Mowgli, Liverpool

There is very little to dislike about Mowgli, and so the fact I came away from an evening there with little more than a vague sense of disappointment has provoked a certain amount of soul-searching. Could it be that the room was just too busy and loud, the clientele just slightly over-represented by hen-, stag- and office-do's, the service just a dash the wrong side of brusque? Objectively the food was fresh and competent enough, and yet could it have just felt a bit by-the-numbers and flat because of the atmosphere in the room, or was it really missing a bit of heart? I hate situations like this, when I know I'm not happy but can't say exactly why. Makes a bit of a mockery of the business of writing a food blog.

So I'll do my best. As I said, nothing about Mowgli is awful but nothing exactly ran smoothly. We moved table twice in the first five minutes, once at our request because they'd put us right underneath a very powerful and very cold air conditioning unit, and a second time because they needed to rearrange nearby tables to accommodate a large party of walk-ins. It was handled politely enough, but as pretty much the only table that wasn't numbering 6 and above, we did feel a bit squeezed out.

Food arrives when they decide it should arrive, so the meal began with a tray of lamb chops and chips. They were actually very good - not overcooked, nicely charred from the grill, and a decent thickness. I could have done with a slightly more aggressive spice mix, but other than that there was little to complain about other than the fact lamb & chips would have been better as a main than a starter.

Chat 'bombs' were nice enough - quite thick casings which tends to suggest they were designed to be made quite far in advance, but in fact the ingredients were nice and fresh and they went down pretty well.

Then appeared the most un- butter chicken-like butter chicken I think I've ever come across. Either they'd brought us the wrong dish, or Mowgli's take on the classic really is a dark oniony sauce, with little to no sign of yogurt and with a very subdued tomato element indeed. The best butter chicken is light and smoothly tomatoey, kind of like a posh Heinz cream of tomato soup (I hope I haven't offended too many millions of people with that remark, but it really is) studded with huge chunks of tandoor-grilled chicken. This was a generic high-street curry, flat and unremarkable. Perhaps I'd have been kinder if they'd even attempted something approaching the real thing, but I guess we'll never know.

I don't know whether there's any precent for adding rhubarb to dahl, but whether this is a traditional Indian recipe or something dreamt up by the fusion fans at Mowgli, the rhubarb flavour was (probably mercifully) absent, leaving us with a fairly ordinary bowl of green dahl.

"Tea-steeped chickpeas" came as part of the veggie/vegan "Indian School Tiffin" menu and were solid enough, if a bit watery and thin...

...and the same criticism could be levelled at this potato and tomato affair ("Picnic potato curry"), which was eaten, but not enthusiastically. There's increasingly a financial motivation for restaurants to expand their vegan offering these days, and the task should be easier than most for Indian restaurants with the Hindu culture of vegan cuisine, so it's disappointing when the best a kitchen can come up with is, well, a bowl of boiled potato in a thin tomato sauce.

But I should repeat, nothing at Mowgli was awful. Nothing was undercooked, overcooked, underseasoned or clumsily presented. All the food, in the manner of so many proto-chains, was considered, contained and politely done, neither too experimental nor too basic. It clearly has its fans, judging by the raucous crowd on a Monday night in late December, people who are more than willing to pay slightly over the odds for what is only just decent Indian cooking, perhaps because Indian restaurants are not Liverpool's strong point and perhaps because nice colonial-era décor and smart service are more than what most people need for a nice night out. And good luck to them, why not.

Unfortunately (or should that be fortunately) for me, I have been to Dishoom and Roti Chai and Masala Zone, all living proof that an Indian Subcontinent proto-chain (in fact in the case of Dishoom, actual nationwide chain) is not only not doomed to be inoffensive and blandly crowd-pleasing but every bit as exciting, rewarding and dynamic as the very finest examples of the cuisine can be. I don't mind that Mowgli wants to be a chain - I mind that it really feels like they want to be a chain. And that's not a good look.

Anyway, if you're in Liverpool and you fancy some dahl and puri, I imagine you'll end up here, and you probably won't hate it either. The bill came to £58.40 for 3 with two glasses of wine, which is by no means unreasonable, and even after the relief of escaping that noisy room died down we didn't regret our evening. They are, after all, doing a lot of things right, and these uncertain times a Liverpool food success story, however much it fails to satisfy snobby food bloggers like myself, should be applauded. I just wish I was able to applaud it a bit louder.

