Pulling up in the Uber on Otley Road, I’m searching for the instantly recognisable squiggly typeface in aptly chosen sage (yes, I see what you did there) spelling out SWINE. Having swapped life stories during the twenty-minute cab ride, it is with restored faith in humanity and, not wanting to be an inconvenience, I say to the driver, “Babes, don’t worry, I’ll get out here”. My smile melts away… it’s not raining, but a grey cloud seems to gather the moment my feet hit the pavement.
Not knowing the road too well, the noise calls my ears to the infamous crowds of the ‘Otley Run’, please no, not here. How does one of the most touted new openings sit among this mayhem? But just as my anxious eyes are travelling along the decidedly un chic plastic shop fronts of the Arndale Centre, the old stone walls opposite whisper “Bonjour, hiya, over here…”. Turning around, with my back to the pint-handed crowd, the nimbostratus evaporates as quickly as it formed. I’m instantly both soothed and elated, spirits lifted by a softly glowing room enclosed by chocolate-box wooden window frames, neatly trimmed with white net curtains, à la mode Français. Ahhh, Bistro.
On a Saturday night at a certain age (forty this side of 2025), there are very few things exciting enough to abandon a MAFS catch up and a log fire for, very few indeed. But a bistro – the word a song to my senses – conjures warmth, hospitality, rich jus and vin rouge. That’s enough to propel me out of soft joggers and fluffy Birkenstocks, through a puff of perfume, and out the door.
Looking at a restaurant’s website beforehand is a fool’s game, and Swine’s proves the point. Why are we so averse to surprise; scrolling menus, digitally eating, seating ourselves in a metaverse dining room before we’ve even stepped inside IRL? I’m not quite sure how I expected this restaurant to be flooded with sunlight at 7 p.m. on an October evening, but the online version – minimal, clean, bright – had led me astray. When met instead with the glorious reality of this nocturnal version of Swine, I was overjoyed. I’m sure the lunchtime vibe has its own delights, but for a Saturday night out at a neighbourhood restaurant, this is my optimal; a picture perfect, candle-lit Shangri-La.
Stepping through the door, the outside world ceases to exist. My date’s lateness swims off into irrelevance. The welcoming warmth smells of beef and fire, and there’s a meditative hum in the air; the chant of low voices, the clinking of cutlery and glass, the tremolo of the open kitchen. I’m sipping it all in when Meg (love Meg) comes to greet me and seat me at the perfect corner window table I’d already hoped was ours.
Let me extol for a moment about tables: no restaurant should have a bad one. Sitting facing inwards, I mentally review every table in the room. Each in this exquisitely eccentric building has its own charms; a birthday party of six sits before the wood-panelled gallery wall; a family of four gathers around a convivial round table flanked by flowers atop an old brick fireplace; the tables for two are perfectly spaced for intense eye contact – with your partner rather than your neighbour.
Table water arrives unprompted, as it should; we all need to stay hydrated, and as I study the delightful little cocktail menu, the quiet voice of tomorrow-me whispers, “Remember to drink waterrr…” before louder, Saturday-evening-me orders a Trash-tini. This isn’t an essay on martinis, but long before the current cool-girl revival, I’ve been a (dirty and dry vodka) martini girl, forever, so I can confidently declare that in-house takes on martinis can go either way. But the Trash-tini – caramel-y burnt onion, celery, alcohol – is a smooth and silky slap in the face, an allegory for what’s to come: food that’s both classical and original, all at once.
My date arrives (hurrah!), and I order the next cocktail, a White Negroni, times two, along with plenty of ‘first-part-of-the-menu bits’, pre-starters designed specifically to have while talking the most. They say bread is where everything about a restaurant is revealed, and here my allegorical theory is proving true. The Olive oil bread with confit garlic and white miso butter is heaven: pillowy, tanned, glossy buns richer than brioche, popping with nigella and fortified with olive oil. Utterly perfect alone, I question the need for garlic and miso, but Swine knows better, the almost-whipped butter is velvety and salty against the sweet rips of warm bread.
