Artis, Derry: a ‘wee marvel’

I’m often astounded by the biographical recall of other food writers. Reading any recipe online suggests they’ve all been buffeted from early childhood by domestic scenes involving the cold clack of pomegranate seeds or the nostril-stinging scent of turmeric. These recollections usually involve stern but benevolent elderly relatives proffering a clandestine bite to our author with a kindly wink, setting them on a food-loving path that’s led them to the 6,500-word blog post you’re reading just now, the one that ends with a 161-word recipe for eggs on toast.

I must admit my own early memories of home-cooked meals are a little harder to summon. This might be because they’re all so brief. I had 10 siblings, so we ate quick. Eager to reap the rewards of seconds, we’d start fast and speed up, with one eye and a sharp implement trained on whoever was behind us. The only thing that slowed us down was our inveterate yapping, which my dad may have briefly considered a stopgap against choking hazards, but quickly found even more trying, given he was now no longer having his dinner with 11 ravenous jackals, but 11 ravenous jackals who were spraying food everywhere. Soon, it was agreed we wouldn’t talk with our mouths full. Such was the alacrity of our eating, this was initially tantamount to mandating that we eat in stony silence, but eventually it bred within us a capacity for chewing.

Eating out, on the other hand, was so rare that those memories remain: the beautiful stiffness of gravy rings from Doherty’s bakery on Foyle Street; the sizzle of Friday-night onions from the chip vans in the Brandywell; the dazzling suite of potato options from Fitzroy’s opposite Foyleside. It was with thoughts of all these delights that I made a trip back to Derry last month to visit my sister, Caoimhe, and take her to Artis, a restaurant helmed by Phelim O’Hagan, a Great British Menu alumnus and former head chef of the city’s flagship fine dining venue, Browns.

I’ve never eaten in Browns so, as I sat down to eat with my sister, my only concern was whether Artis would abide by Derry’s most insurmountable culinary commandment, namely that all portions must be large enough to stop a horse. For Caoimhe, who still lives in Derry, this would represent good value for money and just plain common sense, whereas I, a soft London ponce these many years, was worried an unwise calorific load might render me unconscious by dessert.

As the starters came out, it was clear that Artis strikes for a noble middle path. Not huge servings by any means, but a decent 30% larger than any comparable tasting menu I’ve had. The oysters with chilli jam came with a ramekin of barbecued cabbage with roast chicken and smoked bacon. The oysters were godly: soft, thick and accented with a barbed jalapeño tang. The cabbage, presented as a mini caesar salad, with a creamy foam and herb crumble on top, was a defiantly delicate series of crisp, forest-fresh mouthfuls. Next came a sizeable scallop served on a plump bed of puy lentils. The zinging fish, if slightly overcooked, contrasted wonderfully, nonetheless, with the earthy legumes, lifted further by a drizzle of Thai green curry and some prawn crackers I could have eaten by the shovelful.

Around this point it became clear that the trade-off for the slightly-larger-than-usual portion sizes was a slightly-longer-than-usual wait between courses, which might not suit diners in a rush, but was perfect for us since it offered a stately pace to digest our food and ample space to spend these longueurs yapping. We congratulated ourselves on neither eating like ravenous dogs, nor speaking with our mouths full.

We reminisced about family mealtimes, argued over whether we do all still eat too fast – she claims to be reformed, but says I am not – and generally assassinated the character of every person we’ve ever met. We rejoiced in the informality that reined even in such a vaulted culinary space, and the fact that our waitress’s immaculate service and perfect recall was nevertheless peppered with that signature of Derry speech which sees every second noun adorned with the adjective “wee”.

Inevitably, we remarked on the oddness of our environs. Artis’s beautifully dressed dining room is, after all, located in the Craft Village, a delightful oddity in Derry’s city centre, filled with nesting architectural anachronisms. Built in 1992 – before researching it for this piece, I would have said it was eternal – it boasts a thatched cottage, overhead walkways and a dozen charming little shops selling artisanal wares. That we were having a decadent, eight-course tasting menu in view of shops where once we bought turf crosses, bodhráns and Irish dancing dresses added a pleasing tinge of surreality to our repose.

Soon, however, we were back at the coalface for a sensational middle dish, featuring hen of the woods mushrooms, buttered leeks and egg yolk – sorry, a “wee egg yolk” – which, our lovely server informed us, had been cooked at exactly 62C. The entire thing was an engineering marvel, dark and delicious, with smoky notes carried through dots of bacon foam, jerusalem artichokes and air-dried foliage.

After a very good cod, a very, very good pork dish, and a top-up of our wines – we shared a 2023 E’s Vino Malbec – came my favourite of the evening: a venison main served in four parts, with one dense puck of shoulder sitting alongside radiating plectrums of celeriac purée, pickled red cabbage and venison brisket. The venison was rich and tender, ably assisted by the vinegar tang of fermented cabbage. It was a hearty, if mildly heart-stopping, wonder with just our desserts to go.

These were a lemon and muesli tart with olive oil ice-cream, and a hazelnut entremet, formed of set custard, and hazelnut crumb, mousse and ganache. The lemon tart, though perfectly adequate, could hold no candle to the entremet, its nutty textures offset by a zesty blob of sea buckthorn sorbet. It was a dessert which deserved, like all of Artis’s food, to be savoured. It was an evening of wee marvels, and the best compliment I can offer is that we ate it all with great relish and, more often than usual, in dignified silence.