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'The clue's in the name – there's a lot of meat on offer here, specifically steak – but it turns out that it's also rather special'
Bristol's Corn Street, in what remains of the old walled city, is a neat encapsulation of all that's wrong with our city centres. The handsome thoroughfare oozes history and it's beautiful, a chunk of heritage that would be venerated elsewhere in the world. Here, what do we do with it? Plaster it with Pizza Expresses, Caffè Neros and All Bar Ones, and fill the gorgeous Commercial Rooms (dated 1810) with a Wetherspoon's, its classical columns dandruffed with fag butts.
Thank goodness St Nicholas Market survives almost intact. And thank goodness, too, for the team of Bristolians already responsible for two of the city's more interesting drinking dens (Hyde & Co and the Milk Thistle, where we later neck fine martinis under the baleful gaze of a stuffed moose), because they've colonised the basement of that Wetherspoon's and turned it into something rather special.
This is what our US chums would call a "storied" building: formerly a bank vault, rumoured to be some kind of secret wartime bunker and, of most importance to the likes of me, erstwhile location of Stephen Markwick's lauded bistro, pioneer of a then unusual seasonal/local/foraged mantra. The wonderful mahogany bar and chandeliers of frosted Murano glass grapes have remained throughout several incarnations, and are the luckiest of inheritances. With its low, curved ceiling, wood panelling and pre-Raphaelite murals, it's like eating in a particularly louche Pullman car.
The clue's in the name – there's a lot of meat on offer at the Ox, specifically steak. It comes mostly from local butcher's Buxton of Winterbourne. But there are starring roles for the odd non-local visitor: we have a loose-grained, burgundy-fleshed bavette d'aloyau (skirt steak) that pairs the butteriness of grain-fed USDA prime with the minerality of that uncompromising cut. All steaks are stamped with the smoky footprint of the Josper grill: from girly little fillet to fine sirloin served with magnificently old-fashioned (in a good way) green peppercorn sauce.
Supporting players are lavished with every bit as much care: a starter of deep-fried egg, crisp outside, its yolk a runny golden lava, comes with a little bouquet of aniseedy chervil, charred long-stem broccoli and creamy caesar dressing. What they've done with brussels sprouts is little short of voodoo: deep-fried until the leaves are crackly and smoky, then bathed in vinaigrette, they've made them as evilly moreish as Pringles. From a section headed "Toast", I love the thick sourdough so much – topped with meaty mushrooms char-grilled into sooty blackness and enriched with dripping and the zip of persillade – that next day I make a pilgrimage to its baker, Hart's, and come out laden with the stuff.
I don't like the chips, though. The obligatory triple-fried jobs, they're square and unyielding, like Lego. Put chips on your menu and you must get them right: slim enough to be crisp as frites, substantial enough to be fluffy as home fries. It's weird that so many restaurants get them wrong. At least these, unlike those at a number of supposedly upmarket establishments, are homemade and not McCain.
I've got this far without saying "Hawksmoor". It has been a struggle. I've no doubt copious notes have been made by the Ox's owners in those particular Brit-accented steak palaces. But in the words of the X Factor's gurning leprechaun, the Bristol bunch have made it their own. They've done some sensible marketing initiatives – an early-bird special that means the place is packed at 7pm, and evenings with no-corkage BYO putting bums on seats during weekday lulls. Cocktails are pretty impressive, and staff – especially the dark-haired gal in her cowboyish duds who pats us as though we were ancient relatives – are lovely. With its butch name – I've met Oxes from Belfast to Portland, Oregon, and it's always a statement of intent – it might come across like a proper toughie. But in fact it's warm, friendly and embracing: this Ox is a big ol' teddy bear.
• The Ox The Basement, 43 Corn Street, Bristol, 0117 922 1001. Open lunch, Thurs-Fri, 12.30-2.30pm; dinner, Tues-Sat, 5-10.30pm. About £35 a head, plus drinks and service.
Food 7/10
Atmosphere 8/10
Value for money 7/10
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