8 by Andy Sheridan, Liverpool

There are many things about 8 by Andy Sheridan that might rub you up the wrong way. The name, for a start - I've never really been behind the idea of any restaurant being purely "by" anyone; except in very rare cases, these things are surely a team effort, particularly as on this occasion, the titular chef wasn't even on site. And there are few things more off-putting after committing to an evening at such a place than being emailed a giant list of rules, directives and get-out clauses - any modification to the booking less than 7 days(!!) before the event will result the full £120 menu being charged per person, being any more than 15 minutes late on the day is regarded as a no-show (same penalty), only pescatarians can be catered for, not vegetarians or dairy-free or gluten-free... it all tends to give the impression that you're doing them a favour turning up at all, rather than the other way round.

So yes, there's a lot about the place that seems designed to irritate, a certain arrogance and swagger that seems unnecessary or unearned. "Here we go," you might think, "another too-big-for-his-boots regional chef who after a couple of Great British Menu appearances thinks he deserves three Michelin stars and a sponsorship deal with Hexclad. I see your game, matey". As much as I try to approach these things with an open mind there was an aspect of the attitude that strongly invites cynicism. And so it's that much more of a surprise and a delight to report that 8 by Andy Sheridan turned out to be so absolutely, flabbergastingly good.

The fireworks started from the first bite. A delicate little tomato meringue with a fresh, light burrata filling topped with a generous mound of black truffle. Boldly flavoured, perfectly seasoned, and so carefully constructed the whole thing burst into a tomato-truffle-dairy explosion in the mouth, it was the kind of thing so many places can get technically right but forget to add that extra element of personality. As much as I loved much of what I ate at Bo.tic, very often their food was impressive but emotionally underwhelming. That never happened at 8.

Tuna tartare with black garlic, avocado and chilli was another vaguely familiar collection of ingredients that punched way above their weight thanks to an expert balance of textures and seasoning, and a lovely strong chilli kick at the end that made the other elements sing that little bit louder.

And then finally from the snacks, a gruyere, liquorice and almond purée tasting - I hope they don't mind me saying - like a very posh marmite butter, where the liquorice element thankfully limited itself to a faint hit of umami, all offset nicely by a layer of sweet Roscoff onion chutney underneath. The textures were, once again, immaculate - the superbly delicate pastry just about holding itself together until eaten - and the flavours rich and satisfying. As a trio of canapés go, these were pretty much perfect.

Reseated downstairs in a stylishly-lit (ie. dark - sorry about the photos) room containing just 16 seats arranged in front of two large sushi-style counters with a dedicated chef each, we were presented with the bread course, a "Parker roll" with honey and cultured butter. The top of the rolls were glazed with an interesting variety of dried herbs and the bread itself was soft and sweet and as deliriously addictive as anything outside of The Devonshire. And believe me, that's high praise indeed.

The next course was confit trout - a fantastic bit of fish worth the price of admission by itself, but served on a bed of split parsley sauce with pickled green strawberries and fennel it became something even more spectacular. You don't have to do much to one of my favourite fishes to impress me, but here, cooked to buttery, unctuous perfection and in an earthy, vegetal parsley sauce that wished would never end, it was just a world class bit of cooking.

I worry about repeating myself. The problem with the food at 8 - at least the problem for me - is that more or less everything was unimprovable; the absolute best it could possibly be. And although that makes for a great evening at the time - and it bloody did, and then some - trying to convey that reality using my own mediocre vocabulary runs the very real risk of underselling it. This pork belly, for example, pulled apart into satisfying firm layers, and was accompanied by a little blob of hibiscus miso purée on the side and a wonderfully complex sigil pal (a Mayan pumpkin-seed-based salsa apparently) underneath. The flavours were incredible - each bit of it deserving a short novel never mind a paragraph on a food blog - but the star remained that pork, careful ageing providing an amazing complexity.

The pescatarian alternative to the pork belly was this miso-glazed aubergine, which I didn't get to try but was apparently brilliant. As if you even needed to ask.

