Northern star, golden pheasant

This being my first review of a restaurant in Amsterdam Noord, and me being a southerner in British terms too, I wanted to headline this post: ‘It’s grim up North’. Only it wasn’t. Or rather, the weather was pretty grim, but it didn’t much matter whether you were north or south of the IJ. I was the kind of soaked you only want to be when you’re heading home to Bar Shower and Club Duvet. But I couldn’t really blame Amsterdam Noord, nor Hotel de Goudfazant, for that.

What I could fault the hotel for (which, incidentally, is neither a hotel, nor some kind of sanctuary for golden pheasants) was its lack of door staff. It’s an enormous factory-like space, whose entrance leaves you milling around by the coat racks as waiters whip past you in a cool breeze of plates and indifference. Having hung up my own drenched coat, gathered my dripping accessories into a pile on the bar and stood around for five minutes, I decided to venture down to the till to ask someone who I had to speak to in order to find my table reservation. By this point, I was in need of a drink, but it was at least another ten minutes before one of those was even an option.

Still, my favourite Spanish dining buddy arrived, and so too did a bottle of Rioja and the menu. Things were definitely improving. Although you can order each dish separately, the three-course menu was a bargainous €30.50, so we did what any self-respecting pair of foodies would do and went for the triple whammy.

To start, we ordered a terrine of goose, pistachios and cranberries, which was richly gamey and faintly sweet – offset well by the caramelised baby onions and syrupy swathe of sauce. The salad ‘périgourdine’ (whatever that means) came with confit duck giblets, puy lentils (which you really don’t see enough of in Amsterdam), crispy bacon, frissée lettuce, deep-fried croutons and a julienne of crisp green apple. A wintery salad with a fresh, spring kick.

Our mains comprised a whole roast poussin, which was moist and covered in umami goodness, with an apple and rhubarb compote (lovely, but chilled for some inexplicable reason), mayonnaise, pink potatoes and green beans. I’m considering re-creating it for a Sunday roast at some point (possibly without the mayo). We also tried the ‘onglet’, which we thought sounded like it had something to do with armpits, but which actually turned out to be a seared, grainy ‘hanger steak’ that had been well seasoned and well hung. Its plate neighbours were less to our taste: roasted chicory and red onion, the first of whose bitterness permeated the whole dish; and an individual portion of gratin dauphinoise that was lacking in moisture if not in flavour.

Between courses, we tried to figure out what the restaurant had been before its current incarnation. As well as the orange village-hall-style chairs and industrial girder-clad walls were several old (but not vintage) cars, which suggested the space may once have been used by a car manufacturer. The factory-esque interior had no ‘design’ to speak of, save for an enormous chandelier that appeared to be made from empty clear-glass bottles. Perhaps another clue as to the waterside building’s history?

Anyway, research has never been my strong point, so we crashed on with the desserts: pecan pie with ice cream flavoured with spicy marzipan sweetness and studded with prunes; and ‘Hemelse Modder’, which in this case seemed to resemble a giant chocolate-flavoured Isle Flottante with toasted almonds. Do-able, but not life changing.

Dinner complete, I collected my sodden belongings and wondered if I would return to Amsterdam Noord’s uncharted foodie territory. As I cycled back to the IJplein ferry, only to get soaked yet again once back on southern soil, I concluded that the north’s only drawback was its position in relation to my apartment in the Amsterdam-rain equation: increased distance + Dutch weather = increased probability of saturation.