Miller and Carter Steakhouse

Must of been here at least 20 times and it gets better each time I visit. The steaks are out of this world cooked to perfection and the sides are amazing especially the Mac and Cheese. Highly recommended visiting this location in particular.

The importance of first impressions is overrated and the abiding memory is usually of the last act. That is true in politics (no one remembers any redeeming features in Blair or Brown), in theatre, in literature (with the possible exception of a Tale of Two Cities) and it is certainly true in dinner.
That being the case, I start with dessert.
A Baked Alaska was once regarded as a miracle of gastronomy: cold ice-​cream encased in meringue, flash-​baked in a blazing oven. The dish ought to be a perfect clash of textures, with the warm crispness of the meringue set against the icy softness of the ice-​cream. In many ways the dish (so named in 1876) is the ancestor of the spherification, suspension and distillation utilised so spectacularly by the incumbent ranks of alchemists occupying head chef positions throughout the land.
Sadly, at Miller & Carter, Aughton, on father’s day, despite ordering a Baked Alaska, what was received was merely an «Alaska». That is, an unbaked Baked Alaska. One which had been removed from the freezer, taken nowhere near an oven and then served after a blow-​torch had been casually and briefly waved in front of it. I am confident in that appraisal because, first, our table also took delivery of a crème brulee which had certainly been subject to the blow-​torch and, secondly because I put my theory directly to my waitress who offered no denial.
The unbaked Baked Alaska is not a miracle of gastronomy, let me assure you. The meringue mixture was goo, suspended in place temporarily because its molecules were huddling together in the cold. The erratic blow-​torch scorching assisted in no respect. The ice-​cream middle was cold, indeed so as to be impenetrable with a mere spoon.
It was a terrible way to end a meal. It was an insult to the history of the dish, to the restaurant and to the individual who permitted it to be served. Other than by making a conscious effort, it is a struggle to remember what had come before: last impressions.
However, up until that point the meal had been enjoyable. A starter of duck rillette came individually potted and sealed with a plug of yellow fat. It was perfectly seasoned, served with sweet red-​onion chutney and just sufficient toast, which is the perfect amount.
Then onto the main. Being a steakhouse, whilst there is variety on the menu, ordering something else is bit like spitting in the face of the concept. The steak also provides comedy value, with the presentation of a needlessly over-​sized knife which, happily, is not indicative of the meat being as tough as old boots and needing a cutlass to get through.
The ribeye was recommended as best cooked medium and, as requested, did indeed come medium. That is practically a triumph by typical standards. The peppercorn sauce — served on the side — didn’t so much kick as prod discreetly, but was a good accompaniment, although the parsley butter melted directly onto the steak seemed a little like over-​kill. Rings of fried red-​onions melted sweetly.
All was well and dessert menus were presented with a flourish and accepted with relish. A Baked Alaska presented the opportunity to cap off a nice lunch with something memorable… and therein lies the problem…