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 seabass, 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

Crispin at Studio Voltaire, Clapham Common

Although my useless photos hardly do it justice (let's just get that out of the way from the start), Crispin at Studio Voltaire is a lovely space to eat in. The candles on each table aren't the only source of light, but provide a romantic accessory to the tealights dangling above the bar and some tasteful candelabras near dark curtains towards the back of the room - it's all very theatrical and cozy and Christmassy, a perfect setting for seasonal dining.

All of which would mean nothing if the food served wasn't up to scratch but fortunately the team behind Crispin have some form in this department. Bistro Freddie took over the space in Shoreditch vacated by Oklava, and were an immediate hit serving things like rabbit and cider pie, and whole Devon crab. The two original Crispins are still going strong too - one in Spitalfields and one in Soho - each focusing just as much attention on an interesting wine list as intelligent (and affordable) bistro food. And now this space attached to an art gallery just off Clapham Common has already established itself as a popular, and dynamic, local restaurant thanks to a very particular trick up its sleeve.

Cheddar croquettes with pickled walnut ketchup demonstrated a perfect balance between sharp pickle and gooey-rich cheese, with a nice grease-free crust. One of the features of the food at Crispin is that the menu reads rather familiar, but that pleasant accessibility is backed by real cooking skill. You may have seen cheese croquettes with pickled walnut ketchup before (well, you will have done if you eat out as much as I do) but rarely as precisely cooked or intelligently constructed as this.

Similarly with crab with radicchio, fennel and lemon - a beautiful collection of ingredients that demands to be ordered, executed in such a way, with fluffy chunks of fresh crab and nicely seasoned dressed leaves, that it could barely be improved upon.

And it's mastery of technique that ends up being Crispin's secret weapon. OK so maybe pheasant isn't an every day bistro ingredient, and perhaps I do have a soft spot for game and will automatically order it - for starter and main in this case - when I see it. But bashed flat, breadcrumbed and deep-fried like a chicken Kyiv, it takes real skill to turn what can be quite a dry and unforgiving bird into this immensely rewarding dish, golden brown and crunchy outside, gently pink within, a genuine must-order.

But better was yet to come. Both main courses, a generously proportioned pork chop, and a supreme of pheasant, turned out to be absolute masterclasses in the use of the Hibachi grill, a bit of tabletop charcoal-fired BBQ kit that gets a delicate dark thin crust on the meat while leaving the inside soft and yielding. So the pork offered itself in soft, even slices inside a beautifully seasoned, crunchy exterior...

...and even the pheasant, as I said an often unforgiving bit of meat, was juicy and desperately moreish beneath a dark, crisp skin. Accompanying veg (celeriac puree, winter berries) were very good too, as was the rich game sauce, but the real star here was the protein, and by extension that expert use of the Hibachi grill. I can't remember the last time I was served main courses that were such shining examples of the best of live-fire cooking.

So, come for the atmosphere and seasonal charm, stay for the game-changing grill work. Crispin lands in a part of town fairly used to eating well (the much-missed Dairy used to be just over the road, and top pasta restaurant Sorella is just down the hill) but stands out from the crowd even at this early stage - and promises to only improve as the seasons shift and more exciting ingredients become available. And no matter what time of year, as long as they keep using that Hibachi machine in the way they are now, there'll be endless reasons to visit and revisit, all served with a lovely dark salty crust. My kind of place.

9/10

I was invited to Crispin at Studio Voltaire and didn't see a bill. Expect to pay about £70pp with a glass or two of wine.

The Counter, Tunbridge Wells

As much as I try to travel as far and wide as possible for a meal, there are certain parts of the world that are somewhat better-represented on these pages than others. Obviously as I live in London, and it's the best food city on the planet, that's the main focus of this blog. But thanks to family living there I'm also generally on top of all things Liverpool (look out for the relaunched Pilgrim, coming soon) and you may have also noticed a slight skew towards Kent, whose culinary gems are spread all the way from the Sussex border to the foodie towns of Deal, Broadstairs and Margate.

And it's thanks to a group of friends living in Tunbridge Wells that I've got to know that specific part of Kent pretty well in particular. A post-lockdown trip to the Kentish Hare proved that there were some really serious gastropubs tucked into the countryside around the town, and I will be forever grateful to them for introducing me to the incredible Tallow, one of my very best meals of recent years.

The Counter, then, a new restaurant/labour of love from chef Robin Read, has some serious local competition from operations that have more than proved themselves, but itself already feels so confident and secure in its Regency location that it could have been there for years. Tables are nicely spaced and sensitively lit by the soft autumnal sun, and staff buzz happily about all the various nooks and crannies (it appears to be two or three premises knocked-through to make a charmingly haphazard whole) with a practiced ease. There's a small bar, and short cocktail offering, but my summer berry martini thing was very decent, and from what I can gather their take on the Negroni was very good too.

