In 10 years or so years of living in this bucket-and-spade Kentish seaside town, I’ve never had the urge to review on my doorstep. Sure, I’ve ventured to Margate, or Dalston-sur-Mer, as local snark goes, but preserved-in-aspic Broadstairs, nuh.
I’ve been to Stark three times, each time thinking, “I can’t write about this.” It’s ludicrously tiny, kitchen the size of a broom cupboard: could it cope with the attention? They don’t even have functioning loos: there’s an arrangement with the pub across the road. Will some terrible jobsworth hammer them for it? (If they do, they’ll have me to answer to.) It’s open Wednesday to Saturday evenings only, too, so is it an actual restaurant or more like a supper club?
It took an unconscionable amount of time for the place even to open, possibly because chef-owner Ben Crittenden and his dad did the build. There are no staff: Ben’s wife Sophie runs the minuscule floor. It’s clearly that most overused of expressions, a labour of love, and I spend far too much time over dinner trying to work out how the hell they make it pay.
But this is Weekend’s seaside issue and I’ve run out of excuses. Because Crittenden, in his Munchkin empire with its single, solitary fridge, is the real deal. In an unlikely turn of events, a proper talent has landed in this former sandwich bar yards from Viking Bay beach. His last major gig was at The West House, Biddenden, the best restaurant I’ve never written about. Its boss, Graham Garrett, is clearly as good at spotting virtuosity as he was at being a rock’n’roll drummer and coming up with book titles (Sex & Drugs & Sausage Rolls: I mean, joy of that?). Now Crittenden has gone it alone: baby steps scale-wise, sure, but seven-league-boots strides as far as anything Thanet has seen since some French bloke tried to lure Michelin to Margate about 12 years ago.
Unsurprisingly, it’s a no-choice menu: six courses. Does it change often? Depending on the vagaries of local suppliers and the contents of that fridge, it can change on the night. There’s nothing at all small-time or provincial about what’s served: ingredients, composition, presentation are all evidence of someone who is used to working to the most exacting contemporary standards. Sure, Crittenden has done his time on bloody MasterChef: The Professionals – is there now a chef’s CV template check-box for that? – but fortunately the show’s hegemony of gimmicky complexity hasn’t made it on to these plates. Here, every “now” component and technique has its place: matcha custard, dashi, curing and pickling, homemade breads, pearly goat butter, smoked salt.
There’s usually chicken liver parfait of preternatural silkiness and delicacy, and huge flavour; this time, it comes with pickled Kent cherries, dots of coffee and cherry puree, brioche and a shingle of hazelnut granola – sharp, sweet, aromatic, rich, luxurious. There’s cured trout, diced into almost-tataki, the potential jangliness of blackcurrant, dill and acidulated fennel tamed by a spoonful of thick, cultured cream that gleefully pulls the whole thing together. Hake, liquorice-black with squid ink on the outside, startling and beautiful in its creamy-white centre, is crowned with basil oil tapioca “caviar” and bathed in a sparklingly clear broth of tomato and dashi that all but yodels with umami. Poussin, crisp of skin and succulent of flesh with a Day-Glo swoop of pea and lettuce puree, has broth, too, this time of chicken stock and “Smoko”. Me, neither – turns out it’s a blend of formosa oolong and lapsang souchong from Hythe-based Debonair Tea Co. (And if that little lot doesn’t get me into Pseud’s Corner again, there’s no justice in this world. Pass the kombucha martini.)
I find it hard to pick holes. All I can whinge about is a tendency towards over-sweetening: the granola and slightly cakey brioche with the parfait; and a dessert featuring a crisp-wibbly matcha custard tart, various iterations of strawberry and pistachio sorbet (glorious, Pacojet-smooth) would benefit from less sugar. On earlier visits, the wine flight was less fine dining and more corner shop; it’s still a bit basic, but improved beyond measure to gewürtzraminers and albariños and primitivos. (I’ll overlook the chocolate wine served with a lovely assembly of honeycomb, raspberries and chocolate; I see what they’re doing there, but the official tasting note is still, “Ugggghhh.”) Otherwise, it’s a lovely, unexpected little thing. This seaside town is lucky to have Stark. All 12 seats of it.
• Stark 1 Oscar Road, Broadstairs, Kent, 01843 579786. Open 6.30-9.30pm, Weds-Sat. Set £45 six-course menu only, plus drinks and service.
Food 8/10
Atmosphere 6/10
Value for money 8/10
