Hove East Sussex

Brighton’s quieter and less frenetic sister has been hiding a small-but-perfectly-formed food scene behind its shingly front for some time now. I’m very fond of the local hostelries, most of which have played host to my disreputable activities over the years. But I have forced myself to focus here on the places that fill the heart with real joy: a purveyor of egg sandwiches with serious attitude, a perfectly pitched fine-dining place, a brilliant cheese and wine one-stop-shoppy, a genre-defining gastro pub and, finally, superlative baked goods to munch, greasy-bagged, on the beach.

I like to think of Brighton and Hove, now joined at the hip, as “B&H” – it has just the right whiff of gold-foiled Fag Ash Lil about it (I should point out that I am Brighton-born so have native carte blanche). Sometimes frighteningly eclectic, there are many faces to this two-in-one city. There’s the posh side (Brighton College, Roedene and the third-rate private school my mother attended that taught solely Greek dancing and deportment). Then there are the Thespians – retired Shakespeareans and their ilk. Queer B&H of course in all its wonderful, rainbow fabulousness. The inescapably seamier side too: all dirty weekends, kiss-me-quicks and, beneath that, genuine deprivation. B&H off season is another place again: it can be desolate and lonely (the sort of bored, boarding-house feeling captured perfectly by Julian MacLaren-Ross and Morrisey in Everyday-is-Like-Sunday vein). But close the door of one of its hostelries against the winter blasts and you can truly appreciate the place and its local denizens left like so much good-humoured jetsam once the tide of tourist tat has receded.

N.B. The delightful Wild Flor on Church Rd has its own review.

Fika, ah sainted Fika! Many a hungover Sunday has been salvaged by the egg-drippingly-good buns of this Hove (Worthing and now Brighton!) mainstay. Now in its 4th year, it’s all so very unassuming from the outside, with the shipping-container chic following through within. The chipboard and cushions vibe is very on point though – besides, it’s nicer to sit outside on the occasional morning that the weather isn’t howling up Fourth Avenue. Inside or out, the service is invariably efficient and genuinely friendly.

The main pull is the fried-egg sandwiches, a term which really doesn’t do justice to what’s on offer. Having eaten my way round the menu and back again I think choices fall rather neatly into two halves: more breakfasty sandwich-type affairs and more brunchy, burgery substantials. 

I invariably opt for the relatively purity of the “Ton Bacon”. I say purity, but we are talking beautifully griddled bread (of toast-meets-fried-bread excellence), top quality bacon, smoked cheese and sweet/savoury tonkatsu sauce all oozing with yolky delight. Not pure at all, plump and wanton really. It’s just not quite as out there are some of its buttermilk-fried-chicken, n’duja-and-chimichurri or grilled-haloumi-and-harissa-aioli compadres. There’s usually a special or two as well: invariably something delicious to tempt you from the path of “Ton” righteousness.

I have, almost unbelievably, never tried the wonderful-sounding Ugly Nug sides. Goes to show just how filling the main events are. I do however always manage to cram in one of their mighty cinnamon buns, just to tip my hat to their Scandi roots you understand. Coffee is, as they claim, damn good and there are excellent value weekday deals to lighten the rainiest of Tuesdays. “Filthy fried eggs & damn good coffee”, you say? Well, yes please. And be quick about it!

When I’m finally laid to rest, my rigor-mortised fingers still clutching a fork no doubt, I have stipulated full honours and a pyramid in which to lay my head for all eternity. Just a small one, mind, nothing ostentatious. Taking the necessities with me into the afterlife might well involve the entire stock (and staff) of Fourth and Church, such is the bounty of their table.

Intimate and elegant, its walls are lined with bottles – a proud Amontillado here, a ravishing Riesling there – the sort of things to beckon and demand an hour or two of your time. The drinking is good here: they make a mean cocktail but I am usually swayed by the sherry selection. There’s even, unusually, a Blanc de Noirs by the glass which I’d be having had I not my nose in the Manzanilla en rama. The rest of the wine list stretches away to the horizon largely, and for your purse thankfully, keeping away from pricier regions in favour of, say, Lagrein from Alto Adige.

