The Physician
COMMODITY FETISHISM AND YORKSHIRE PUDDING
Despite it having slipped far too effortlessly into October, it’s brought with it pleasant thoughts of autumn Sundays… blustery walks, log fires, port and roasts with all the trimmings.
I really don’t mind cooking a roast at all, as I get everything I want on the plate, exactly as I want it and it’s really not that hard. Plus you get three or four hours listening to new music or catching up on podcasts, accompanied by a glass or three of red wine. What better way to wile away an otherwise cold, wet or dull Sunday afternoon and end the weekend on an epicurean high?
But, we’re four months into building work and we’ve still got no kitchen at home. I’ve also been decorating all day and I’m craving a roast. We’re going to have to go out and as it’s pushing into late afternoon, it’ll need to be pretty local and somewhere serving all day.
En route to the Red Lion in the Jewellery Quarter, I’m so hungry we start debating nearer alternatives. We’ve not booked, so I’m keen to lessen the inevitable cataclysmic disappointment if we need to wait for a table. Ordinarily that would be fine, but not today. So, heading past the cricket ground, I suggest The Physician, given it’ll take around ten minutes less to get there. I also think I can vaguely remember someone has recommended it, although that could be a hunger memory working its trick, much like a mirage in the desert.
As it comes into view, splendidly white and seemingly lit from Heaven above, we agree to at least stop and take a look. It’s a gem of a mid-Victorian building with more than a nod to the Georgian period. It lures us in under a spell and it continues to hold us spellbound as we walk through the lobby into the elegant high ceilinged main room. This is a building with good bones.
On taking it all in, it immediately feels like I’m in the Home Counties and no surprise really, as its part of the Calthorpe Estate and it pretty much marks the edge of where Birmingham’s ‘stockbroker belt’ meets Five Ways. There’s a marvellously, well stocked long bar on one side of the huge, wooden floored main bar restaurant area, that extends off in all directions into many other smaller, dining areas.
It’s stately, verging on palatial, yet manages to feel homely at the same time. There are leather buttoned, wingback armchairs around a log fire and dark wood dining tables with non-matching antique chairs, each set up on their own rug as far as the eye can see. Pictures cover 80% of all the available walls that must amount to nearly an acre. Dogs are welcome and there are Sunday papers too.
It’s now just after 5 and it’s also very busy with lots of families of all shapes and sizes. There’s not a single empty table in sight. Before panic sets in, we’re soon attended to by one of the army of uniformed staff. After a few minutes involving a couple of discussions with other staff and lots of pointing, we’re told they can only squeeze us in if we can vacate our table at 6.50, as there’s a private party booked for 7 in the only room with an available table. That’s not remotely a problem. I tell her I’m so hungry we could well be in and out within an hour.
The wine list is fresh from a copywriter who clearly doesn’t drink wine. A Pinot Noir is cryptically described ‘if wine were footwear this would be a light summer deck shoe’ but I eventually decide on the Passori Rosso Veneto – ‘like a classic Italian race car. Stylish, smooth, and turns heads with its full body.’ A quick check on Google gives me the information I need - 60% Merlot & 40% Corvina in the appassimento style … and 14% too. Phwoarr!
As the wine lands, we both order the roast sirloin beef and are asked if we want it rare or well done. That’s it... rare or well done. I’d normally go medium rare but given the two extremes on offer, it’s most definitely going to have to be rare. We order a side of cauliflower cheese too.
By the time the food arrives at the table I’ve already sunk a glass of red, so everything’s just fine as I sit in my metaphorical Italian race car, taking it all in. The roasts look the part - three large roast potatoes, a big Yorkshire pudding and three slices of beef, completely slathered in gravy, sitting on top of the ‘seasonal vegetables’. But, within a few mouthfuls the whole illusion starts to fall apart.
It’s easy to be seduced into thinking you’re actually privileged to be dining here. But if you strip away the environment and judge the plate of food entirely on its own merits, it’s actually pretty poor. The beef is completely well done despite having ordered it rare, it’s got freezer pack, pre-cooked Yorkshire pudding written all over it and I suspect it’s a similar story with the potatoes (all suspiciously the same size and shape). The Savoy cabbage and leeks are soggy and overcooked, whilst the carrot and swede puree is too wet. That said, I’ve no complaints whatsoever with the cauliflower cheese, still retaining some bite, whilst sat in its creamy, cheesy sauce with a crispy topping.
It’s the horseradish sauce that brings it all to light, delivered in its Tracklements jar is simply to allude to ‘quality’ through premium brand juxtaposition. Look a bit closer at everything and it’s just interior design by numbers and just like the wine descriptions, it’s all straight out of the marketing department… it’s pure brand at play. Eating here is commodity fetishism at full tilt.
We’re talking about a Sunday roast that’s on the menu at £18.95 – In terms of value, I’d suggest that’s £8.95 for the food with the other £10 for the brand experience. I can’t help but think, that I’ve been well and truly had.
I’ve at least got the wine to finish, so Katrina opts for a dessert - Hot waffle with caramelised bananas, toffee sauce and banana ice cream – a small portion of which comes with a single espresso for the same price as the full dessert portion.
On taking this order, the new waitress says we’ll have to move tables, even though it’s only 6.25. It’s a little premature but it’s not like they can spoil anything from this point on. We move, finish off, pay the bill of £78.55 and leave at 6.50 anyway.
At least I’ve got my kitchen back in three weeks.