The expert curation of everything on offer shows skill, thought, and impeccable sourcing. Truffled potato crisps with blue cheese dip, Gildas (anchovy, olive & guindilla chilli), and Lucques olives, all from the sometimes-forgotten, afore mentioned ‘first-bits’ are savoured slowly. While around us the restaurant fills, all that is best about a bistro glows and fizzes around us; everyone is happy, hazy and relaxed, and though the restaurant is fully booked, we never feel rushed.
Onwards to the next act: ordering a wonderfully bright and perfectly chilled natural red with three out of the five starters available on the neat, autumn-coded menu. Beetroot, pickled blackberry, fennel & cervelle de canut arrives first and is wafer-thin, jewel toned beetroot with a dollop of creamy cervelle de canut; a cooling, cottage-cheese at a brothel, in French it translates as ‘silk worker’s brains’, and is a speciality of Lyon whose name weirdly makes sense. Cod rillete, pickled cucumbers & toast is as fresh as a just caught fish on the open sea, delivered herby and salty, with rye adjacent toast and cucumber pickled with citrus peel – that punky little twist on a traditional dish that its becoming clear is Swine’s very special sauce.
A new paragraph is the least I can do for the totally sublime Beef dripping hash brown, whipped cod’s roe & caviar, we had one but we wanted three each of these; impossibly crispy trays of smoky-beef infused potato with an unctuous whipped lick of cod’s roe and delicately smooth bubbles of inky black caviar – correctly balanced and proportioned, it was one of the standout plates of the night, and the perpetrator of the heavenly boeuf aroma on entering the door.
Deciding piously, that we could and should only do two mains (and with this sacrifice, notching up another in a long list of reasons to return to Swine again) we opted for one lighter (cod, fennel, tomato and black olive) and one richer (beef shin, mash and bourguignon garnish) main dish. Double cod and double beef is the kind of resolute, non-sensical yet decadent ordering that happens after Trash-tinis. There were six on offer and yes, we could have tried pork chop with mustard sauce or chicken with house sausage but the Provençal elegance of the cod and accompanying ingredients seemed like the yin to the yang of the bistro classic-beef.
A steaming and pristine block of white flaked cod on braised fennel and tomatoes, warmed with olives felt indulgent and authentic. Bourguignon, a word almost onomatopoeic to the tongue, delivered meltingly soft and tender shin of beef, beautifully chopped mushroom and shallots in a mirror-shine sauce so deep in the flavour of beef and wine that it felt 4D. Sides were of shining brilliance rather than an afterthought, and here we found again a little unexpected uplift – crispy potatoes came with sage and chervil salt and grilled radicchio was daubed generously with orange, honey and balsamic – smart cheffing that soaks up and offsets other elements.
At a certain age, you have an instinct for when to leave a party; just after the very best part, before the good drinks run out and the hosts tire. Unfortunately for my Sunday mornings, I have not yet reached this age, and it is usually down to someone else to alert me that it is home-time. Saving me from ordering a second bottle of that beautiful, glimmering La Grange Du Nord Cercle and instead steering the ship towards a Basque cheesecake (here made as authentic as you can get, light, creamy, expertly browned edges; deliciously paired with spiced poached plums) and a glass of Sauternes was indeed the correct move to finish the night on a joyous note.
Yes, I may have wanted to stay, but alas, we’ll be back for the Winter Menu, that promises to ‘celebrate the best of the season- big roasts, pies, sausages, and puddings to die for’. Who doesn’t feel a tiny bit smug passing through a restaurant to a private dining room? The glass sealed space has a huge dining table for up to 12, where an exclusive Winter Feasting Menu ‘designed for relaxed, abundant dining, centrepiece roasts and platters shared between friends’ is perfect for festive extravagance. In this understated, intelligent and supremely satisfying bistro, I floated towards the door feeling bathed in what I had arrived for – warmth, hospitality, rich jus and vin rouge; but with a notably modern British, specifically Swine treatment. As the nights draw in, something exceptionnel is required to brave cold nights, but I highly recommend you transport yourself off the sofa, past the rowdy crowds in fancy dress and let Swine cocoon you in its warm, convivial and very tasty arms.