There’s à la carte with smaller and larger plates but give in to the gravitational pull of the tasting menu. It follows the well-beaten path of snacks then starter, fish, meat and pud but a little cheese course had been inserted (correctly, à la française, before anything sweet) without whiff of additional charge. As if cheese were de rigueur. Which it is. In this instance, a gorgeously sticky, stinky piece of Munster expertly paired with baked fig. Someone in the kitchen is fond of pickling, preserving and fermenting: they are a dab hand at it, too. Cubes of pressed ham hock studded with pistache are enlivened with the vinegar hit of red and golden beetroot – at once fresh and deeply porky. The main course usually offers something slow cooked and unctuous: cheek or short rib with a little offbeat coffee and chilli perhaps. And there’s always excellent home-baked bread. Overall, it’s stimulating, well conceived and executed.

I had unfortunately come a cropper back-wise the evening before my last visit (unbridled limbo, frenetic Houla or some such) which rendered our allocated bar stools rather too Himalayan in aspect. Despite being chocka, the caring staff found us a more trad table with neither rolling of eye nor gritting of teeth – the sort of flexibility and bonhomie that many a starched ‘n starred place would do well to note. Bravo!

A gastro pub and microbrewery, this place is a wonderful shabby-chic, Farrow ‘n Ball diamond in the rough of a slightly gritty side road behind Tesco (street urchin as much as sea urchin?). You really mustn’t let that put you off, though. Once inside, or indeed in the strangely calming gardeny bit, it’s all scrubbed tables, sauce-smeared smiles and the occasional fantastic event like an oyster feast or crawfish boil.

It’s impossible for me to decide between the simple raw oyster with mignonette or its crispy chilli co-worker to kick things off. So I never do, I have both. They are Jersey Rocks which, if you’ve trawled through my forensic analysis of the bivalve, you’ll know work well both live and kicking (in a kinda odd monopedal way) and cooked. I’ve also sampled a starter of fried squid and a nice potted-crab thingy served with cubes of citrus jelly (a well-judged textural counterpoint) and a little tangle of caper-flecked remoulade.

For the main event, I always promise myself that I will have one of their impressive crustace (whole crab or lobster) brought steaming to the table dripping in seaweed butter or whatever they have dreamt up that week. However, I have now resigned myself to the fact that I will never make it past their Malaysian Prawns. What arrives when you order them, and you must, is a fabulous copper contraption rather like a wok with hinged lid (perfect for discarded shells). There’s probably a Malaysian term for it but the Portuguese call it, or something similar, a cataplana*. Opening this thingamabob, you are met with plump prawinness bathing quietly in a liquor of deep umami joy. The spicing is note perfect: warm, fragrant, utterly intoxicating. The lentil-flecked sauce is so good you’ll need a spoon, some of their good bread and a side order of fries to mop and slurp it all up.

The well-tended wine list will offer you a perfect fish-friendly Croatian Malvazija, likewise a Verdicchio (Matelica, ie the other one, not dei Castelli di Jesi). The cunning Urchins have also bagged one of Larry Cherubino’s Apostrophe Stone's Throw blends from down under. This one’s an unusual Riesling/Gewürztraminer. I haven’t tried it yet, I was too distracted by the Verdicchio, but a citrus/rose combo is just made for the spiciness of those heavenly prawns.

* full credit to my Portugal correspondent for the insider track on their trad cooking equipment.

In those moments when existential dread can only be assuaged by a large carbohydrate hug (something that happens to me with alarming regularity), head to the small row of super-duper shops on Victoria Terrace (facing Kingsway, Hove’s seafront road). Kingsway Coffee is a friendly new addition and there’s a little Italian deli (Franco’s Osteria), Cookbookbake (an excellent specialist cookbook shop) and a small health-food number, Kernel (the sort of place I applaud loudly, from afar). But the real draw is the racks of freshly baked goods lining the windows of pastel-clad Sugardough Bakery (the working-bakery sister of Brighton's more restauranty affair).

