undoubtedly immaculate pieces of yellowtail, cut sashimi thick, are somewhat lost in an excess of lemon juice and black garlic powder. Although it’s supposed to be a ceviche, it’s a little too heavy-handed. I want to taste that scent of the sea. A flatbread with cavolo nero, mushrooms and hazelnut is dull and stodgy, with a hint of ferment that seems to have crept in from another menu. And lamb shank would be fine in an upmarket pub, but here it errs towards the dry. The jus, on the other hand, is exceptional, the sort of pure, pellucid essence that demands slurping direct from the dish.
So Guts is a place I like but didn’t love. Even JD and Gary look a little bemused. ‘It was so much better last time,’ they both mutter. Still, it’s worth trying out. We drink well and deeply, anything to salve those pre-match nerves. Little did we know what lay ahead. More guts and glory, this time in their most visceral form.
About £60 per head