The pole-up-jacksie staff robotically recite every component of every dish with the animation and charm of a Theresa May interview
How dare I? How dare I be critical about a small, new indie restaurant, its name an elision of the chef/owner’s two sons (and the number of tables they, er, used to have)? Where it’s clearly the work of the bleeding inevitable passionate maverick who has dedicated his life, soul, savings? I usually don’t dare: these are the reviews I hate to write, so I spend an uncomfortable first few courses of Bilson Eleven’s £49 tasting menu frantically trying to look on the bright side, make allowances. Warm bread with butter whipped with malt: nice. Amuse bouche referencing a ploughman’s lunch: not bad, with its bendy little horseradish and salmon cracker and ramekin layered with ham hough, pickled onion and cheese foam. Oh god, foam. But, yeah, not bad.
We’re back with the foams, gels and deconstructions like it’s the early noughties. “Curried skink” offers a small fillet of mustard-and-peppered haddock and cumin-laced potato foam, blobs of acrid lime pickle gel and dense little blocks fashioned from potato and leek – not so much dish as gustatory jigsaw. Chicken liver parfait isn’t awful, just odd: over-boozed, sweet with quince, its near-liquid nature not conducive to being eaten with a fork, despite crumbs of crisped chicken skin, chunks of brioche and tiny dice of chicken mousseline, pointless in its creamy egg-white blandness. There’s a light touch with desserts – sticky malt cake with a smear of smoky Talisker custard – and a heavy touch with excellent cheeses: generous and with an Auld Alliance theme. The heather-coloured chairs are comfortable. I’m tempted to note “good for Glasgow”, but I’m not entirely stupid.
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