Banglo

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Banglo

The Lower Bristol Road could hardly be described as one of the Heritage City’s most salubrious byways. Not that there’s anything significantly insalubrious about it – it’s just not very pretty, dominated as it is by student housing, humdrum office blocks, petrol stations, a Holiday Inn Express, a couple of half-decent Indian restaurants and a lot of chugging traffic. However, Banglo – which isn’t an Indian restaurant, despite a name inspired by the Bengali word for bungalow – artfully defies location limitations and exists in an enchanting little satellite all of its own. In a cute wooden shack that was once a rugby clubhouse (and features a cosy little veranda out front), we discovered a spacious merrymaking area furnished with a mixture of squishy sofas, chunky canteen seating and funky white resin furniture which, depending on your vintage, either evokes memories of what we all thought the future would be like when we were 12 years old or gives the whole place a Britpop video feel. It’s big enough to meet the needs of bar flies, large groups of revellers and cosy couples without either faction impinging on the sensibilities of the other, but still intimate in a downhome, neighbourhood-hang-out way: a bit of Berlin here, a nuance of New York there, but mostly all its own work.

Given the backdrop, I have to admit that I expected the food to be based around the ‘cool bar’ ilk that usually involves dreary tapas selections and ‘witty deconstructions’ of pub grub ‘classics’ that are neither witty nor deconstructed. All those who accuse me of never admitting to a misjudgement, take note: I’m happy to admit that I couldn’t have been more wrong. Starters of fat slivers of salt cured duck breast served with celeriac remoulade, sprinkled with fresh pomegranate seeds and drizzled with truffle oil, and properly tempura-ed tempura king prawns lounging on a silky, chilli-infused cream cheese risotto offered a confident, competent start to a very cheffy dinner of exceptionally high standards. Next up, a slab of cider-braised, crackling-topped pork belly accompanied by fat discs of black pudding, a dollop of apple sauce and a wash of cider jus tasted of autumn in the West Country, while my combination of lamb cutlets, chick pea puree (think, posh hummus) and cherry tomatoes came lined up on a green glass platter and bathed in a punchy balsamic and thyme reduction. Both mains came with a neat brick of garlicky dauphinoise potatoes, and both were beautifully presented; bar food? No, my dear – not here.

To finish, a wedge of proper New York cheesecake and – providing a frivolous, uncomplicated full stop to a seriously foodie affair – a thick, creamy Malteser milkshake, sweet treats that added less than a tenner to a bill that still refused to be pushed over the £50 for two barrier, including a couple of glasses of exceptional house red: a warm welcome to an overlooked neighbourhood indeed. (Melissa Blease)