Renato’s Tavern dell’Artista, Bristol
Nothing makes me happier than sitting down for a proper meal at a really inappropriate time of night. When in Bristol, I head to Renato’s. Located on a cobbled backstreet full of bars, Renato’s has been feeding the late-night Bristol scene for around 40 years, doling out unfalteringly good pizzas until 1.30am and booze until 2am. Inside there are a few rooms and some oddly laid out corridors, leading between the working-men’s club-style bar area and the low arches of the Italian restaurant-cum-beer hall, where old film and theatre posters are pasted across the walls amid a hodge podge of rickety tables and sturdy wooden benches. You can order your pizza and beer at the small bar – note its ornamental mechanical till, which mainly props up the laminated menus – where you’ll also find a well-stocked fridge of local ale and Belgian beers, a few taps with Italian lagers, an inoffensive and appropriate session bitter, and of course (it is the West Country) cider.
33 King Street. Do you know of an eatery worth shouting about? Give us the skinny via Twitter @guideguardian
JA
My food vice… White pepper
I grew up in a working class household where black pepper was kept in a seldom-refilled wooden pepper mill on a high shelf and only called upon when tomato soup was on the table. Every other meal was doused in spicy white pepper, often straight from a red-and-yellow plastic Saxa container of the type that could be found in every pie and mash shop. But then something changed. Black pepper took over. White pepper became something of a premium item, priced accordingly and lauded by chefs for use in ice cream. Its longstanding place in the standard corner shop arsenal was usurped by sea salt. Undeterred, I buy in bulk from staunchly proletarian Morrisons and practically mainline the stuff. Sunday dinners are eaten in a fog of it, so much so that I truly believe I may now be immune to pepper spray.
55p-70p per 25g in supermarkets
IA
Joanna Fuerrtes-Knight on food: Sugar rushing
I’ve come to terms with the fact that, when I lay on my side, my gut looks like a bin bag full of Angel Delight. SWEET Angel Delight! Basically, I’ve finally reached the age where sugar is catching up with me and diabetes-alert midriff chub is no longer a fate that only affects people who brush their teeth with Nutella. But the jig that sugar is Satan in food form has been up for a long time. My latest foray into exorcising it has made me realise the only thing worse than the crushing migraines and teen acne you get are the uninvited “Cut out processed foods! Snack on edamame!” tips. My advice is to treat the process like you’re in mourning: savour that sweet-flavoured lip balm and huff those scented candles like you’ll never be hurt.
JF
