Fantastic food and smashing service made a visit to a transformed grotto one to remember. This restaurant is on the up

THE Marsden Grotto at South Shields is a cavernous, cliff bottom pub accessed by a passenger lift. Of late, there have been too many ups and downs. More downs, in truth. The Grotto had become inescapably grotty, even the huge Marsden Rock - if not of ages, then there for an awfully long time - blown partly out of the water.

Closed for two years, the pub re-opened on Good Friday as Tavistock at the Grotto, bought by the people who turned 11 Tavistock Place into Sunderland's best regarded restaurant.

The grotto is said originally to have been inhabited by a late 18th Century gentleman named Jack the Blaster who, evicted from his lodgings for some twopence ha'penny trespass, took to the caves instead and began - as a Marsden miner might say - to howk them out.

If the master blaster had to manage without benefit of a lift, then he wasn't alone. Last Tuesday evening, it was yet again going nowhere.

The alternative route to the beach is down several falls of seriously scary steps. Set into the wall at the top, a text from the Book of Revelation urges worship of Him who made the seas and fountains of water, though for those of us headless - sackless? - on heights, a bit from Matthew 4:6 might be more appropriate.

"He shall give his angels charge concerning thee, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone."

The other problem, of course, was that what goes down must - two or three pints later - come back up.

On the first floor there's a swish seafood restaurant. Beneath it, next to an attractively lit and heated seashore terrace, is the refurbished, rough hewn, bare boarded bars area.

A sign advertised "beer nuts, kettle chips, cockles and mussels", another offered four pint pitchers - long a Grotto staple - for fair weather friends outside.

It is possible to suppose that the Tavistock hopes to make its reputation above and its money below. Every pitcher tells a story.

The lift's being shafted also meant that they'd not been able to deliver the wine. The Boss's preference was unavailable, the alternative - she thought - was "bog standard", and bog standard as in Domestos.

The gaffer, whilst understandably not in agreement, took it with good grace and proferred the requested mineral water in exchange.

The Bombardier bitter, £1.90, was fine.

The restaurant was fully booked. Downstairs food included open sandwiches like "Medley of chargrilled vegetables on a sun dried tomato puree covered with oozing Mozzarella in a cracked black pepper panini."

Whatever happened to the chip butty?

The Boss started with a Parma ham concoction (£3.95) with parmesan shavings and a balsamic reduction: very good, hugely generous. The French onion soup, however, might have been sourced from the sea which lapped gently in the gloaming, so greatly was its predominant taste of salt.

Nor, though this is one to file under anglophile, will Frenchified "gruyere croutons" ever replace the crunchy best of British variety.

Main courses included steak and ale pie (£7.50), salmon fillet with new potatoes and a minted creme fraiche salad (£6.75) and braised beef in red wine served with bubble and squeak (£5.50).

The seafood platter (£8.50) was a colossal catch - generous, varied, thoroughly enjoyed but too much to finish.

The column had the cod in "beer batter", a popular embellishment these days though it is impossible to remember any beer batter which had had more than the briefest dalliance with a barmaid's apron before being despatched for over-presumption.

In culinary terms, over-presumption is not the same as getting fresh. The fish was a fair fist, seven out of ten, the thumb-thick chips excellent.

Though Otis Redding essayed an appropriate cameo with Sitting on the Dock of the Bay, the music was mainly jazzy - not even Rock with the Caveman; Tommy Steele, was it not? - and invariably too loud. We couldn't even hear what people on the adjoining tables were gossiping about. Regular readers will appreciate the frustration.

It was decided to have one pudding, the warm chocolate and pear tart with Chantilly cream, and two spoons. It and the coffee were offered free in further atonement for the wine which (in The Boss's opinion) might have killed 99 per cent of all household germs.

It was a handsome gesture and could develop into a very attractive place. The staff are at worst willing and at best smashing, the prices reasonable, the food - unlike the lift - upwardly mobile.

Anywhere may have teething troubles. There will be elevation yet.

AFTER a long hibernation, the Breakfast Club has again stirred itself and, coincidentally, to a place called Rocky's Caf - on the way to the station in Victoria Road, Darlington.

The conversation, as might be expected, concerned the race to become Archbishop of Canterbury, the field so widely spread that we felt obliged to open a book.

The Reverend Gentleman, who has a good track record in matters of prophesy, took the 7-1 over-generously offered on the present Bishop of Liverpool - whom Tony Blair is said also to fancy - though the column's own money remains on the Bishop of London despite his abject refusal to ordain women priests.

The Archbishop in Wales, who looks a bit like an absent minded professor, remains 7-4 favourite in the Archi-episcopal Hurdle.

The Reverend Gentleman himself, though promising in purple, is thought not to be a serious contender.

Rocky's (as we were saying) offers either all-day breakfast at £2.25 or "Rooster breakfast" for £3.50 including coffee - two of everything, it was said, though not of beans (at least 200) or hash browns (one).

It was tempting to have a Taylor's pie on top, since the caf makes quite a feature of them, but it might have seemed a little gluttonous.

The bacon was considered very good, the black pudding porcine, the hash browns coming up nicely. The toast let the side down.

We agreed, as you do, that it mustn't be as long next time, but if Liverpool's bishop is translated to Canterbury, we're staying in bed for a month.

TWO notes, same pub, different point. An e-mail from Chris Downie records that The Ship in Middlestone Village near Bishop Auckland is again Wear Valley CAMRA's Pub of the Year - now with six hand pumps to help meet demand - whilst an anonymous but valid missive rebukes us for failing to make clear that The Ship sails on a somewhat unpredictable tide. The writer had had a wasted lunchtime journey.

Graham and Liz Snaith's joyous little pub opens from 5pm Monday to Thursday and from noon on the other three days. Henceforth we shall try to be more regular on irregular hours.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you get if you cross a jellyfish with a sheepdog.

Colliewobbles, of course.

Published: 09/04/2002