Carters of Moseley
2c St Mary’s Row, Wake
Green Road, Moseley,
Birmingham B13 9EZ
cartersofmoseley.co.uk
Carters of Moseley sounds like an old-fashioned family butcher, the sort of place where stewing joints are still wrapped in brown paper, tied neatly with twine, and handed over along with a ‘little something for the dog’. But the resolutely old-world name belies a thrustingly modern restaurant, albeit one sat in an unassuming mock-Tudor parade on the southern outskirts of Birmingham.
The room is long and lean, stripped back and consciously uncluttered, with the kitchen at the back, open for all to see
Somehow, the sheer unbridled warmth, the unfiltered passion, the raw, gleaming pride is contagious
The room is long and lean, stripped back and consciously uncluttered, with the kitchen at the back, open for all to see. Inside, the eponymous Brad Carter, magnificently hirsute, stands over the pass while his brigade of adoring chefs work with a quiet intensity. Disciples under their bearded lord. Front-of-house staff have that same near-evangelical passion, eager to explain not just where the bread’s flour is milled but a detailed history of said mill. Which would usually send me into fits of impatient ire – ‘shut up and serve the bloody food’. Somehow, though, the sheer unbridled warmth, the unfiltered passion, the raw, gleaming pride is contagious. What could be strangely cultish becomes endearingly clubbish.
The menu is tasting only (no surprises there), with the choice of four or six courses. But from the very start there’s a fundamental simplicity to the food, despite some expert technique, and an admirable clarity of flavour – a sort of clear-eyed obsession with getting to the very soul of each ingredient. Take the oyster, one of a quartet of the inevitable pre-prandial ‘snacks’. A plump Porthilly specimen, baked in its shell with beef fat. You’d expect the dripping to overwhelm the delicate bivalve. Instead, it acts as beefy catalyst, bringing out an intense sweetness, magnifying the salty allure.
Pheasant and truffle; grouse
Two tissue-paper-thin slices of home-cured Tamworth coppa are soft, subtle and winsome, far superior to the usual ham-fisted efforts of the amateur charcutier. While a mouthful of gloriously bolshy chicken liver parfait, all boozy, offally sneer, lies hidden beneath a layer of toasted nuts and seeds. Only the raw kohlrabi, stained neon green with pine oil, seems more bark than bite. There’s a lithe, resinous tang, and it obviously involves a lot of fiddling. But it leaves us cold.
‘Clever,’ says my friend Joe, ‘but I’m not sure I’d ever want to eat it again.’
But things cheer up with a splendidly autumnal pine mushroom porridge, with a profound umami bellow. Pecorino and truffle broth, chewy oats and grains, and lots of those mushrooms. Lustily salted too, and gone in two bites. The menu, like each dish, is carefully balanced – that blast of mellow comfort is followed by a beautifully cooked piece of red mullet, flesh translucent, skin crisp. In a mud brown ‘bone sauce’, which is basically a bouillabaisse reduction. With its roasted prawn shell depth, and whiffs of pastis and orange peel, it takes us from the Scottish damp to the last rays of southern French sun.
Mushroom porridge
Then, perhaps my favourite dish of all, we’re back to those northern moors – two whole grouse breasts, perfectly roasted and delicately gamey, flanked by Scottish chanterelles, lashings of clear gravy, and a buttery mess of sweetcorn. By its side, a deep-fried lollipop, made with the leg and minced offal. While the breast is silken and discreet, this mouthful is unashamedly bosky. There’s an awful lot of nonsense talked about the environmental impact of grouse shooting. Had I the time and space, I could argue in its favour for hours. Whatever your view, this dish is a fitting tribute to a mighty bird.
Cheese next, a luscious, triple-cream Bix, made from cow’s milk, on a spongy, sour blini, lavished with Wiltshire truffle maple. Who knew that you could get West Country maple syrup? Can’t say I’ve seen many trees down there, but it’s one hell of a mouthful: sweet, rich and slyly sexy. Even the puddings are worth writing about. Blueberries with a toasted barley cream. And a zinging, feather-light strawberry tart with lemon mint and meadowsweet, a vogueish herb that tastes of hay and antiseptic. Sounds odd, but adds a welcome bucolic burr.
We ask for espresso, but no such luck. Instead, our lovely waitress drags out scales, special filters and fresh ground beans. Plus a hand-blown glass coffee maker and the sort of kettle more suited to Mars than Moseley. But the ritual is diverting, the coffee excellent and the whole thing devotedly, charmingly geeky.
Rather like Carters. Because their inherent understanding of the seasons is tempered by an infectious delight in what they do. If only more modern restaurants, with their polished patter, philosophies, pomp and pretentiousness could combine true culinary talent with genuine heart.
There’s incredible value too, £65 for course upon course of some of the best food I’ve eaten all year. And this coming from a man who still lives in fear of the tasting menu’s tyranny. No clarting about – Carters is a Brummie star, with true bostin’ fittle.
Six-course tasting menu: £65
What Tom ate this week
Tuesday
In thrall to the strictures of 5/2. Lots of prawns, tomatoes and a bit of soup. God, these days make every other seem like bliss.
Wednesday
Lunch of smoked eel, roast grouse and a few glasses of claret at a St James’ club. Then off to Giorgio Locatelli’s book launch (Made At Home, another mighty tome from this great chef) where we eat bowls of his legendary risotto in the private room of his restaurant.
Thursday
More 5/2 parsimony. Makes me realise quite how in thrall to my gut I really am.
Friday
Brilliant dim sum at Royal China Club in Baker Street, as well as a fierce Sichuan chicken dish. Then cold consommé and grilled Dover sole at Wilton’s with my mother.