Review
William Sitwell reviews The Elder, Bath: ‘I'll rave about this joint well into the new year’
Gutsy, deep in flavour, pretty on the eye and immensely satisfying, without smear or froth in sight
The first time I went to The Elder in Bath, there was a bar. It was a couple of years ago, just after it had opened, and I was interested to see this latest addition to a city that has everything.
There’s the glorious architecture, Roman baths and bubbling natural springs, every chic shop you might aspire to – wine shops, cheese shops, toy shops, joke shops, even a shop that sells Jacob Rees-Mogg horror masks (I bought one, am wearing it now and can see the sunlit uplands right ahead) – and there’s a very good branch of The Ivy.
So this time, inside The Elder I went, escaping apocalyptic rains, and there was that bar. It shimmered with a sort of golden glow, all proper brass trimmings and with that classic wall of mirrored glass and bottles. I had a seat at it (and a negroni) in mind.
But the bar stools had gone and we were asked to do that naff country-house-hotel thing where you have to ‘sit soft’ before dinner while they hand out menus the same size as a broadsheet newspaper.
OK, so they didn’t give us such menus here but we still couldn’t hang at the bar. It’s ‘cos of Covid’, of course, and they’ve since stuck with it. Pity the lonesome travelling salesperson who wants to sit tall at a bar, chinwag with the bartender and make chat with other folk. Sorry, pal, you need to go and sit soft on your lonesome ownsome.
Having said that, this is the only niggle I have with The Elder, which is otherwise quite the cosy, stylish hunting lodge of a place, whose walls hang with stuffed deer and pheasant and other paintings of wildlife, and which is filled with quite the nicest, friendliest, most natural team on service that you might wish to come across.
I’ve seen this impressive display before. Because this is an abode run by a man called Mike Robinson – and I experienced this warmth and professionalism at another of his gaffs, The Woodsman in Stratford-upon-Avon.
Robinson gets the art of service, and one of the other reasons that he jumps out of bed in the morning is to proselytise on the subject of game, specifically venison. I once witnessed him convert a vegan into a venison eater. His arguments are immaculate: deer are wild but there are too many of them, they are low in fat, high in protein, they emit less methane than beef cattle (and use up far fewer natural resources), and they taste good.
Negronis sipped, we moved into one of the restaurant’s many gorgeous corners, the protected Georgian town house design lending the place the dream of rabbit-hole discovery, with every bit decorated immaculately in faded green paint and with comfy browny-orange banquettes.
The menu is Robinson’s version of fine dining: gutsy ingredients, deep in flavour, pretty on the eye and immensely satisfying, without smear or froth in sight. I revelled in a ragout of hare over soft polenta with a covering of soft Parmesan – a dish so magnificent and life-affirming it should be as compulsory as seat belts.
Emily was having similar fun with her globe artichoke velouté before I took the crown of best ordering of the night with a dish of roast pavé of fallow deer. It was tender and as rich as the best of God’s good earth. There was a slice of pumpkin too with a crusty top (vegan cooks, take note) and a lovely modest scattering of sprout leaves. Emily had partridge. Good.
Probably. I wasn’t listening, there was far too much excitement where I was sitting. So dust down those forlorn bar stools and I’ll rave about this joint well into the new year.
Read last week's column: William Sitwell reviews Mriya, London: 'This Ukrainian food was a revelation'