6/10

Mowgli, Liverpool

There is very little to dislike about Mowgli, and so the fact I came away from an evening there with little more than a vague sense of disappointment has provoked a certain amount of soul-searching. Could it be that the room was just too busy and loud, the clientele just slightly over-represented by hen-, stag- and office-do’s, the service just a dash the wrong side of brusque? Objectively the food was fresh and competent enough, and yet could it have just felt a bit by-the-numbers and flat because of the atmosphere in the room, or was it really missing a bit of heart? I hate situations like this, when I know I’m not happy but can’t say exactly why. Makes a bit of a mockery of the business of writing a food blog.

So I’ll do my best. As I said, nothing about Mowgli is awful but nothing exactly ran smoothly. We moved table twice in the first five minutes, once at our request because they’d put us right underneath a very powerful and very cold air conditioning unit, and a second time because they needed to rearrange nearby tables to accommodate a large party of walk-ins. It was handled politely enough, but as pretty much the only table that wasn’t numbering 6 and above, we did feel a bit squeezed out.

Food arrives when they decide it should arrive, so the meal began with a tray of lamb chops and chips. They were actually very good — not overcooked, nicely charred from the grill, and a decent thickness. I could have done with a slightly more aggressive spice mix, but other than that there was little to complain about other than the fact lamb & chips would have been better as a main than a starter.

Chat ‘bombs’ were nice enough — quite thick casings which tends to suggest they were designed to be made quite far in advance, but in fact the ingredients were nice and fresh and they went down pretty well.

Then appeared the most un- butter chicken-like butter chicken I think I’ve ever come across. Either they’d brought us the wrong dish, or Mowgli’s take on the classic really is a dark oniony sauce, with little to no sign of yogurt and with a very subdued tomato element indeed. The best butter chicken is light and smoothly tomatoey, kind of like a posh Heinz cream of tomato soup (I hope I haven’t offended too many millions of people with that remark, but it really is) studded with huge chunks of tandoor-grilled chicken. This was a generic high-street curry, flat and unremarkable. Perhaps I’d have been kinder if they’d even attempted something approaching the real thing, but I guess we’ll never know.

I don’t know whether there’s any precent for adding rhubarb to dahl, but whether this is a traditional Indian recipe or something dreamt up by the fusion fans at Mowgli, the rhubarb flavour was (probably mercifully) absent, leaving us with a fairly ordinary bowl of green dahl.

«Tea-steeped chickpeas» came as part of the veggie/vegan «Indian School Tiffin» menu and were solid enough, if a bit watery and thin…

…and the same criticism could be levelled at this potato and tomato affair («Picnic potato curry»), which was eaten, but not enthusiastically. There’s increasingly a financial motivation for restaurants to expand their vegan offering these days, and the task should be easier than most for Indian restaurants with the Hindu culture of vegan cuisine, so it’s disappointing when the best a kitchen can come up with is, well, a bowl of boiled potato in a thin tomato sauce.

But I should repeat, nothing at Mowgli was awful. Nothing was undercooked, overcooked, underseasoned or clumsily presented. All the food, in the manner of so many proto-chains, was considered, contained and politely done, neither too experimental nor too basic. It clearly has its fans, judging by the raucous crowd on a Monday night in late December, people who are more than willing to pay slightly over the odds for what is only just decent Indian cooking, perhaps because Indian restaurants are not Liverpool’s strong point and perhaps because nice colonial-era décor and smart service are more than what most people need for a nice night out. And good luck to them, why not.

Unfortunately (or should that be fortunately) for me, I have been to Dishoom and Roti Chai and Masala Zone, all living proof that an Indian Subcontinent proto-chain (in fact in the case of Dishoom, actual nationwide chain) is not only not doomed to be inoffensive and blandly crowd-pleasing but every bit as exciting, rewarding and dynamic as the very finest examples of the cuisine can be. I don’t mind that Mowgli wants to be a chain — I mind that it really feels like they want to be a chain. And that’s not a good look.

Anyway, if you’re in Liverpool and you fancy some dahl and puri, I imagine you’ll end up here, and you probably won’t hate it either. The bill came to £58.40 for 3 with two glasses of wine, which is by no means unreasonable, and even after the relief of escaping that noisy room died down we didn’t regret our evening. They are, after all, doing a lot of things right, and these uncertain times a Liverpool food success story, however much it fails to satisfy snobby food bloggers like myself, should be applauded. I just wish I was able to applaud it a bit louder.

