I am rarely the first critic into a restaurant, but I am sometimes the last. And so it may prove with Joro, which, having opened in a shipping container unit on Shalesmoor in central Sheffield in 2016, is to move, finally, after years of delay, to a spanking new site at Oughtibridge Mill, on the edge of the Peak District, which promises to be more in keeping with its status as one of the best restaurants in South Yorkshire. And while much will unquestionably be gained — the views will be stupendous, the space full of light and air and the kitchen at last big enough to swing a ladle in — some things will also be lost.
Such as the bizarre accolade of being the only restaurant in Britain that you enter through the loos. And I didn’t do it by mistake either. Navigating from the station on my iPhone, as always, I came down the A61 onto Shalesmoor, turned right at the only possible place you could, through a gap in the steel, under a staircase, down a corridor, and only knew I was in roughly the right place because a sign on the door said, “Joro — Bathrooms”.
So I went in for a pee, obviously. A man of my age coming off a long train journey does not look that sort of gift horse in the mouth. And then I slid in through the side door past the wine fridges, where no one was surprised to see me or hastily ushered me round to the magnificent golden entrance lobby that the cooking here absolutely demands. They just checked me in, took my coat and walked me past the tiny kitchen (“Of course, there’s a massive prep area hidden away underground like at Noma?” I said. “No,” they said. “This is it”) into a neighbouring corridor (“room” is too grandiose a term) and sat me down at a soft, black, PVC-upholstered table (it was like eating off Suzi Quatro’s lap) with a wooden box on it, containing cutlery.
Everything is black or charcoal grey: walls, ceiling, tables, chairs and servers’ outfits. The vibe is faintly reminiscent of Gareth Ward’s revered Ynyshir in Ceredigion, complete with the in-your-face soundtrack, although that day it was less of the hip-hop that others have noted and more in an early 1980s vein: Talking Heads taking turns with late Bowie and a bit of Kim Carnes, Peter Gabriel, that sort of thing.
The tiny place was full, about 16 covers I guess, first of two lunch sittings, offering a five-course menu (plus sundries) for £45. Supper is two sittings as well, with tasting menus twice as long at £75 and £95. And I don’t want to hear a peep out of you against table-turning or tasting menus. If you want to run a viable business at these prices, in these conditions, you can’t have one long rolling party, with guests dropping in whenever they feel like it and everyone mulling over an infinite list of nomnoms. This is more like coming to someone’s house. So be polite, play by their rules. The cooking is worth it, believe me. Now, let’s have a bit of food, listen to And She Was and then Let’s Dance, and then we’ll talk about who was in.
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My server, Charlie (tall, eager, Harry Potter specs, Yorkshire posh, known by the others as “Charlesworth”), brought a croustade sitting on branded parchment on a wooden board that crunched sexily and was warm inside, Hafod cheddar on the melt, with chopped green alliums punching through, the crackle of wafer-thin pastry and some salt crystals. I had a very small, slightly hazy saison beer called Baladin Wayan with that and then thought, “No, I’m alone, I’ll be good,” and switched to the soft-drink pairing menu, which was revelatory.
It was Oliver, the drinks guy (he doesn’t like “sommelier”), who suggested and delivered these, and seemed to have made many of them. The first was a cold lapsang infused with porcini and koji (a yeasty rice mould), which gave it umami and a dense saltiness — not a natural thirst-quencher, but incredible with the first course, which was a chawanmushi (Japanese egg custard) with serrano ham, miso and the crunch of toasted round rice grains from Kyoto. The salty drink and the smooth custard (my Ynyshir meal began with a chawanmushi too) made for a ballsy back and forth, mouthful to mouthful.
There was also, I should have mentioned, a beautiful, little, glazed warm loaf of milk bread with a muscular roast garlic and miso butter. And then after the chawanmushi a Scottish sea trout aburi: tight little slivers of salmon, torched for a smoky flavour, in a green dashi high with wheatgrass notes, and a slick curve of kombu (which is seaweed-cured) caviar. This last ingredient I had changed up from the advertised salmon roe with a sly tenner to the right man (Charlesworth). Oliver served me a green juice to go with that, heady with the Granny Smith tang of squeezed sorrel.
There was some more from the Heads (Burning Down the House) and the Thin White Duke (Fame) and as I chair-bopped along, I looked about me at the diverse crowd digging into this very accessible progressive cooking: two leg-jigging local lads in superflash trainers; a gay couple in their thirties; a late middle-aged couple at the eating bar, him in a Hawaiian shirt, who looked like they had climbed outside a fair few tasting menus in their time; and, behind me, two local girls having the set menu and just still water, who were celebrating one of their 18th birthdays (Alicia’s, if you want to know), because their domestic tech teacher at school four years ago had said Joro was brilliant and they had promised they would go one day. Charming beyond words.
My next softy was a stunning, earthy little cupful (I love how the drinks are small; just because you’re going booze-free, it doesn’t mean you want a load of water slopping about in your belly), which Oliver had made by pressing ten kilos of celeriac, then reducing the juice to 200ml and blending it with whey from the yoghurt they make for their hotel. He said he wanted to mimic the saké he would otherwise serve with the course, which is a confit of Jerusalem artichoke with roast chicken sauce and icewine. And it works brilliantly. Something about the way the sweet, rooty juice prefigured the fartichoke fanfare to come made me giggle aloud. And then the dish was superb, the sweet cubes of choke almost fruity in the salty, foaming chicken and fish bone broth, with chewy caramel shards of roasted artichoke and tiny leaves offering up the smoky ghost of roast dinners past.
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A bit of Peter Gabriel next, with a rare roasted saddle of local hogget, juicy as hell, and a little grilled kofte popping with high kebab flavours, a prickly jam of Cambodian peppers and tapenade (Charlesworth knows everything, it’s amazing), a wild garlic raita and a dense potato cake spread with lamb fat. Just the right amount of meat for me (in my youth, I might have clamoured for the rest of the sheep) and crying out for a well-aged pinot noir. Or so you’d have thought, until you’d tried Oliver’s deep burgundy bramble juice infused with rooibos and roasting herbs (thyme, bay, rosemary)for their tannic effect, and served in a wine glass. Very, very smart. Very cool. It is very faintly medicinal, certainly no Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, but, gosh, it’s a fair shot with nothing but berries and leaves.
And then Bette Davis Eyes and pudding: a blood orange sorbet over an opalys (white chocolate) panna cotta, topped with cornflowers and little pink meringues, that was very pretty, in a Barbie kind of way, but almost paled beside the magnificent, warm, Thai (chai-style) tea, infused with Persian saffron, that Oliver served with it.
I left Sheffield stuffed and sober, delirious with the thrill of such good food for so little money and very excited about coming back to try the new place in the summer. Next week I’m in Oxford, the week after in Weymouth. I have no use for London at the moment.
Joro
0.2-0.5 Krynkl, 294 Shalesmoor, Sheffield (0114 299 1539; jororestaurant.co.uk)
Cooking 9
Service 9
Drinks 10
Score 9.33
Price 5-course lunch, £45/soft-drink flight, £28
