Please note that since writing this blog post, Graves has closed down
As I locked up my bike round the back of the Nieuwe Kerk, down one of the alleyways tucked between the gaudy tourist shops of the Nieuwendijk and the youth hostels of the Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal, I wondered more or less the same as my dining companion asked me when I met her: “where the hell are we going?” But she trusted me and I, in turn, trusted another foodie friend, and somehow we found ourselves the solitary customers in the cool boudoir interior of wine bar-cum-restaurant Graves.
The fact that we were the only people there was a) surprising, given that it was a Friday night in the centre of town, and b) unfortunate, given that we smashed a wine glass and knocked over a glass of water within five minutes of walking through the door. Conspicuous, when there are no other customers to detract attention from our clumsiness.
Luckily, things got better rather quickly. We were given a glass of cold cucumber soup with crayfish, and some bread and butter to keep us busy while we looked at the menu. Incapable of making a decision, we opted for the four-course chef’s menu and a bottle of wine recommended by the sommelier.
First up were two perfectly cooked scallops with samphire, sea aster and a splash of frothy, coastal foam. The only rather strange texture was a quenelle of porridgey quinoa that I wasn’t quite convinced by. But altogether an excellent little taste of the seaside.
Next was fennel soup with smoked salmon (shaped into a small boat floating in the pale green soupy sea) topped with another quenelle – this time of a mousse-textured cream studded with caviar. Equally delicate and delicious.
Our main was veal, simply cooked with asparagus, celeriac gratin and a faintly beefy jus. It was perfectly pleasant but not life changing.
Dessert was a chorus of apples, with a stodgy apple pudding on the bottom (it was translated as bread & butter pudding, but the Frisian version was not exactly the same as its English cousin), an apple and cranberry purée that had the misfortune of looking like vomit, a ball of vanilla ice cream and a crispy langue de chat biscuit on top. It tasted nicer than it sounds.
Dinner wasn’t cheap at €75 a head including the tip and a bottle of French white that I failed to ask the price of before agreeing to drink. But it wasn’t a bill I minded paying, which was fortunate given that it was a birthday treat for my friend.
After the meal, we left the sanctuary of fine wines and French menus and headed back into the vegetal smog of coffee shops and beer-soaked brown cafes, with the feeling that the whole experience had been some kind of a mirage. But no – Graves is as real as it is incongruous, and it deserves more custom of a Friday night than it currently appears to be getting…
