Restaurant Review

Queens

Queen Avenue, L2 4TX

By Robin Brown | Bistro | ££ |

I’ve got a lot of history on Castle Street: banks, eateries, workplaces – you know, back when there was just the hyperannuated Franco’s on the whole stretch if you fancied a bite to eat. I banked at the massive NatWest branch too – the one from the “it’s not all work, work, work!” adverts in the ’80s – and I once attended an ill-judged press launch for a Brazilian restaurant that featured  a handful of freezing local models and an alarming amount of yellow body paint. It was the kind of distraction that explains how, for a shameful number of years, I missed the entrance to Queen Avenue.

That changed thanks to R&H Fine Wines around 15 years ago, signaling the area’s culinary shift, bringing whimsical wine knowledge in the shape of Devin St ewart, who later reopened nearby bistro Queens alongside Lucas Pires and a tight-knit team. Walking the approaches to Queen Avenue now reveals a sea of industrial lager and pizza, basking in the summer sun.

Gone are the banks, printers and bookies. Here now are the vaguely WAGgy wine bars (many exactly the kind your bank promised it wouldn’t turn into), replete with Protein Chiefs and prosecco. But turn into the avenue, a glorious alleyway that draws comparison to the place in Harry Potter where they buy wands, and you leave the hustle of Castle and Dale Street behind for something quieter, more refined and dangerously close to a ‘hidden gem’.

It’s gratifying to find that nothing has changed at first glance: the service, style and general ambience suggest a confident and comfortable European bistro-brasserie. As we arrive on one of June’s hottest days the alley is full of diners, including tourists, drawn here by the weather and outside dining, the modern(ish) British(ish) food and probably the AA rosettes.

The menu is elegant and seasonal (rabbit, asparagus, trout, lamb) – think British fare combining classical Anglo-French cooking (brown butter, bordelaise, sorrel) with some 21st Century seasoning. If you actually like good food, a demographic I fear is nearing extinction among today’s ‘for the Gram’ punters, there will be something for you here. Tellingly, most of the mains cost the same as a medium Domino’s pizza. And frankly, good luck trying to get a biodynamic orange wine pairing with your Pepperoni Passion (suggestions come courtesy of the knowledgeable, attentive staff).

Following some well-judged snacks, we started with a cured mackerel dish (£12). The fish itself was delicious and meaty, but it was forced to share a plate with a slightly bemusing coriander vichyssoise and a nori crumb that looked and tasted like it was grieving. Accompanied by slivers of intense lime, it felt less like a cohesive dish and more like a beautiful central ingredient being bullied by its own garnishes.

However, the second starter, a leek and mushroom quiche that somehow managed to be both light and rich was complemented beautifully by a salad of bitter leaves and punchy walnut ketchup. A main of pork three ways (some slightly pink loin, crispy slivers of Stornoway black pudding and pancetta jam) with a watercress reduction (£28) was a very well judged plate of food, while asparagus with cannellini cream and Jersey Royals (£24) was a perfect summer tea.

An amuse bouche arrived in the form of an intense, tropical sorbet amuse-bouche evoked an upmarket Kia-Ora in the best way then onto desserts. A deconstructed Eton Mess and Bolo de Amêndoa (almond tart – both a tenner) duly arrive and don’t last long, the two sweets demonstrating the range of influences and approaches to the cooking here.

Queens reminds me of the buzzy bistro-brasseries of my youth, the kind reserved for birthdays or when someone else was paying. They seem a little unfashionable now, bafflingly so, because real food, grown-up service and a stellar wine list should always be a home run. Look, a pizza, hot honey and a cold one have their place, but for special occasions, glorious summer evenings or even a drab Tuesday in November when you need a pick-me-up, forget the pizza’n’Poretti and head to Queens.

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