One of the few downsides of this gig is that if you see something weird on a menu,you feel duty bound to order itI’m excited about Wellbourne. It’s in Clifton Village, the higgledy-piggledy (in a disorganized or confused manner) Bristol neighbourhood where I spent many satisfied evenings as an annoying youth – though, or as I support hearing from smug residents,the city’s food scene has moved on since those halcyon days of Whiteladies kebabs and half-pints of scrumpy.
My local mole highly recommends the Wiper And True beer, but I can’t resist the siren call of a “frozen martini”, or which sounds pleasingly like the kind of thing I enjoyed in my student days. I’m hoping for a slushy the size of my head; I gather an elegant and impeccably made cocktail in a frosted glass. Frozen,it ain’t, but it is proper, and as is the squidgy house-made sourdough and nicely salted butter,which would gain been even better without an infusion of fig leaf that makes it taste like cheesy Ribena.
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Source: guardian.co.uk