Seabass next, crudo, in coconut, peanut and coriander. Despite its seeming ubiquity on restaurant menus these days I always enjoy seabags, though I imagine only the best stuff can be used raw like this. The fish itself was lovely and clean and fresh with a tender bite, and the coconut, peanut and coriander made a kind of ceviche which as well as working incredibly well took the meal in a whole new direction, geography-wise. While much of the ingredients that 8 make use of are resolutely local (or at least as local as makes sense in a modern restaurant in 2025), the inspiration for the flavour profiles come from all over the world. If the pork belly was kind of pan-Asian, the seabass definitely looked towards South America.

And with the duck, we went French. Duck and celeriac is a time-honoured match, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you that 8 make a supremely light and smooth celeriac purée and can cook a bit of duck breast to pink, plump perfection. All elements were draped in one of those light summery jus', and I'm very glad I left some of the bread to mop it up because it really was superb. The pescatarians were given the same purée and a very similar jus (presumably one not involving duck) but with hen-of-the-wood mushroom as the main protein, which actually turned out to be even better at soaking up that amazing sauce.

One of the things I've noticed about tasting menu joints over the years is that quite often when the savoury courses underwhelm things tend to get a lot more interesting by the desserts, and vice versa - a kitchen firing on all cylinders for the fish and meat courses seem to lose interest when it comes to pud. This is clearly not always the case but it's pretty noticeable when it happens. Any worry that 8 would take their eye off the ball when it came to the sweet courses was blown out of the water by the arrival of this sticky toffee pudding with stilton ice cream, quite the most brilliant twisting and updating of a classic British dessert that I can remember in a very long time. Without the ice cream this would have been a superlative version, all salty and sticky and gooey and full of everything that makes STP so good. But the stilton ice cream was a genuine work of genius, rich and funky from the cheese but thick and cool and deeply, satisfyingly dairy. I remember saying "I can't believe it" out loud, over and over again until my friend told me to stop.

The rest of the desserts were hardly any less impressive. A little compote of summer berries was paired with a white chocolate mousse and I think was a lemon verbena sorbet, all of it fresh and lovely and full of colour and personality.

But sadly it had to end somewhere and the final dish was an extraordinary collection of techniques applied to Jersey milk - made into crumbs, frozen into a super-smooth ice cream, and even dried and baked somehow into a cracker. Very clever stuff, but as I hope I've made clear by now, never at the expense of joy and enjoyment. Whatever techniques 8 have at their disposal, and by God they have a few, they turn them relentlessly and tirelessly into making their food as good as it can possibly be, from the very first bite to the last.

I realise I'm sounding a bit like I'm writing a press release for them, but food this good tends to turn you into an evangelist. I wish they'd done at least something wrong so I could at least give some kind of nod towards impartiality but I'm really at a loss. A special word should go to their resident wine person Declan who was brilliant company throughout the evening and persuaded me to try a dry Riesling with the sticky toffee pudding rather than the Pedro Ximines sherry I would normally have gone for and turned out to be quite right too, damn him. OK, so I suppose the place ain't cheap - the bill came to £210pp but you still get way more than you pay for. And perhaps I'd have liked to have seen a bit more of this historic building's incredible architecture reflected in the restaurant interiors, which felt a little more "provincial nightclub" than "globally important metal-framed glass proto-skyscraper". But again, who cares really.

The fact is, restaurants like this don't come along very often, so when they do they should be recognised, cherished and - most importantly of all - supported. If you're worried that £200 seems a lot for dinner - and let's face it, it is - remember that there are certain other spots up the Merseyrail Northern Line that will ask for even more, and good luck walking back to your city centre hotel from Ormskirk. 8 by Andy Sheridan really does deserve to be spoken about amongst the very best restaurants in the country, never mind Liverpool, and I can count on one hand the number of meals that have impressed me as much over the last so many years. And so looking back on that rather bolshy confirmation email now I can see that it wasn't so much misplaced arrogance it showed than a desire to protect themselves and their singular offering from the rather terrifying environment they're having to operate in these days. Now, more than ever, restaurants need you, and 8 by Andy Sheridan need you, and all they can offer in return is possibly one of the best meals of your life. And that sounds like a decent deal to me.

10/10