Bus, Popolo Orange Martini, wander down Dean street, we're in. Three tables occupied, in what is a rather fetching space reminiscent of a Victorian baths. The menu already researched, nothing comes as a surprise (yet), and we order a peachy Sauv Blanc.
I've known for years that when I buy a new record, it can take a few listens to really discover whether I like it or not. Often, those I like the least on first listen become my favourites after an appropriate period of contemplation. Just as often, those that appeal straight away lack the depth to become true favourites. A truly rich, novel experience can only reveal itself after the fact. With that in mind, I say with utter confidence - don't fuck with the duck. It was savoury, crispy and novel, and did nothing to assuage my disappointment not to be served with what I thought I had ordered.
A very delicate soup with soft, mildly smoked haddock, topped with a competently poached egg was received with muted applause by the Good Lady. Nothing amiss here, and the fish hasn't been shredded to a crisp, thank goodness; even so, I am told that a little more of the heartiness of the traditional skink wouldn't have gone amiss. Neither would a spoon, which had to be requested.
Our server, a lanky teenager so wet behind the ears as to drip his way around the tables, had all the charisma of a wet weekend, and had clearly skipped "dressing yourself" period at waiter school, if the dangling mass of shirt escaping down his derriere was anything to go by. I know the art of charm is rarely mastered, but if I was running a restaurant this side of McDonald's, the two attributes I would insist my staff displayed are the ability to carry things without dropping them, and a personality. By the way he placed my plate down, knocking over what was originally a little tower of the aforementioned duck shards, it was clear he was struggling with both. His associate who served the wine had doused herself in Eau de Regal Kingsize before shift, but had mercifully learned to tuck her shirt in.
My desert island meat is a yielding, tender piece of expertly cooked pork belly - and that's exactly what I got. A generously sized portion, everything was well executed, and the ingredients were without fault, although I yearned for more accompaniment to withstand the onslaught of masses of delicate pig. I had but one question: who's got the skin? Like a pianist blessed with the ability to perform a flawless Rach 3, but presented with a piano with all the black keys mysteriously removed by the kitchen, a piece of belly pork is an unfulfilled promise without a crispy piece of salty skin atop.
On further investigation, I was informed the skin isn't simply discarded, or kept as chef's treat, or hawked as scratchings from the kitchen door, but is served as an accompaniment to the pie which can be had as a starter (stop that man! He's got my skin!). I confess to feeling a little cheated here - the skin isn't mentioned on the menu as an accompaniment to the pie, so there would be nothing lost if it weren't included. But not including it with the belly pork, with which one has every right to expect it, can cause nothing but heartache. The fat of the pork was nicely browned with a honey glaze: tasty, but not the same.
The Good Lady's observation that the streak of stuffing inside the chicken was steaming hot, whilst the rest was merely warm, had me thinking bad thoughts about the sort of cooking method which could zap heat directly into the centre of something, but I'll leave you to ponder that for yourselves. I am reliably informed that everything here was very well executed, the gamy venison counterpointing the sweeter chicken, the leek pudding dense, crispy and aromatic, everything coated in a slosh of savoury gravy. It looked a bit dry to me, but no murmurs from across the table.
I have no complaints about the competence of Oldfields' kitchen. I do take issue with the head chef for choosing to fiddle with the dishes but not caring to mention it on the menu. I am surprised that, given the carefully-constructed image of a British eating house, serving simply-prepared ingredients, that Oldfields have chosen a modern rather than traditional interpretation of their dishes. The duck really doesn't work, and the skink needs beefing up a bit. And as for my skinned pig... However, it's the overall package that doesn't really convince. The venue is rather impressive, but the idiosyncratic menu, and the indifferent service, are unfortunate distractions.
Maybe it's a Sunday thing, but if you're going to open, there's no excuse for graveyard shift standards, unless you're selling at graveyard shift prices. They were lucky to get any money at all: the credit card machine was out of action, which was only mentioned after the meal, rather than before, as it should have been. This had some diners literally scrabbling in pockets for small change to make up the bill in cash, and others actually giving their credit card details on small slips of paper to be charged later! No thanks, I never give my card number to strange women. An unfortunate trip to the cashpoint later, we were paid and out. Ignoring the 12.5% added to the bill, we paid £70. They were lucky to get any tip at all frankly, and if I'd paid by card I would have paid the minimum, so maybe there's a method there somewhere.
I'll probably be back at some point. I have confidence Oldfields can cook up a nice plate of food, and will hopefully brush up on their presentation skills. On the other hand, maybe I can ask Pan Haggerty to open next Sunday...
Service 2/5
Food 3/5
Atmosphere 3/5
Value 3/5
oldfields, G Floor,
Milburn House, Dean Street,
Newcastle upon Tyne. NE1 1LF
call: 0191 212 1210
e-mail: newcastle@oldfieldsrestaurants.com
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