Osip

Last week I had two intense brushes with nature.

Two moments when the raw of what surrounds us came out of hiding. 

The first, about half 12 on Wednesday, stood in sheeting rain on a friend’s farm, tall bank to one side and recently ploughed earth beyond where the eye could see, true Wiltshire, Wyoming. I looked left and watched the rain clouds bubble and fight with blue sky, and as if nothing, the rain swept up and for moments fierce shafts of sun fell across my face, before the rain returned and washed it away. 

The other, about quarter to two Friday afternoon, when a carrot financier, took me back to being a child.

An intense puree topped bite filled with the same emotion as the simple baking I used to help my mother with, stealing bits from the bowl and then eating out of the oven before cooling.

I’m greatly aware that my Celtic blood can lend itself to emotional behaviour, but, through extended periods away from the hills, I’ve learned to control and to recognise when something is genuinely moving. 

So, how can a pastry move? Well in the hands of someone who not only knows what they are doing, but also loves their art. 

Osip, where I had an afternoon of revelatory eating, is the South West’s new neighbourhood restaurant. A place which is built and run like a hidden gem. Those gems you don’t want to talk about in fear of losing their sheen, or in this case, the ability to get a table.

Because, in two months’ time, good luck.

In a small, perfectly formed dining room, you can look left past the white table cloths topped with gourds, beyond the beautiful unglazed tiles and through a smallish hatch you can see into what appears to be an even smaller kitchen, where Merlin Labron-Johnson can be seen creating before bringing his food and his story to the table.

This is food lacking in pomp. Yes, all the Michelin expected presentations and platings are there, and yes Michelin is where Osip is headed, but it’s not fancy. You don’t sit there wanting for more. Instead a pleasant warmth from the buzz of the room and the beauty of the food, plus half decent wine list, leaves you feeling sated.

It’s comfortable, in the way that great places are. I wanted to spend time there, not just get in, eat and tick off a list. 

Which is a joy, because in a town riding a cultural wave, it could have easily walked the simple path to ego driven glory. A glory that would have briefly burned bright, and then out. 

Instead, it is a place which mixes the high, the fine and the real. A restaurant which offers an experience which comforts and enriches the soul. 

The menu is deceptively simple, and focuses on the great produce of the South West. Although this isn’t screamed out loud. Local produce is of the moment and often worthy in the hair shirted extreme. Here, it feels less like a mission statement, nor a short lived fashionable call to arms, more a celebration of terroir and wonderful cooking of what is around you. 

No need to speak of humble carrots or lowly cabbage, these are items of the soil and tree which are beautiful and when properly and lovingly cooked they sing. 

Crown Prince pumpkin soup slightly sweet with brown butter and fire roasted chestnuts is a delight. Country cooking taken, twisted and then placed back. 

Jerusalem Artichoke with roast chicken juices and diver scallop, a masterclass in texture, taste and emotion. From crunchy top to liquid bottom it hits you in the heart, you expect the foam to be just that, a pleasing interlude, but hidden are silky cuts of scallop, chewy artichoke and juices which would make Simon Hopkinson question his method.

Spelt with thinly sliced mushrooms, topped with Westcombe’s tangy cheddar sounds simple, and in a way it was. Confidently so, but the simplicity of the ingredients hides the complexity of the taste and texture. 

The ‘protein’ course, a roasted bird, delicious with crisp skin, but less about the protein, more about the brassicas. The bird paying homage surrounded by deep baked apple and a sourdough sauce. 

All finished with a traditional pud, a crowd pleasing throwback to childhood. 

Osip wasn’t quite what I was expecting. I’ve eaten Merlin’s food before and knew his cooking to be skilled and clever. But I wasn’t quite sure how it would fit in this setting. Despite Bruton’s international reputation, it is a small rural town in Somerset. It can be all too easy to simply take London and plonk it down, but that doesn’t work, the locals are too savvy and well fed by Roth bar & grill plus many others locally. 

But Bruton does lack that occasion restaurant, actually the area does generally., that once in a blue moon superstar. Somewhere which goes beyond the great food and setting, offering a slightly more considered experience. Osip was fancied by many to be that, and it is, but it’s also more. It sits between the two. You can have a glass of something nice, eat plentifully and well, whilst not feeling too light of pocket but also as if you’ve been somewhere special. 

To me it’s obvious that Merlin Labron-Johnson is in love with this restaurant and has fallen hard for the area. In time I suspect Bruton will have fallen hard for him too. Because Osip is an emotional experience. Where people on surrounding tables converse with you but also stay silent when eating certain dishes, wrapped up on their own world, past memories being dug up and presented afresh. 

Which is why I’ve booked for this weekend to take my sister & partner, boyfriend? I don’t know what the term is anymore. I booked in part because it’s an occasion restaurant and them visiting is an occasion. I also booked because I know we’ll have a good time, that the food is wholesome and tasty as well foamy and (kinda) fancy.

And in two months’ time, good luck getting a table.