The menu proper began with this cute little smoked eel and cep tart which perhaps could have been slightly improved by being warmed through but still had loads of lovely mushroomy filling topped with generous chunks of fish. The mushrooms in fact were described as "Tunbridge Wells Cep" which indicates they were if not foraged then at least grown locally, which was a nice touch.

The bread, served as a course in its own right which is more or less the norm amongst forward-thinking modern British restaurants these days, was an extraordinary thing itself, a sticky, malty-rich sourdough with an ash-touched crust as delicate as French pastry. The 'Chiddingstone Dairy' (just out of town, towards Hever Castle) butter was as rich and powerful as you might expect from Jersey cows, and was nicely room temperature and spreadable. But as if all that wasn't enough we were presented with a cute little cup of vegetable broth, a waste-free way of enjoying the bits of the seasonal veg that couldn't be sensibly used elsewhere - very tasty, and full marks for sustainability too.

Chalk stream trout tasted every bit as good as it looked, and as you can see it looked stunning, with the sashimi-shaped slices of fish prettily arranged amongst carved kohlrabi flowers and dots of dill oil, all of it resting in a cool, clear dashi broth. I've been reading some pretty scary stories about the state of our country's chalk streams in recent years so it's somewhat of a relief to still be seeing products like this on a menu, and a delight to have it treated so well.

Rump cap was an incredible union of impeccable sourcing and intelligent cooking, being what is clearly top-quality beef cooked in such a way as to leave the flesh soft and tender but with an exquisite thin layer of crisp, salty skin and fat on one side. A triumphant trio of sides - swede and black pepper puree, girolles and beer-braised shallot - complimented the beef, and it was all bound together with a nice rich, sticky jus. You really couldn't want for a better beef course.

Of course we had to go for the optional cheese course, in this case Rachel goat's turned into a kind of mini rarebit topped with watercress, beetroot relish (see, there are still exciting ways of doing beetroot and goat's cheese) and more shaved cheese. It was great - the hot, gooey rarebit mixture the ideal format for this cheese, and the toasted bread held its shape very well.

I should probably step back at this point in case I end up boring you with my usual over-effusiveness. Restaurants like this, in case you're new to this blog, are my own particular nirvana - I will happily travel the length of the country in search of strictly seasonal Modern British food served with intelligence and flair, and I've been lucky enough in recent months to come across (either by invite or by sheer luck) a few of them. I can't personally imagine being served a menu like this and not falling head over heels in love with it, but then I don't know why people voted for Brexit or Trump either, or why Clapham Junction station hasn't been bulldozed and rebuilt at any point since the 1970s. Some things will always be a mystery to me. All I can say is that if you have even the slightest interest in being served wonderful food by people who love what they're doing and are incredibly good at it, you should also love the Counter.

Anyway we haven't quite finished yet. Sliced figs (treated cleverly somehow - they weren't quite raw but not quite cooked - maybe sweetened and/or poached?) were topped with a silky mascarpone mousse and a linseed-studded sugar crisp, all of it full of texture and invention.

And then right at the end, a parade of petits fours - fudge, truffle, canelé and macaron - that demonstrated a very capable pastry section and a supremely generous attitude towards unannounced extras, a really nice effort indeed at the end of what had been quite a display of culinary skill for £60.

Of course, our final bill was way north of £60pp thanks to us having a bit more fun than was necessary with the wine list and a final round of single malts, but if you were a bit more sensible and limited yourself just to the matching wines (and OK perhaps a glass of Sussex fizz to start) then you would probably be looking at something more in the region of £120pp - pretty much bang on what you might expect to pay for this kind of thing. Certainly you can pay a lot more for a lot less. Of course you could also decided to go for the full £125pp 10-12 course extravaganza which I'm sure is even more wonderful. Maybe next time.

The Counter, then, is definitely a restaurant worth travelling for, but then if you're lucky enough to live somewhere near the SouthEastern rail route, the fact that its 10 minutes' walk from the station means that there's a good chunk of Londoners and South Easterners generally for whom the journey will be pretty trivial as well. And as with anywhere committing itself to strictly seasonal dishes, the menu will shift and shuffle and evolve throughout the year, meaning that repeat visits will always reward and delight. So don't feel jealous of the residents of Tunbridge Wells having somewhere so wonderful on their doorstep - be happy that for millions of people it's only a short train ride away. And most of all, be profoundly grateful that it exists at all.

9/10

The Lamb Inn, Little Milton

Most visitors to the Lamb Inn will approach from the car park and be greeted with the sight pictured above - an achingly cute thatched countryside pub in whitewashed stone looking like it hadn't changed much in the past few hundred years. And this is, of course, a great way to start. But being a few minutes early for our lunch, we decided to do a little tour of the area and ended up walking past the front of the building where a giant exhaust vent from the Lamb kitchens is heaving out sweet-smelling clouds of charcoal and animal fat into the pretty medieval street. I stood in front of it for a good few seconds, trying to work out what might be on the menu that day, intoxicated by the mix of aromas until my hair smelled of bonfire and I realised if I spent any longer there I may end up not being allowed inside. It's hard to describe, but the Lamb Inn kitchen vent smelled serious, the product of a high-end kitchen doing all the right things.

