Trillium, the latest Birmingham restaurant by Glyn Purnell, is absolutely not one of those po-faced, sedate, mumbly kind of places where some Ludovico Einaudi is piped plinky-plonkily throughout the dining room while guests stiffly eat six teensy courses. In fact, it’s quite the opposite, even if Purnell, via the likes of Purnell’s and Plates, is pretty much synonymous throughout the Midlands with fancy, special-occasion, Michelin star-winning refinement. Yet on a recent Saturday night, in this brand new, glass-fronted, multicoloured mock birdcage, the talk is loud, the music is roaring and the plates of battered potato scallop with soured cream are appearing thick and fast.
Trillium is a genuine attempt by a Michelin-starred restaurateur to translate some of their best bits into a semi-rowdier yet still upmarket stage. It’s been attempted many times by other chefs (see Corenucopia and Bar Valette for details), but, miraculously, Purnell seems to have pulled it off. There’s a general feeling of people – gasp! – actually enjoying life. Naturally, you can, if you feel like splashing out, add some Sturia oscietra caviar to that spud scallop for an extra £25, but, as with most plates at Trillium and as I quickly find out, that potato is designed to feel luxuriously hedonistic anyway.
Other gougères ‘feel like cruel pranks in comparison’ with Trillium’s XXL beast.
Trillium, with its open kitchen, busy decor and jolly, prompt, informal service, might not be to everyone’s taste, but it is hugely welcoming. Sommeliers are on hand if you want to geek out over Villa Noria Amfòra orange wine by the glass, explaining the grape, the vineyard, the hills the grape grew beside, but those same staff would also not bat an eyelid if you ordered an equally orange Aperol spritz to go with your round of bruschetta topped with seaweed jam and anchovy. The first five minutes of a visit to Trillium are a bombardment of the senses: wobbly tables, flaming pans and a menu that includes the phrases “beef carpaccio with Oxo cube” and “XXL gougère”.
The first hint that we were on to something really good were the pudgy, sea salt-topped, flossy white milk loaf buns that turned up with a little dish of mysterious, oily goodness for dipping. What was actually in that dish seemed at first a little vague: it’s fatty, speckled with seasoning and red in patches, and resembles something you might find in the washing-up pile after a Sunday lunch at home. We dip the salty bread into the gunk – it’s a flavour revelation of warm, runny chicken fat laced with the unmistakable thrust of malt vinegar. Not balsamic vinegar, not sherry vinegar, and certainly not “non-brewed condiment”, either. Next up is that XXL gougère, which in lesser hands is often a pale, frail choux structure with a tiny squirt and light dusting of cheese. Not at Trillium, it’s not. This gougère is a beast befitting that XXL moniker; it’s voluptuous, creamily filled with Montgomery cheddar and comes with an inch-thick gruyère garnish topped with a dusting of paprika. From this day on, all other tiny, cold, stale gougères – and there are many currently being foisted on UK diners – will feel like cruel pranks in comparison.
Coddled duck egg with smoked almond paste: ‘A rethink of eggs benedict for people who don’t find hollandaise quite rich enough.’
And so it went on, though I was already somewhat in love with this weird, bold, silly restaurant. The food, for one thing, is relentlessly spot on, as well as indulgent, imaginative and bizarrely generous in portion size. Take the intensely lovable “coddled duck egg”, which turns out to be not one but two buttery, beautifully seasoned, runny-yolked eggs on top of honking slabs of sourdough slathered with smoked almond paste and finished with truffle; the almond paste, although savoury, lends proceedings a vague, marzipan-y quality, and the overall effect is like a rethink of eggs benedict for people who don’t find hollandaise quite rich enough.
Those eggs, incidentally, are on the “small plates” section of the menu, although who could possibly find them a small plate is anyone’s guess. Also “small”, apparently, is a platter of beef carpaccio with pickled shimeji mushrooms, bresaola and that aforementioned Oxo cube made from shredded beef cheek. From the actual large plates, vegetarian brilliance comes in the form of vadouvan-spiced heritage carrots with lentils, coconut and yoghurt, while a chunk of Cornish skate, cooked perfectly, is served with butter beans and a rich, buttery, sunset-yellow espelette sauce that I’ve since thought about many, many times.
Cornish skate with butter beans comes in an espelette sauce ‘that I’ve since thought about many, many times’.
A bowl of warm Manjari chocolate mousse for dessert possibly wasn’t the strongest of choices, but by that stage we were looking for something (cough) “light”. Next time, I’ll do the caramel custard tart with whatever ice-cream du jour is on offer. Many chefs have tried to make Michelin food work without standing remotely on ceremony, but Trillium is as close to the real deal as I’ve found so far. Eat well, rest an elbow on the table, order the house wine, have fun.