6/10

Madre, Liverpool

For much of its existence as a tourist attraction, the Albert Dock in Liverpool, stately and beautiful and a fantastic place to wander around though it undoubtedly always was, was where restaurants went to die. With a massive tourist footfall ensuring that nobody really had to worry about repeat trade, and sky-high rents preventing all but most ruthless and cynical operators from setting up shop, it was home to a collection of the worst restaurants in the city, each one of them unambitious, overpriced and crap. I remember a (nominally) French creperie that reheated pre-made crepes to order, a steakhouse-turned-late night club that would serve its £35 Argentinian fillets with tiny pots of plasticky Bearnaise that cost you £2.50 extra, and - the cream of the shit crop - What's Cooking, a bizarre place selling truly diabolically bad burgers, fajitas and burritos (the vegetable version of which is £12.50) and served by a bunch of people giving the impression they'd rather be anywhere else in the world. Even more diabolically, What's Cooking is still there.

Just around the corner from What's Cooking used to be an Indian restaurant called Spice Lounge. Now admittedly, I never went, but I think I'm on fairly steady ground in assuming that it was unambitious, overpriced and crap. It has been replaced by a taqueria called Madre, and you're going to have to give me a moment to compose myself here, because I can't quite believe what I'm about to type. Here goes. Madre is a restaurant in the Albert Dock in Liverpool, and it's good. It's very good. Madre is a restaurant in the Albert Dock in Liverpool, and it's very good.

Of course, given the pedigree of the owners, I probably should have given them the benefit of the doubt but after so many decades of terrible meals it seemed somehow impossible - literally impossible - that somewhere ambitious, intelligent and keenly priced would one day live up to the standards of this building's extraordinary architecture. Madre is a kind of collaboration between one half of Breddos Tacos, Nud Dudhia*[see edit] - still the only person to make a fish taco good enough to match the ones served in TJ - and the very well-regarded Liverpudlian bistro Belzan, and from the second you walk through the door it's clear that, unlike so many of their neighbours, they want to do things properly. For example across three different nights, a margarita, made by three different bar staff, was never anything less than great - cold, crisp, dusted with tajin, elegantly presented. The best cocktail I've ever been served in Liverpool, and though that's not a particularly high bar, well, there it is.

Tortilla chips, lightly salted (not unseasoned, nor - bleugh - artificially-flavoured Doritos), came with a giant mound of fresh guacamole, a refreshingly stripped-back version involving little other than Mexican avocado, lime and coriander but which at £4 was bigger, bolder and far better than most I've been served elsewhere. You can tell almost everything you need to know about a Mexican restaurant from its guacamole. And Madre's guacamole is basically perfect.

From this flying start, incredibly things only got even better. The modestly-titled "Patatas" were crushed into charming irregular shapes then fried to crunchy on the outside, creamy inside. Served with cooling garlic sour cream and seasoned with what I think was a kind of arbol chilli paste, they were absolutely knockout.

This is a burrata and squash tostada, which I didn't try as I have next to no interest in squash at the best of times, but was declared "very nice" so I'll leave it at that. I'm sure it was lovely if you like squash.

I'd ordered roasted bone marrow mainly for the sheer novelty of being able to order bone marrow in a restaurant in the Albert Dock (the Albert Dock!) but it somehow conspired to be one of the highlights of the meal. Expertly cooked and dressed simply with chives, it was buttery, beefy and brilliant on its own, but I had what I consider to be the unique and brilliant idea of scooping the marrow out with a tortilla chip, thus creating the world's most decadent Mexican canapé. If you go to Madre I thoroughly recommend you do the same.

Tacos, though, are the star of the show at Madre and their versions are as exhaustively researched and lovingly created as any I've come across outside of Baja California. The quality of the pork is impressive, with just enough fat to be tender and not enough to feel too rich, deeply spiced and with a lovely lick of woodsmoke from the grill. They are topped with a little baton of pineapple, in true Al Pastor style, and a mound of fresh coriander and white onion to provide crunch and colour. But most importantly of all the tortillas were absolutely spot-on, soft yet firm, holding their shape to the last bite, and leaving your fingers for hours afterwards with that glorious soily aroma of masa flour. If you closed your eyes you could almost be in a little cantina in the arches of Mercado Hidalgo, while somewhere amidst the noise of the market a Mariachi band is on their third rendition of "Guantanamera".

Oh, Madre do fish tacos too, and yes, they're also fantastic. Generous chunks of fresh fish (cod) with a greaseless batter and gently chillified Jalapeno mayo, they too would have not been out of place served under a Mexican sun, with all the flavour and texture of the very best examples.

