Of all the jibes that eggs on Twitter like to lob at me, my favourite has to be “metropolitan liberal elite”. As a Glaswegian from a working-class background living in a Ukip-scented seaside town, this tickles, but as I approach The Wildebeest, I think, right you are. Fair enough. There can be few more “metropolitan liberal elite” jobs than mine. Let’s see what it feels like to behave like one.
We critics tend to be kinder to places outside the capital, in a sort of reverse London-weighting. We turn a blind eye to gauche decorative touches. The Wildebeest features brass-buttoned leather chairs (the kind of thing elderly, arse-obsessed internet commenters swoon at as “Comfy!”) and unclothed tables of rough-hewn wood. There are ye olde beams, B&Q standard outdoor seating and decapitated blooms floating in small vases, the full Come Dine With Me contestants special. We wouldn’t mention crockery, the kind of thing now offered in “artisan” ranges by catering supply companies. We’d wax benign about the service style with the kind of bright, sing-song voice usually reserved for saying, “Just pop up on the bed for me.” Not new elite moi, though. I’m beady as on their provincial asses.
The Wildebeest comes garlanded in plaudits, including from the Observer. Voted for by regular people, though: whatevs. Owners G&D Ventures also run Warwick Street Social in Norwich and The Ingham Swan up near the coast, and make a big noise about providing local food for locals. The menu: well. It’s an age since I’ve come across anything quite so verbose, a garrulous antithesis to the terse contemporary menu model. A starter features scallop-sized discs of chicken mousse with a claque of cheering accompaniments. Both the mousse and grimly overcooked “garlic butter-poached langoustine” are rubbery. Mushrooms are compost-slimy. “Langoustine blancmange” – oh, please – is an indistinguishable blurt of something creamy that might have once snogged a crustacean. Truly fine deboned “crispy barbecue chicken wing”, though: the kitchen’s a whiz with the deep-fryer. In another starter, shards of beetroot meringue try to make themselves heard above a cacophony of pickled and pureed veg and shouty “coriander ricotta”.
These are the kinds of dishes that happen in provincial catering colleges and stuffy Michelin frotteurs, larded with the ambitions of TV cookery shows: the overplayed number of ingredients and techniques crowding each plate, the tortured “Nailed it, chef!” culture of Great British Menu. Or ludicrous MasterChef. One dish reads, verbatim: “Norfolk beef plate; chargrilled beef fillet, crispy shin fritter, cheek & sage dumpling hotpot, salt baked swede, roast pancetta, baked beetroot & celeriac, Tacons buttered spinach, red wine jus.” You can just hear that being read out by a voiceover artist whose listeners’ fondest wish is that they’d moonlight on sex lines.
Normally, I’d go with the flow: I know that this excess, with its gels, soils, foams, is often conflated with haute cuisine. But the execution just isn’t good enough. Dishes give the impression that individual elements were prepared much, much earlier and tweezered together at the last minute. Constructions are repeated over and over: a swirl of creamy puree, a chunk of protein, a different chunk of same protein, a breaded croquette of, yes, that protein again, pickled, wilted, salt-baked vegetable, some rubbles, jus. There’s egregious over-cooking: pheasant breast blasted into the texture of jerky, with a hazelnut granola crumb and crispy leg fritter… oh God, blah. On another plate, baby sweetcorn makes a sly appearance. It all makes me want to drag them to the likes of the Clove Club in That London or Blanca in New York. Oops, sorry: both metropolises.
Desserts: a lipstick-scarlet raspberry panna cotta with nicely sharp peach and tarragon gel is completely successful, fighting off its chestnut snow and dense creme fraiche ripple ice-cream. The cheeseboard is a thing of generous, local wonder. But an alluring-sounding creme brulee offers stiff, granular custard, stale-tasting toffee popcorn and “sticky toffee pudding ice-cream” with an ugly, loose texture and a weird, loo spray aftertaste.
So what? The clientele of red-trousered sixtysomethings and Norwich City footballers love it, and that’s all that will matter to it. Me, I’m happy to leave them to it. Worra metropolitan liberal elite bitch, eh?
• The Wildebeest 82-86 Norwich Road, Stoke Holy Cross, Norfolk, 01508 492497. Open all week, lunch noon-2pm (3pm Sun), dinner 6.30-9pm (6-8pm Sun). About £38 a head for three courses à la carte, set lunch £21.50, set dinner £28, all plus drinks and service.
Food 5/10
Atmosphere 5/10
Value for money 6/10
