Sam’s Master Grill, 215 Cheltenham Rd, St Andrew's, Bristol BS6 5QP

Keep your friends close, but your Craig's closer

He’ll deny it, but Craig has been one of my best friends for nearly twenty years. Since the days of blowbacks when our dear friend Billy swallowed the cherry, to doggy spliffs being part of a fetid ‘zero-waste’ approach to ten bags and ‘pound-a-pint’ nights at The Riser, we’ve been through much together. A near-preposterous blend ofEastEnders’ Keith Miller, Christopher Hitchens and archetypal ‘Meader, Craig is easily one of the most fascinating people I know.

As another friend brilliantly puts it, “you can roll him into a room at a house party like a hand grenade, close the door and come back in five minutes to find him at the epicentre of total destruction or fascination. It is never both.” A man as thoughtful and morally righteous as he is crepuscular and self-effacing, you always know where you and he stand, mostly because he’ll make sure to tell you.

But Craig is also a bastard — my nemesis, even — and it’s well-documented. A Tiger Knee here, a knocking me out on my birthday there, framing me for breaking his toilet seat; he’s a Brillo pad for the soul responsible for a strain of suffering in my life that is utterly unique to the conditions of our friendship.

The latest weapon in Craig’s arsenal designed to ruin my life has been to send me footage of him relieving lamb necks of their supple, slow-cooked flesh whilst screeching my name to the pitch of a Tie Fighter before collapsing into giggling mockery. All this to remind me that, once more, I’ve missed my chance to eat at Sam’s Master Grill knowing full well that my attempts to eat here have never come to fruition for varying reasons.

The Objective

Well, praise be — because Craig’s reign of terror ended two weeks ago. On a torrential Sunday, I made it along with The Old Man, who resembles a mix of me and Nosferatu who unaccountably survives the sun. He’s become increasingly interested in Middle Eastern food because it scratches a permanent itch that isn’t brought about by his various medications for once, but rather his stoically working-class need to have food in quantity and ideally, quality.

The front looks like a kebab shop; the ovens and — you guessed it — grill right next to a massive aperture, helping to supplement the crucial ventilation. But toward the back, you realise how deceptively cavernous it is, with long tables flanked with pew-like seating. With a skylight bang in the centre of the ceiling, the intense rain taps the glass, taking on the white noise of sizzling fat. It evokes that toe-wiggling cosiness of being in bed just listening to the rain, with nothing to do but eat.

For scale

Kashk o bademjan

An A2-sized sail of naan bread arrives soon after taking our seat, pinned into place by a little clay dish bubbling with kashk o bademjan; aubergine and caramelised onions piquant with dried yoghurt & toothsome with walnut. The naan reminds me of the Sardinian music paper bread or ‘pane carasau’ around its edges bobbled and flecked with grain, but becoming ever more flexible toward the centre.

The menu is packed with lip-biters such as rhubarb lamb with dried lime, Persian porridge and chicken with sour grapes. But all I want is this damned neck because, likeTerminator, I came here to kill a curiosity born in the past to secure a better future — I must aquire and eliminate that neck. But for now, the man himself, Sam, comes to speak to us — with a handshake that silently says ‘I could, with respect, kill anything if I wanted to’ he quietly, almost meditatively tells us how they go about the kofte. Using only lamb, onion & salt, they grate and strain the onion using the juice for the stock in which they cook the lamb kneck, before adding the onion back into the mix. The result is a pronounced onion flavour permeating the kofte that’s otherwise undetectable.

Kebab ft. Bonus Wing

Juice World

We order it with the chicken mixed grill and it comes with that hand-rifling that allows the meat to catch the flame in ways resulting in a gradient of char. Conversely, the chicken is branded only lightly but practically glows with saffron, transfused from its yoghurt marinade and cooked superbly; its near-absurd succulence being evidence of a good rest. The Old Man suspects it’s pre-cooked chicken, with each piece looking a little toos ymmetrical.

The lamb neck is, as if you couldn’t tell, a hulking piece served with a whole bulb of garlic pulled from the stock, utterly caramelised; ready to haemorrhage and smoosh into this mound of fluffy rice, strewn with sweetly sour pops of barberries. A pack of butter lays on the rice to melt inside, requiring only a nudge and gravity to begin drizzling. Owing to a slight spiralling hangover and The Old Man with the appetite of someone on hunger strike, we have to leave half for him to gnaw at for probably the rest of the month.

I cannot leave a soft serve behind

The soft serve comes fervently recommended, too. Much like the chicken, it beams with saffron and is tumbled with sliced pistachio. Swirled onto a minute dice of pale green ‘mojito’ jelly that vaguely tastes of lime, it’s a bemusing addition that’s fun in its sheer silliness.

I am set on returning to dominate the menu with a gaggle of pals, following that sudden unanimous decision to finish our current pints because we’re about to be late for our table. Sam’s Master Grill offers just what you want from a feasting experience; tables big enough to order every dish with naans of such size that they practically demand that you enjoy yourself, to be torn at with abandon and used to scoop everything within range. Ideally, I won’t be in range of any Tiger Knees, but Craig does have a gift for surprise attacks, after all.