Lord knows I am not prized for my genetics. Built like a Scotch egg left in the sun, modern medicine is the only way I’ve managed to evade the pitfalls of Darwinism. My eyes, lungs, back and brain are all from a bargain bin. It doesn’t help that I originate from the West Country, where the assumption is that our family trees resemble wreaths.
Living in Bath between 2006 and 2011, outside of the antique rivalry of two frankly middling buns, food only played a supporting role to the tourism economy. Chain restaurants took the Wetherspoons approach, attempting to obscure their hegemony by cloaking it within the character of the city’s period architecture, as if it might elevate what’s inside by osmosis. However, a decade later, one name would crop up repeatedly, becoming an attraction in its own right. This is Landrace.
The term “landrace” refers to prevailing agricultural genetics, where nature has been allowed to take its course, resulting in the survival of the fittest. The genesis of Bath’s Landrace bakery is a product of similar circumstances, having survived Covid and since thrived. An artisanal bakery, a bistro/trattoria-inspired restaurant and more recently, a New Haven-style pizzeria, Landrace is a trifecta of hipsterisms that has been wryly referred to as an east London transplant.
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This flourishing isn’t a surprise, considering the makeup of raw talent involved. Husband and wife Rob and Jules Sachdev (Jolene, Brawn, Quality Chop House) co-own Landrace with Andrew Loakes (Neal’s Yard, Pump Street Chocolate) and Tom Calver, who also owns Westcombe Dairy in Bruton, where the mill that grinds Landrace’s grain is based. Landrace is covered in the fingerprints of their collective experience.
Natural light pours in through skylights and single-pane windows, splashing off St John-white walls cut with practical ledges, gleaming with wine bottles. With muted, earthy tones down to stripped wooden floors, it feels like an old merchant ship, unfazed by the idea of securing its stock.
Daylight gradually gives way to amber lamplight before conceding to candle at night. Solo diners quietly indulge in a bit of self-care, families rotate plates out of envy, colleagues air dirty laundry safely with the use of nicknames, all contributing to the clatter and clink of a restaurant fulfilling its role. The intrigue of Upstairs, outside of its apparent sadomasochistic approach to working from scratch, is how it pays homage to tradition and classics while simultaneously evolving those dishes with laser-guided tweaks.
The intrigue of Upstairs, outside of its sadomasochistic approach to working from scratch, is how it pays homage to tradition
First and foremost, Landrace’s bread and butter is the brand ambassador, with its crust of pure molasses. A salad of Pembrokeshire crab and Amalfi lemon exemplifies the virtues of natural selection and man's interference with it, respectively. Generous with white and brown meat, it smoulders with chilli, spotlit with slivers of Amalfi lemon and snappily-dressed artichoke, among broad bean leaves. It’s the convergence of two coasts via a British allotment.
Fat cubes of panisse house fava bean satin, spiked with Spenwood (Britain’s answer to Pecorino), are laced with honey and fennel. Finished with crispy sage leaves and a pinch of more cheese, you could happily sit with a bucket of these and a bottle.
Gotland lamb was bred by the Vikings specifically for their yield of wool and meat, for which it was equally prized. The UK wouldn’t get a look-in until the 1970s and Upstairs have gone through pains to showcase what we’ve been missing of the latter, at least.
Sanguine cuts of loin slump against slow-cooked, shredded leg huddled around the velvet pop of baked borlotti beans, reminiscent of feijoada, while anchoïade has been applied to sprouting broccoli like Factor 50 to a redhead. This would be enough as it is, but along with a unifying pan sauce, there’s a piece of sausage descended from an absolute bruiser. Close-knit without being emulsified into the likes of a frankfurter, this is a sausage made from what’s left: chestnut skin that’s all snap and pop.
Solo diners quietly indulge in a bit of self-care, families rotate plates out of envy, colleagues air dirty laundry safely
Rather than something braised into capitulation, Upstairs produce a ragù moving in the opposite direction, and all the better for it. Chunks of fennel sausage have instead been given time to become thoroughly gnarled with caramelisation, among wholegrain-flecked ziti rigati. Blotted with chilli oil, it’s ostensibly a nod to the Sicilian version of salsiccia e finocchietto, a hug from a nonna in a hessian sack.
There’s a Quo Vadis coding to dessert. Girdered by DayGlo-pink rhubarb and toasted almonds is a meringue dome of divine proportions, filled with custard in a play on pavlova. Among all this is a gel of plum blossom — a symbol of resilience and perseverance in Chinese culture — as if Upstairs is issuing a quiet word of self-encouragement.
Between the fudgy capes of dark chocolate, praline and prune purée, these profiteroles are about as close to Pedro Ximénez as you can get outside of a glass. More praline has been blitzed into something more like crème pâtisserie inside, doubling as justification for the single cream lapping about.
Shaped by surviving forces outside of its control and having gone on to spawn two more ventures, Landrace is a case of nominative determinism, with a lineage that can be directly traced back to its mill. While sourcing hyper-locally is a key driver, the ways in which Upstairs’ menu incorporates a spectrum of global influence denotes an alluring sense of self-confidence.
While its bakery is clad in the UNESCO World Heritage-enforced sandstone like the rest of Bath, it’s fitting that Upstairs and the pizzeria stick out like a sooty thumb. Observing tradition in such a considered way that it becomes a black sheep is a splicing of genetics to be encouraged and preserved.
First floor, 59 Walcot Street, Bath, BA1 5BN; @landraceupstairs