By this point my own astonishment at eating as well as this in the Albert Dock (the Albert Dock!) had turned into a kind of gentle hysteria - I was determined to eat as much as I could in case the whole thing turned out to be some elaborate prank or Christmas tequila-spiked fever dream. So these are chicken pibil, glorious slow-cooked chicken with orange and chilli, and like the other tacos were deeply authentic, generously portioned and sparkling with personality and flavour.

And finally, because a restaurant this good needs to have no corner of the menu unturned, we ordered a portion of "Churro French Toast", an idea every bit as filthy and wonderful as it sounds, a kind of butter-soaked waffle topped with salted caramel soft-serve ice cream. It was just on the edge of being too salty, too fatty, to much - but even after the amount of tacos we'd knocked back the bowl still got licked clean.

So. What to make of it all? Our dinner at Madre was so good, so unbelievably good, that the moment it was over I started to panic. What if it can't find an audience? What if, after so many decades of "restaurant in the Albert Dock" being a kind of local shorthand for crap, they can't convince enough Scousers to give it a try, and can't convince enough tourists it isn't just another Tex-Mex laminated menu ripoff joint? What if they lose their nerve and take the roast bone marrow and Half Pig's Head Chicharron (£35, to share) off the menu and end up being just another well-meaning but otherwise unambitious Mexican restaurant? What then?

So I'm doing two things. Firstly I'm writing this, to try (in my increasingly un-influential way) and get the word out to the country as a whole and Liverpool in particular that you have a genuine, honest-to-goodness world class gem on your doorstep, and to forget every dismal and overpriced dinner you've ever had in this part of the greatest city on earth and head immediately to Madre. You won't regret it. And secondly, I'm going to make sure that every one of my future trips up to Liverpool involve at least a bowl of guac and chips in this charming, brick-walled and stone-flagged space, doing my own selfless bit to support the business. Whatever happens though, Madre exists right now, in Liverpool, in the Albert Dock (the Albert Dock!) and that in itself is cause for heavy and continued celebration. Mine's a margarita.

9/10

Sorry about the terrible photos, my camera had run out of batteries so I had to use my iPhone.

EDIT: Madre is in fact a collaboration with BOTH halves of Breddos Tacos, with Chris Whitney also involved. Not sure why I thought otherwise - apologies and many thanks to Chris as well for this incredible place.

Madre, Liverpool

For much of its existence as a tourist attraction, the Albert Dock in Liverpool, stately and beautiful and a fantastic place to wander around though it undoubtedly always was, was where restaurants went to die. With a massive tourist footfall ensuring that nobody really had to worry about repeat trade, and sky-high rents preventing all but most ruthless and cynical operators from setting up shop, it was home to a collection of the worst restaurants in the city, each one of them unambitious, overpriced and crap. I remember a (nominally) French creperie that reheated pre-made crepes to order, a steakhouse-turned-late night club that would serve its £35 Argentinian fillets with tiny pots of plasticky Bearnaise that cost you £2.50 extra, and — the cream of the shit crop — What’s Cooking, a bizarre place selling truly diabolically bad burgers, fajitas and burritos (the vegetable version of which is £12.50) and served by a bunch of people giving the impression they’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Even more diabolically, What’s Cooking is still there.

Just around the corner from What’s Cooking used to be an Indian restaurant called Spice Lounge. Now admittedly, I never went, but I think I’m on fairly steady ground in assuming that it was unambitious, overpriced and crap. It has been replaced by a taqueria called Madre, and you’re going to have to give me a moment to compose myself here, because I can’t quite believe what I’m about to type. Here goes. Madre is a restaurant in the Albert Dock in Liverpool, and it’s good. It’s very good. Madre is a restaurant in the Albert Dock in Liverpool, and it’s very good.

Of course, given the pedigree of the owners, I probably should have given them the benefit of the doubt but after so many decades of terrible meals it seemed somehow impossible — literally impossible — that somewhere ambitious, intelligent and keenly priced would one day live up to the standards of this building’s extraordinary architecture. Madre is a kind of collaboration between one half of Breddos Tacos, Nud Dudhia*[see edit] — still the only person to make a fish taco good enough to match the ones served in TJ — and the very well-regarded Liverpudlian bistro Belzan, and from the second you walk through the door it’s clear that, unlike so many of their neighbours, they want to do things properly. For example across three different nights, a margarita, made by three different bar staff, was never anything less than great — cold, crisp, dusted with tajin, elegantly presented. The best cocktail I’ve ever been served in Liverpool, and though that’s not a particularly high bar, well, there it is.

