Six months into my tenure as your restaurant correspondent, I have decided that the city, after London, that excites me the most to eat in is Bristol. Yes, it’s a surprise to me, too. Bristol is remarkably self-effacing about its greatness. It’s almost as if it saw what happened to Brighton in the 1990s, when everyone with a fine arts degree, a will to procreate and a dream of making artisan candles was priced out of Westbourne Grove.
It suits Bristol, perhaps, that the last time many British people remembered it was 2011, when Tricky loomed mysteriously on stage with Beyoncé at Glastonbury like a man kicked out of a lock-in returning to demand one last drink, then vanished again like a trip-hop Mr Benn. Maybe Bristol won’t thank me for telling you of restaurants such as Sam Elliot’s Pasture. Or for mentioning the lovely Lido, with its pool-side bistro. Or the 12-seater gem Box-E. Or the veggie-centric small plates at Root. Or any projects to which Josh Eggleton turns his hand.
Sadly, for Bristolians, it’s my job to ruin everything. And, in truth, there’s a lot about Saturday night at Pasture that would appal many aloof, London food-scene acolytes. First of which is the fact that Pasture is a steakhouse. It’s a rosewood-smoked, horned Highland cow’s head on the wall, honking slabs of raw, native breed, 35-day-aged tomahawk and châteaubriand presented for your perusal, peppercorn sauce, unabashed, balls-out steakhouse. I’m not saying you can get your balls out, but it’s quite noisy in Pasture, and at weekends a tiny bit rowdy, so temporarily it might go unnoticed.
Pasture purports to be, according to its website, “glamorous and elegant”. It is neither glamorous nor elegant. In estate-agent speak, it is “unpretentious”. Pasture is a cavernous, two-floored space with a steakhouse upstairs and live music and a busy bar for non-diners downstairs. This is Tiger Tiger-style elegant, and we can all agree that most Tiger Tiger nightspots could be improved only if an actual tiger was occasionally introduced to eat most of the clientele.
Nevertheless, what Pasture does have is an incredible chef in Sam Elliot, who seriously wants to feed you. There is dry-aged Cotswold wagyu, ribeye, sirloin and porterhouse. My dining compadre Charles went through at-table negotiations for 1.2kg of local-breed wild cherrywood-smoked tomahawk, but a non-steak devotee such as myself could range dreamily over Elliot’s merest afterthoughts. A plate of ash-baked beetroot with goat’s curd, elderberry vinegar and pecans is a sharp, crunchy pleasure. Chicken wings are transformed into a headline act with a soy/bourbon glaze and a puddle of smoky, fire-roasted pineapple relish. There’s a lentil-stuffed “allotment pie” with sweet potato mash for vegans, and a house burger with Westcombe cheddar and black truffle mayo for those times when only something in a bun will do.
It’s one of those menus I adore: something for everyone and the devil hiding in 100 raunchy details. The sourdough is from Coombeshead Farm, the olives are Nocellara, the short-rib croquettes come with gochujang aioli (try saying that after three Welshback Waltz cocktails), and the mac and cheese is a powerfully sensual, four-cheese affair that my hips are still furious about.
Elliot combines brilliant local produce, lovely, knowledgeable, chirpy staff and a reckless approach to pushing culinary boundaries. Duck liver mousse with chai pickles? Cured trout with vermouth and horseradish? It would be a car crash if the man couldn’t cook, but this is someone who can make a raw kale caesar salad feel naughty.
Tomahawk also goes by the name “the dinosaur steak”, and Charles consumed a kilo of it in the manner of a starved allosaurus, declaring it some of the greatest he’s tasted. That is lofty praise. And while I will never truly get the appeal of consuming terrific amounts of bowel-blocking red meat – never have, never will – looking around Pasture’s ecstatic clientele, this is not a place to preach a plant-based path to Zen Buddhism, particularly as, en route to the ladies, I ended up in a chorus of large men with squashed noses singing Danny Boy in four-part harmony.
Pre-bill, we shared a banana cake strewn with sticky pecans, bourbon-laced butterscotch and banana foam. It was wondrous. And I loathe foam. Pasture is big, not very beautiful, full of men eating steak with peppercorn sauce, and has live jazz at weekends, supplied, as all jazz is, straight from the bowels of Satan. But, damn it, Pasture, I really, really liked you.
• Pasture 2 Portwall Lane, Bristol BS1, 07741 193445. Open Mon-Fri noon-3pm, 6-10.30pm; Sat noon-10.30pm; Sun noon-5pm. About £35 a head, plus drinks and service.
Food 8/10
Atmosphere 9/10
Service 9/10
Grace’s Instafeed
