Some dishes don’t so much speak to you as holler. They make a case for themselves just by sitting there being brown and crisp and hyper-spiced and brazen. So it is with the lamb ribs with cumin at My Sichuan in Oxford. This one dish is enough to have me battering away at the National Rail app, calculating journey and eating times, and wondering whether I could do the round trip by myself without anyone noticing my absence.
A plate of the lamb ribs, with some of their glossy, jade-green vegetables to make you feel better about yourself even as you scarf the animal fats, and the world would rest easy on its axis. Who needs dining companions when you have a plate of those? More to the point, why would you want a dining companion? They’d only insist you share. Nobody wants to share My Sichuan’s lamb ribs with cumin. OK. I don’t want to share. Go away. Mine.
As ever with Oxford, I find its restaurant sector baffling. All that money – the place heaves with international students on fat stipends; all that cosmopolitan good taste (cf note re rich international students); all that apparent interest in the world. And yet on the walk from the station we pass identikit chains, a splatter of pan-Asian restaurants which know how to make a catering-size pouch of pre-made Thai green curry paste go a bloody long way, and sanitised “urban brasseries” serving limp Caesar salads and festering rib-eyes, for the better-heeled students to be spoilt in by their parents.
Certainly on a Monday lunchtime, when I have to be there, the choices are very limited. (A new opening in Oxford that I have my eye on doesn’t even bother opening until Tuesday evening and gives up again at the end of Saturday; people of Oxford, I feel for you.)
To be fair, good non-Cantonese Chinese food has until relatively recently been a hard ask in Britain anywhere outside London and Manchester. A couple of stalwart chains have done a good job of bringing something deeper and funkier to deprived parts. Otherwise it’s a lot of glossy, oversweetened things and crispy ultra-deep-fried things.
Even My Sichuan, which clearly does a roaring trade in banquets for visiting Chinese groups – two are in the day we are there – has a menu of Cantonese standards. It is dispiriting that the only other non-Chinese punters in this lunchtime order crispy duck and the mixed starters of prawn gravel on sodden toast and leaky spring rolls. I want to lurch over to them, grab them by the lapels and bellow: “What are you doing? Why did you bother coming here if it was just to eat this stuff? That picture-led menu in your hands is the gateway to divine gustatory pleasures beyond your feeble imaginings.” But that would be hideously patronising and pretentious and I am meant to save such outbursts for this column.
So I stay at my dark-wood table beneath the handsome blue-glass cupola of the Old School building. It’s another bit of the honey-coloured stone that Oxford does so well, given a vaguely Chinese makeover by the addition of a few screens, dodgy art and some very big tables with lazy Susans in the middle.
Some dishes don’t so much speak to you as holler. They make a case for themselves just by sitting there being brown and crisp and hyper-spiced and brazen. So it is with the lamb ribs with cumin at My Sichuan in Oxford. This one dish is enough to have me battering away at the National Rail app, calculating journey and eating times, and wondering whether I could do the round trip by myself without anyone noticing my absence.A plate of the lamb ribs, with some of their glossy, jade-green vegetables to make you feel better about yourself even as you scarf the animal fats, and the world would rest easy on its axis. Who needs dining companions when you have a plate of those? More to the point, why would you want a dining companion? They’d only insist you share. Nobody wants to share My Sichuan’s lamb ribs with cumin. OK. I don’t want to share. Go away. Mine.As ever with Oxford, I find its restaurant sector baffling. All that money – the place heaves with international students on fat stipends; all that cosmopolitan good taste (cf note re rich international students); all that apparent interest in the world. And yet on the walk from the station we pass identikit chains, a splatter of pan-Asian restaurants which know how to make a catering-size pouch of pre-made Thai green curry paste go a bloody long way, and sanitised “urban brasseries” serving limp Caesar salads and festering rib-eyes, for the better-heeled students to be spoilt in by their parents.
Certainly on a Monday lunchtime, when I have to be there, the choices are very limited. (A new opening in Oxford that I have my eye on doesn’t even bother opening until Tuesday evening and gives up again at the end of Saturday; people of Oxford, I feel for you.)
To be fair, good non-Cantonese Chinese food has until relatively recently been a hard ask in Britain anywhere outside London and Manchester. A couple of stalwart chains have done a good job of bringing something deeper and funkier to deprived parts. Otherwise it’s a lot of glossy, oversweetened things and crispy ultra-deep-fried things.
Even My Sichuan, which clearly does a roaring trade in banquets for visiting Chinese groups – two are in the day we are there – has a menu of Cantonese standards. It is dispiriting that the only other non-Chinese punters in this lunchtime order crispy duck and the mixed starters of prawn gravel on sodden toast and leaky spring rolls. I want to lurch over to them, grab them by the lapels and bellow: “What are you doing? Why did you bother coming here if it was just to eat this stuff? That picture-led menu in your hands is the gateway to divine gustatory pleasures beyond your feeble imaginings.” But that would be hideously patronising and pretentious and I am meant to save such outbursts for this column.
So I stay at my dark-wood table beneath the handsome blue-glass cupola of the Old School building. It’s another bit of the honey-coloured stone that Oxford does so well, given a vaguely Chinese makeover by the addition of a few screens, dodgy art and some very big tables with lazy Susans in the middle.
การแปล กรุณารอสักครู่..