Tortilla chips, lightly salted (not unseasoned, nor — bleugh — artificially-flavoured Doritos), came with a giant mound of fresh guacamole, a refreshingly stripped-back version involving little other than Mexican avocado, lime and coriander but which at £4 was bigger, bolder and far better than most I’ve been served elsewhere. You can tell almost everything you need to know about a Mexican restaurant from its guacamole. And Madre’s guacamole is basically perfect.

From this flying start, incredibly things only got even better. The modestly-titled «Patatas» were crushed into charming irregular shapes then fried to crunchy on the outside, creamy inside. Served with cooling garlic sour cream and seasoned with what I think was a kind of arbol chilli paste, they were absolutely knockout.

This is a burrata and squash tostada, which I didn’t try as I have next to no interest in squash at the best of times, but was declared «very nice» so I’ll leave it at that. I’m sure it was lovely if you like squash.

I’d ordered roasted bone marrow mainly for the sheer novelty of being able to order bone marrow in a restaurant in the Albert Dock (the Albert Dock!) but it somehow conspired to be one of the highlights of the meal. Expertly cooked and dressed simply with chives, it was buttery, beefy and brilliant on its own, but I had what I consider to be the unique and brilliant idea of scooping the marrow out with a tortilla chip, thus creating the world’s most decadent Mexican canapé. If you go to Madre I thoroughly recommend you do the same.

Tacos, though, are the star of the show at Madre and their versions are as exhaustively researched and lovingly created as any I’ve come across outside of Baja California. The quality of the pork is impressive, with just enough fat to be tender and not enough to feel too rich, deeply spiced and with a lovely lick of woodsmoke from the grill. They are topped with a little baton of pineapple, in true Al Pastor style, and a mound of fresh coriander and white onion to provide crunch and colour. But most importantly of all the tortillas were absolutely spot-on, soft yet firm, holding their shape to the last bite, and leaving your fingers for hours afterwards with that glorious soily aroma of masa flour. If you closed your eyes you could almost be in a little cantina in the arches of Mercado Hidalgo, while somewhere amidst the noise of the market a Mariachi band is on their third rendition of «Guantanamera».

Oh, Madre do fish tacos too, and yes, they’re also fantastic. Generous chunks of fresh fish (cod) with a greaseless batter and gently chillified Jalapeno mayo, they too would have not been out of place served under a Mexican sun, with all the flavour and texture of the very best examples.

By this point my own astonishment at eating as well as this in the Albert Dock (the Albert Dock!) had turned into a kind of gentle hysteria — I was determined to eat as much as I could in case the whole thing turned out to be some elaborate prank or Christmas tequila-spiked fever dream. So these are chicken pibil, glorious slow-cooked chicken with orange and chilli, and like the other tacos were deeply authentic, generously portioned and sparkling with personality and flavour.

And finally, because a restaurant this good needs to have no corner of the menu unturned, we ordered a portion of «Churro French Toast», an idea every bit as filthy and wonderful as it sounds, a kind of butter-soaked waffle topped with salted caramel soft-serve ice cream. It was just on the edge of being too salty, too fatty, to much — but even after the amount of tacos we’d knocked back the bowl still got licked clean.

So. What to make of it all? Our dinner at Madre was so good, so unbelievably good, that the moment it was over I started to panic. What if it can’t find an audience? What if, after so many decades of «restaurant in the Albert Dock» being a kind of local shorthand for crap, they can’t convince enough Scousers to give it a try, and can’t convince enough tourists it isn’t just another Tex-Mex laminated menu ripoff joint? What if they lose their nerve and take the roast bone marrow and Half Pig’s Head Chicharron (£35, to share) off the menu and end up being just another well-meaning but otherwise unambitious Mexican restaurant? What then?

So I’m doing two things. Firstly I’m writing this, to try (in my increasingly un-influential way) and get the word out to the country as a whole and Liverpool in particular that you have a genuine, honest-to-goodness world class gem on your doorstep, and to forget every dismal and overpriced dinner you’ve ever had in this part of the greatest city on earth and head immediately to Madre. You won’t regret it. And secondly, I’m going to make sure that every one of my future trips up to Liverpool involve at least a bowl of guac and chips in this charming, brick-walled and stone-flagged space, doing my own selfless bit to support the business. Whatever happens though, Madre exists right now, in Liverpool, in the Albert Dock (the Albert Dock!) and that in itself is cause for heavy and continued celebration. Mine’s a margarita.

9/10

Sorry about the terrible photos, my camera had run out of batteries so I had to use my iPhone.

EDIT: Madre is in fact a collaboration with BOTH halves of Breddos Tacos, with Chris Whitney also involved. Not sure why I thought otherwise — apologies and many thanks to Chris as well for this incredible place.