Rum old time: the refitted room is a bold overhaul of the old space
(Picture: Adrian Lourie)The vexing hallmarks of ageing have started to appear alarmingly early. On Saturday, it transpired the old man in our group — is he 36? Is he 70? — can no longer get up without producing an involuntary sound, the kind of creak that doors make in the breeze. I’d had a moment of horror myself only days earlier when, aged 31¾, I wandered into Brixton’s Wood & Water and wondered when they’d turn that bloody racket down. When we had monthly lunches, my late aunt used to take particular pleasure in grumbling about too-loud music, which was impressive in its way as she was also pretty deaf. But Aunt was 95; I hadn’t expected to succumb to decrepitude quite so quickly.
Still, not everywhere — indeed, anywhere — needs to be built for lip-quivering chats about what difficult childhoods we all had. Gossip suits every volume. And the upshot of all that thudding bass was that the surrounding crowds in this long, narrow dining room were in improbably raucous moods for a Wednesday night, which is infectious. I’ll cart myself off the old folks’ home when a riotous feeling in the air no longer stirs a mischievous mood.
Opened at the tail end of last year, Brixton’s good-time Wood & Water is a reimagining of Three Little Birds, the Jamaican cafe-by-day, rum kitchen-by-night. It is a substantial sort of change, which seems befitting of owner April Jackson, given her unconventional career has zigzagged to include a stint as Miss Jamaica Universe and a few episodes on The Apprentice. Where TLB did bright lights, bare brick and sunshine yellow seats, Wood & Water has its lamps on low, a wall-papered jungle on the walls, and green velvet everything. Gone is the chalkboard coffee list and jerk burgers for about a tenner, replaced with a menu Jackson’s early announcement dubbed “British food with Jamaican soul”. Three Little Birds charmed; Wood & Water seduces.
Jackson’s pitch is about right. A glance at the menu and it is British all over: seared duck, salted cod, braised beef rib, not much that shines either green, black or gold. There’s even a Yorkshire pudding on offer. I might be wrong but something tells me Aunt Bessie is not a Jamaican national hero.
Instead, the West Indian input is more adroit. It’s there on the edges and in the spicing, in the bits that make a dish distinct: the scotch bonnet and ginger turning a sun lamp on pale king prawns; the three crisp goat-meat croquettes leaning on a mound of plantain ketchup; in jerk spices rattling both the roasted cauliflower and salted cod. A plate of duck breast, the flesh pink under crisp copper skin, was the sort of thing you might find anywhere, though a gloopy rum and jerk sauce dominated by the heft of hazelnuts gave it a sense of distinction. Plantain stacks as a side were comfort-food mushy. That poussin came soaked to the bone with lemon, a brightening, merry taste, the meat soft. With it was a decent pumpkin velouté — the puddlish looks doing a disservice to the taste — and sheepishly beside that, guilty-looking Yorkshires. Huddled as a trio, I half-expected to hear them muttering to each other. They would have been saying: “How the hell did we end up here?” Some have faces only a mother could love; this is a question only their chef could answer.
There’s even a Yorkshire pudding on offer. I might be wrong but something tells me Aunt Bessie is not a Jamaican national hero
Jamaica does make wine — I learned this just now, as perhaps you are — but wisely the list is world-looking. We were proudly sold the list’s cheapest, a red Moldovan, on the grounds our cheerful waiter had grown up close by. The cocktail list is more obviously Caribbean, with rum in befuddling measures doing the heavy lifting. These drinks helped secure the identity of a place that otherwise felt — well, if not rootless, then perhaps uncertain of its aspirations. Is part of its heritage being held back? And, if so, why?
This restraint, fortunately, was not characteristic of the good-looking, smart diners this place was drawing. There is refinement and elegance in this neighbourhood spot but there in the dark was fun too and pretty soon, even we were even tapping along to the bloody racket. It was a decent meal. It was a lively night. There’s life in the old dog yet.
