Träkol
Hillgate Quays, Gateshead
NE8 2BH
With a name like Träkol, you might expect food with a Scandinavian burr. You know the stuff; a nip of Noma, a fistful of Fäviken and a lot of strange weeds picked by the cool light of the late summer Moon. There’ll be fermented this and pickled that, big-armed, richly bearded men with lots of ink delivering food to your table, accompanied by an earnest lecture on the inner life of the fjord shrimp. Oh, and something involving a bilberry. Or barberry. Or lingonberry jam.
Yet Träkol, which sits in a rusty shipping container in the shadow of Newcastle’s Tyne Bridge, has about as much connection to Scandinavia as I do. There’s a microbrewery next door, and an open kitchen ‘that showcases nose-to-tail cooking’, with a ‘seasonal open-fire kitchen’. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. ‘Our concept,’ they growl, ‘is to bring primitive outdoor cooking indoors.’ Träkol may be many things, but primitive it ain’t.
With a name like Träkol, you might expect food with a Scandinavian burr. Yet, Träkol, which sits in a rusty shipping container in the shadow of Newcastle’s Tyne Bridge, has about as much connection to Scandinavia as I do
Because within moments of arriving, my cynicism evaporates like beef fat on hot coals. The menu skips merrily across the globe, a ceviche here, XO sauce there, a deep-fried Reuben sandwich, oysters with kimchee, a vast Barnsley chop. I’m with my mate Mark Taylor, a man who can sniff out good restaurants like a pig searching for truffles. So at the end of a rather arduous day of eating, our appetites are, well, a little frayed. Not so much sated as stuffed. Done. The end.
In fact, I’ve hit that wall. The point where even one waafer-theen-meent could turn a horribly distended belly into a ticking time bomb, where the only thing I crave is a fistful of Rennies and a soft bed in a dark room, where I can moan gently and fall into a deep sleep tinged with gout and regret. But we have work to do. And Mark is made of far stronger stuff than me. He grabs the menu manfully and before I know it, the dishes start to arrive.
And, dear God, they’re good. The flavours are big and bold, but never brash, the spicing robust but expertly controlled. There’s an octopus ceviche so sharp with lime that it could wake the dead, with firm green tomatoes and soft, ripe red ones, and mint leaves, slices of radish, fresh peas, and winsome chunks of cephalopod. It’s a riot of texture and flavour, crunch, punch and munch, a sort of palate reveille that slaps the taste buds back into shape. One minute I’m catatonic, the next, fizzed and fired up and ready for more.
There are surf clams, each topped with a fierce blob of homemade fermented black bean sauce, with the kick of an angry mule. Sweet shellfish, then crash, bang, wallop. It’s a Cantonese classic, the sort of thing I’ve munched – late night and merry as a judge – in overlit Hong Kong seafood temples. And pork jowl, slow-cooked so that the fat starts to melt and the meat falls apart at the hint of a fork, then deep fried, so the edges are crisp and the surface is burnished, and you just can’t stop stuffing it into your gob. It sits upon a lusty tangle of vinegary, XO-infused slaw. This is a dish with balance and balls.
As for the pig’s tails, seasoned with mission spice (an homage to the great American chain, Mission Chinese). You don’t so much nibble as attack each chunk, which are the size of a baby’s fist. First, a whack of salt, then a punch of chilli and the slow, numbing delights of the Sichuan pepper. Then more salt, and chilli, and crisp fat, and sweet meat, and chilli, and… well, you get the point. The heat builds slowly, until your lips are plump, first tingling, then throbbing, and the bone is picked clean.
We watch as an entire half pig’s head, all puffed, golden ears and sublime crackling, is sent off to nearby tables, along with a kilo of chop and great slabs of black pudding
Back to Europe, via Argentina, for a vast plate of asado-cooked lamb, pink and succulent yet with a smoky crust that would thrill even the most discerning of Kentucky pitmasters. A dozen thick slices sit among beautifully dressed soft lettuce, and bitter chicory, and marinated red onion, and blobs of cooling curd. The balance is perfectly judged, hot and cold, sharp and sweet. And, like everything else here, the generosity – of flavours and portion size – is immense.
We watch as an entire half pig’s head, all puffed, golden ears and sublime crackling, is sent off to nearby tables, along with a kilo of chop and great slabs of black pudding. There’s a whole turbot with braised peas, or the Barnsley chop, which Mark ate the night before and said was the best he’d ever eaten. The service is as lovely as the view over the Tyne, the atmosphere seasoned with succour and good cheer. And the price? Just over £60, for all this, and a damned good bottle of Rioja too. Take that Hoxton. Gateshead, Newcastle, Tynemouth: I have plenty more tales to tell in the coming weeks. But if you like to eat, then you’ll love Träkol. It’s pure Geordie gold.
What Tom ate last week
Thursday
Dinner of chana masala, tarka dhal and chicken jalfrezi at Indian Zing in west London. Still one of the best in town.
Friday
First grouse of the year at White’s in St James’s. Beautifully cooked.
Saturday
Down to my father’s for Glenarm roast beef. Cooked perfectly pink. Sunday Sea trout baked in foil with lime, chilli, soy sauce and coriander.
Sunday
Sea trout baked in foil with lime, chilli, soy sauce and coriander.