‘Solina Pasta shows how far Bath’s dining scene has come since my misspent youth’

Photographs by Adrian Sherratt

To be clear: this sort of aesthetic drama isn’t unusual in this part of the world. In the peak “skint doofus” phase of my early 20s, I lived in Bath for a fun and ultimately pretty transformative year or so (it was while living there that I met the woman who would eventually become the wife of that skint doofus). Picture someone in spray-on women’s jeans and a distressed All Saints T-shirt, staggering home from an indie disco past some looming, listed premises and you get the gist of my time there. And what I recall about this genteel city, through a muffling haze of snakebite-dependency and youthful self-centredness, is a physically blessed, babymoon-and-Austen-tour sort of a place, where the Georgian architecture was just as likely to house a puke-spattered outpost of Vodka Revolution or branch of Wagamama as a storied arts theatre or world-famous Roman spa.

So, yes. I remember spaces like the prime city centre one that Solina has traded out of for the past 11 months. But what I do not remember is the businesses that occupied them ever being, well, quite so good. Solina, you see, is confident, considered and cool; a value-forward pasta bar touched by moments of deliciousness and an understated glamour that’s rarer than it should be. It is not perfect: its brisk, minimalist efficiencies (tables are turned rapidly and starters are often ingredient-led assembly jobs) might irk diners after something more slow-paced and expansive. Yet here is a business wearing its immaculate period garb with an effortless modern edge.

There were some early concerns. Initial highlights came courtesy of the general crackle of the room – a clamorous Sunday evening of furtive dates, friends nibbling nocellara olives, and harangued school-holiday parents, emptying activity pack distractions on to the wooden tables – and the tranquillising, icy hit of a nicely mixed £8 negroni. Less impressive? Focaccia that had the spongy density of an old loofah and the chew of a knackered dog toy. That it came beside a couple of engaging dips, a silky aubergine hummus and a smoky, almond-sprinkled romesco, only made it more confusing.

Around the time that my old Bristol-based friend Laura swept in (with an Aperol thirst and six months’ worth of life updates), we properly ordered and things sharply improved. Truffled wild mushroom arancini were irresistible: hot, parmesan-heaped orbs of oozing cheese and starch, set within puddles of pesto mayo, and with a note of (presumably jarred) truffle rather than the anticipated overbearing bagpipe-blast. Succulent, sharply crisped pork croquettes, accessorised with a refreshing spill of parsley mayo and loops of pickled fennel, remixed the same hymn to the glories of deep-fat frying. Even something as simple as a green salad was marked by a sparky anchovy dressing and golden pangrattato crumb.

Solina is walk-in only and consciously evokes the likes of Padella in London and Onda in Manchester: smartly appointed canteens predicated on speed, seasonality, arcane fresh pasta shapes and a carb-heavy approach that generally doesn’t bother with traditional secondi or sides. Another way to put it: these are restaurants that have basically normalised the objectively weird act of messily sharing multiple plates of pasta.

Soon, our little table was swamped. Pert cups of orecchiette, filled with fresh datterini tomato liquor and alternately splodged with both basil pesto and stracciatella. Fat tubes of rigatoni and gnarly, hard-fried scrags of fennel sausage, slicked in a shiny ’nduja ragù. A mass of shellfish bisque spaghetti with the sweet, heavily sauced moreishness of Heinz for grown-ups. To pass these plates back and forth, occasionally jabbing and twizzling our forks, was clumsy, satisfying work. Not even a touch of ingredient repetitiveness could dampen the mood in a whirling, ever-busy room, marshalled by young, blue T-shirted staff.

And then came the tiramisu: a huge, cocoa powder-dusted wodge of a thing, presented laterally so we could better appreciate its striped layers of sodden sponge and creamy mascarpone. It was light and consoling.

“I think that might be one of the best tiramisus I’ve ever had,” said Laura, as we drained our cocktails and paid up. Outside, shoals of tourists were flowing past the raised walkways beside the Avon, the sky was pale grey and thickly clouded, and circling seagulls were cawing overhead.

The Bath of my youth always had a few decent restaurants beyond the insalubrious spots I could afford (I remember a pub that dolloped coleslaw in the middle of its frozen pizzas). But the recent emergence of places like Beckford Canteen, Upstairs at Landrace and Noya’s Kitchen marks a transition from complacent old warhorses to something more accomplished and interesting. Solina is the deft embodiment of this shift; a serious endeavour built for both comfort and speed. The past remains a (once) seductive foreign country. I can’t say I’m in a massive hurry to make a return trip.

Solina Pasta, The Empire, Grand Parade, Bath BA2 4DF (solinapasta.com). Starters from £3, mains from £8, desserts from £3, wine from £30