The Dark Horse
SUNDAY, BLOODY SUNDAY (ROAST AGAIN)
7pm Saturday and I’ve laid down the paintbrush, for the final time ever—and I mean ever—declaring the new extension and kitchen open and operational. But too tired and emotional to cook, we’ve got in a £12 M & S dine for two meal deal (whatever); then celebrated late into the night, high fiving along the way.
I’ve been waiting five months, looking forward every passing week to cooking the first Sunday roast, but the brutality of the hangover means we’re eating out. Neither of us wants to drive, but as our daughter is heading back to Moseley at 4, we seize the opportunity to shake the paralysis.
Only one problem… where to enjoy a pub Sunday roast? I’ve never eaten a roast twice at any pub in Moseley, given how bad the first experience was. The Dark Horse actually currently holds the crown for my worst roast in Moseley—which, given the competition, is some effort (or complete lack of). But, that was 3 years ago and I say roast but it was ‘braised beef’, so tough it could easily have been a Bush Tucker Trial. I’d have rather licked the tongues of vipers with spiders crawling over my face.
But, I’ve heard rumours it’s a much changed beast, with their smokehouse barbeque central to the goings on in the kitchen; Louisianan-style low ‘n’ slow—for so long that meat ‘melts in the mouth’.
I head for the bar and order two cranberry and oranges for the girls. This is a bar with 20 odd draft beers and I’m stunted by the choice; requiring three tasting slugs that push the boundaries of bar etiquette. Maybe it’s because I’ve spotted it’s 5.5%, I’m happy enough to plumb for a pint of Beavertown Bloody Ell, a blood orange IPA, that’s sits nicely on the citrusy side.
I’m told they’ll bring the drinks over, which swiftly arrive with the menus. We all grab a Sunday menu ignoring the regular one… and there’s 1 course £13.90 / 2 courses £16.90 / 3 courses £19.90
There are 4 starters—vegetable tempura, vegetarian croquettes, teriyaki pork belly skewers and salt & pepper squid; 4 mains— Roasted Loin of Pork, 18 hour smoked beef brisket or half a smoked chicken and a vegan / veggie option which we’re told is somewhere between a brisket and a haggis. I’m feeling quietly smug that I’m not a vegetarian.
We all pass on the starters. Georgie opts for the veggie brisket, Katrina the smoked chicken and—for a reason I’m struggling to understand why—I decide to try the beef brisket again. It feels like being a desperate gambler throwing good money after bad money. But, hey ho.
It’s got a good vibe; roughly half full, a pleasant but quiet-ish energy, on the dark side and warm, feeling almost candle lit, with a zigzag of fairy lights covering the ceiling of the dining area. The rest of the light emits mostly from the bar at one end and the kitchen at the 90-degree angle at other end. The music is 70s Americana, later moving into a reasonably cool selection of Brit 80s hits; certainly nothing that could challenge a hangover.
When the cartwheel-sized plates arrive, the brisket is sat centre stage, ingot-sized, if not looking anything like so appealing. But, tucking in, it breaks into beautifully moist, meaty shreds in the ‘pulled style’. There’s a Jenga-style pile of roasted parsnips and carrots, shredded collard greens—somewhere between a wildly bolted, large sprout and green cabbage with a distinctly bitter edge, contrasting well against the sweet smokiness of the succulent brisket. The roast potatoes are decent and then there’s the magical cauliflower cheese; whilst not particularly cheesy and little overdone, it’s great that it’s there without being a paid for extra. Unfortunately the small Yorkshire pudding has failed to rise, but it’s all covered in a thick, rich gravy and enough of it that I don’t feel the need to request any more. There’s so much on the plate, I have to leave about a quarter unfinished.
Across the table there’s a similar looking plate with a vegetably mush enveloped in thin strips of courgette, topped with some sort of Quorn-style mince sauce and what looks like a nest of fried coleslaw. As disgusting as this sounds, Georgie loves it, declaring it one her favourite veggie roasts ever—although she says the gravy tastes too meaty. As for Katrina, she felt the smokiness of her chicken was too overpowering; like it’d smoked 60 fags a day since birth. She couldn’t eat it and says it put her off the rest of her plate. I suspect it could be the hangover.
The puds offer up cookie dough & ice cream, dark chocolate fondant and cherry Bakewell sundae, but Katrina still feels woozie and Georgie and I are stuffed like it’s Christmas Day. We decide to pick up a big bar of chocolate and head back through the chill and drizzle for a log fire and movie.
The bill comes in at £53. I can’t say I’d rush back, but it’s a decent enough plate of food and rescued not only the reputation of brisket but The Dark Horse too. I feel I’ve won my money back and the hair of the dog has put the brakes on my hangover too.
WORTH A TRY