This was, I'm pleased to say, borne out by the food served inside. I always find chicken liver parfait to be a pretty solid test of a kitchen's skills, and they passed with flying colours, smooth and salty and full of earthy offal flavours without being bitter or grainy. This would have been more than worth the paltry £9.50 they were asking for it by itself, but it came alongside an incredibly lovely bacon jam, with little tiny bits of crunchy pig studded into sticky sweet onion, and a slice or two of top-quality grilled sourdough. I don't remember it being purple though, so blame my weird old camera for that particular effect.

Smoked eel is a good example of the kind of ingredient that only confident and accomplished gastropubs usually serve, as it can be a bit of an ask of your more timid pub-goer (I know a few people that won't go near it, however strange that sounds to the rest of us). The garden greens and baby beetroots brought some nice textures and earthy/bitter flavours, but the star was obviously the eel, so soft and salty and full of flavour that it could be mistaken for chunks of halloumi cheese. This is a good thing, by the way.

But the star of the starters, and in fact one of the best dishes overall, was this single giant crab and scallop ravioli. Not only did it contain a generous portion of bouncy fresh seafood filling, all encased in delicate handmade pasta, and dressed in an irresistible frothy Thai green sauce, it was also on the menu for an incredible £11.50, almost certainly about half, and in some cases less than half, of what you'd pay in most restaurants even attempting to offer a giant crab and scallop ravioli. And apologies - I took the above photo before the sauce was dropped in, so you're going to have to imagine what that looked like.

Enoki tempura suffered just slightly from an excess of grease, as the brush-like fronds of the mushroom can really soak up the stuff, although that's also possibly because it was such a generous portion. It was still all polished off quite happily.

We only had one of the "big" mains, this huge pork chop, expertly grilled and sliced into portions each of which had a morsel of firm but moist meat attached to a melt-in-the-mouth bit of fat and a delicate thin crunch of crackling. The sauce was rich and herby and gently apple-y and the celeriac remoulade studded with (I think) wholegrain mustard for a bit of heat. Doesn't it look beautiful? Well, let me tell you, it tasted even better.

Oh, and the Lamb do very good chips, too.

We nearly didn't order desserts as we were so stuffed from the savoury courses, but these conspired to be some of the best items on the menu. Crème brûlée had a deeply vanilla-y filling and an extra-thick crunchy top which had been spiked with spices of some kind I couldn't quite put my finger on - an improvement on the usual at least, and I'm already a huge fan of crème brûlée. There's an argument to be made that the blackberry ice cream was perhaps an extra flavour too far, but it was absolutely superb home made ice cream, so who cares.

Finally, a kind of reimagined sticky toffee pudding that appeared to be constructed largely of caramel and stewed fruit - at least, if there was a spongecake base there it was incredibly low-key. It was brilliant though - so ridiculously easy to eat with its soft vanilla ice cream topping I practically inhaled it despite the huge amount of food I'd had already. Alongside the seafood ravioli (I think technically I should call a single ravoli "raviolo" but nobody in this country ever does this so I won't either) it was an instant classic, and a Lamb Inn absolute must-order.

It's an incredibly difficult balancing act a lot of these country pubs have to perform - go too haute cuisine and unapproachable and you end up alienating your local audience who will be the core of your customers. Go too cookie-cutter and pub-standards and you're competing with every chain boozer in the area, most of whom have the resources to serve the same stuff a lot cheaper. But get it right - find a balance between accessibility and quality and value for money and with a seasonal menu that without being too overwhelming has something that almost everyone could enjoy, and the rest takes care of itself.

Raymond Blanc's Manoir aux Quatre Saisons is just up the road in Great Milton. We had a little wander round earlier the same day. It seemed very nice, and I'm sure their £230pp lunch has much to recommend it. But if you want local, seasonal, intelligently constructed food for somewhat less than the price of a return to New York (see above) then I would say there's only one choice in the area. The Lamb Inn are doing pretty much everything right, from the service (charming and knowledgeable although obviously given this was an invite feel free to take that observation with a pinch of salt) to the design of the menu to the execution of the dishes themselves. Add in a low-beamed dining room in a 16th century building in the middle of the Oxfordshire countryside and you have all the ingredients of a perfect day out. Thoroughly, wholeheartedly recommended.

9/10

I was invited to the Lamb Inn and didn't pay the bill (although as you can see they did kindly show us one for our records!). We weren't drinking that day so expect to pay £50pp-£60pp for a "normal" lunch. Still an absolute bargain.