Named one of Britain’s best artisan bakeries by innumerable broadsheets and such types, but still reassuringly “of the people”, this place takes ingredient sourcing and handling seriously. None of which would make a jot of difference if the end result were not so darn delicious. There are pies and sausage rolls (of the good meat and flaky kind); tarts, large and small, sweet and savoury, and good croissants (and this from a card-carrying croissant fancier): choc, almond or naked as intended. You’ll also find things that edge towards patisserie but remain firmly in the good-old-British-bake camp – a crispy-tipped lemon meringue pie or treacle tart – all nicely 1950s Britain, except made with love and skill. It’s topped off with oodles of sourdough bready products and loaves for miles. They serve the local Small Batch Coffee, too. And that’s a v. good thing.

There are a couple of cheery tables outside but, as it’s only a stone’s throw from the beach, it’s far better to join the snaking take-away line to grab a breakfast pastry (egg, bacon, black pudding a-top exemplary flakiness) and head down the promenade to feast with the locals amongst the shingle. Even on the most inclement of days you’ll find some game soul (it could even be me!) trying to cram a maple-glazed thingamajig into their mouth despite the force-eight gale. The south coast breeds ‘em hardy: it’s all that pastry.

Brunswick Town is the bit of Hove abutting Brighton that everyone forgets actually is Hove (actually). Its Regency glamour hosts the only remotely acceptable stretch of Western Rd (even then one must travel incognito in head scarf and dark glasses, perfumed handkerchief at the ready). A Brunswick Town morning might call for breakfasting at one of the nicer local places: Brød+Wolf if you’re feeling a bit Ibsen or the Salvage Cafe for full B&H razzamatazz; if the clock has announced a semi-respectable hour, Market will offer restorative tapas and Manzanilla.

The real treat, however, comes from a browse and nibble at the twin delights of Curds & Whey and Cases Wine Bar. To the left as you enter lies the world of British cheese and salumi carefully curated by The Great British Charcuterie co. Sussex is now home to much artisanal making so there is a goodly supply of quality cheeses like Pevensey Blue or nutty Golden Cross. But these guys cast their net wider: Ticklemore, Tunworth, Irish Gubeen and delightful Cornish Kern amongst many others. There are meat lockers of salamis, hams and bresaoloas of unimpeachable breeding and deliciousness, delights such as Lomo from super-star Mangalitsa pigs (made by Beal's Farm). Everything is available to bag for later, or there’s a small grazing menu to enjoy with the vinous stimulation on the other side of the shop.

Here you’ll find “Cases”, a wine-case-stacked establishment run by North Laine’s L'Atelier du Vin. The impressive wine selection digs heavily into Burgundy for red, and especially white, supported by southern France, Spain, northern and central Italy. The larger Beaujolais Crus are represented and there’s a good sherry selection (from one of the oldest bodegas, Delgado Zuleta, to newer producers like Ferando da Castilla). Lots of wonderful Sussex PDO sparklers and other Brit wines, of course.

Windows are thrown wide in the summer for sipping and gawping, and there’s a speakeasy-style bar bellow for live music. Regular cheese clubs and pop-up restaurants complete the look. Another outpost can be found in Worthing, or so I hear. Online purchasing, delivery etc also a thing.

Tiny place (not plaice), barely room for all the accolades. One tasting menu. Noble Rot help out with the wine pairings. Yes!

Snuggly community pub just a stone​'s throw from the Urchin. Excellent small plates and artisan burger/kebab joy. ​Dog and people friendly.

Good cheese goodly served forth by friendly types from the unprepossessing light industry of Portslade docks.

Impossible choice: both Fatto a Mano and Pizzaface have great pizzas speaking subtly different Neapolitan dialects. 

MasterChef: The Professionals winner Steven Edwards presides over recently refurbed lux. Local and seasonal and really v. good.

Conduct you own unfettered testing and judge as you will. Pizzaface or Fatto a Mano? Or both?