Ashley A. Stanfield
Ashley A. Stanfield
I love to cook, write, and eat. And I really love to share this information with the world. I started when I realized the amount of misinformation out there in regard to cooking and food. So I decided to start gathering up everything I could, from recipes to cooking tips to restaurant reviews, to create a resource that people would actually use and enjoy. I think it's important to be passionate about food and enjoy cooking it and eating it. This is my way of sharing all that knowledge with you.

At The Kensington Arms in Redland, I’m aware that I’m the last face any kitchen brigade wants to see over a protracted financial institution excursion weekend. This boozer, a few miles from Bristol metropolis center, had been referred to me via food fans several instances, and the words “traditional” and “proper” frequently featured, as did “dependably superb Sunday lunch.” We all need one of these up our sleeve: there’s no longer trouble in the international that roast potatoes and gravy do no longer improve.

The Kensington Arms

Aside from, perhaps, gout, though via that stage, you could as properly crack on. Because it’s affectionately referred to as it it, the Kenny is one of chef Josh Eggleton’s cutting-edge projects, whom I met across a judging desk on BBC2’s Great British Menu. It became a collection celebrating “high-q”ality Britons,” in wh”ch cooks queued as much as cure trout in tribute to their forefathers and gift puddings symbolizing the Windrush.

Eggleton, I discovered here, is the face in the back of the Michelin-starred country pub The Pony & Trap in Chew Magna, and turned into an interestingly humble culinary genius, in addition to a restaurant entrepreneur who has opened some of the chip stores and restaurants around the Bristol region. Still, at some stage in TV competitions, in which cooks are pushed to be showy, thematic,, or to “co”k dinner out of doors their comfort region,” I”frequently lengthy to flavor the kind of food they think is delicious when thethey’rew not being requested to make outstanding telly. Nobody on MasterChef: The Professionals ever says, “To”ay, I’vI’veoked a leek and jersey royal potato soup and served it with clean sourdough and properly salted butter,” h”wever by way of God, every so often, I wish they would. A girl can endure only such a lot of offal bonbons with a Pernod clafoutis chaser.

Joyously, with Luke Hawkins (ex Pony & Trap) on the helm at The Kenny, the single-sheet Sunday lunch menu begins with this honest leek-and-spud pottage. It is velvety, aromatic, and balm-like. It strikes a chord in my memory of the folly of how, in recent decades, Brits were made to experience sheepish over latest decades about choosing soup as a starter, as if it’it’sst effective one step up from that other traditional Seventies opening act, “a “lass of pasteurized orange juice.” T”e Kenny has the soup to exchange all of that.

Other starters covered a crab cake with curried mayo and pickled kohlrabi, while a few crisp brawn came armed with each pickle and piccalilli. Brawn, or head cheese, is made from the wealthy, flavourful, gelatinous meat from a pigpig’sad, which all chefs swear is the nice bit.

It may not be all of us’us’savor, but if youyou’veer eaten a cheap sausage, I’mI’mirly certain youyou’vensumed a great deal worse. We were extremely joyful with a bowl of excellent, sparkling, perfectly judged Cornish mussels in a wealthy, piquant, cider-and-cream broth, which Charles chose and I stole with an extended spoon.

The Kenny, I felt after my first white peach bellini, is the kind of pub that offers you a sense of right and wrong about flagging it as much as the outdoor global. The locals are so happy right now in this space, which is a ways from huge, and its welcoming, open-kitchen returned room thathat’sppered with bizarre, culinary-themed art and staffed with the aid of people who are far, a long way more super than they need to be for a pub as if this had been the Mirabelle within the overdue Nineties. The Kenny is cleanly stored with non-sticky tables, spotless bogs, and relaxed banquettes that have now not as but been spattered with gravy.

It has the whole lot a boozer ought to have, apart from, perhaps, a disheveled-faced pub dog ambling about and begging for crisps. We drank Dashwood Pinot Gris from New Zealand at £7 a glass and waited for what is known on the menu as “Th” Main Event.” C”arles had medium-uncommon dry-elderly Hereford red meat rump – thick, pinky-purple slices, with fluffy, mild Yorkshire pudding, crisp, plump, roast potatoes, purple cabbage,, and one of those carrots which can be so fancy, they give you the best one.

- A word from our sposor -


The Kensington Arms