A little fine-tuning is all that is needed for the new Smuggler’s to serve food, drink and happiness to yet another generation.A little fine-tuning is all that is needed for the new Smuggler’s to serve food, drink and happiness to yet another generation.

Ed eats

Smuggler’s
Main Street,
Balzan
Tel: 2701 6677

Food: 6/10
Service: 8/10
Ambience: 8/10
Value: 6/10
Overall: 7/10

I’ve been accused of turning almost any conversation with practically anyone into a chat about food. I’d like to say I can’t help it, as if it were a bad habit that bothered me.

If I’d been called a serial killer, I’d probably try to address it because I’m not entirely convinced I’d survive on prison food. There I go again. Food creeps in.

Luckily I’m not alone. I seem to bump into people who are very enthusiastic about the subject, and the passion they put into a conversation makes it clear they’re not too bothered. Others hate it. I’m learning when to stop.

A friend in particular has an incomprehensible reaction to food talk. Whenever we’re planning where to eat out, his reaction is inevitably: “I’ll join you guys wherever you go. I don’t bother tasting food – I eat as quickly as I can because feeding myself is something of a waste of time.”

You can picture my internal horror as I put on my best poker face and pretend I’m perfectly accustomed to this standpoint.

I do understand that not all should share the same passions or obsessions. I don’t follow football. To most, that is as horrifying as a disinterest in food is to me.

So I turn to the source of infinite wisdom and consult Facebook, certain that there’s a post out there with an annoyingly cute photo and the words ‘beauty in diversity’ written on top in a horrible script typeface.

There is beauty to diversity. Try to wrestle your mind into the sheer span of culinary diversity the planet has to offer and, if you like food, you’re likely to be overjoyed at the possibility and perhaps disappointed at the brevity of a single lifetime that is surely not enough to taste it all.

There is ugliness in diversity, too. I was sitting at table with three close friends at Smuggler’s pub in Balzan. We were all born within three years of each other.

VH1 classic was on TV. You know what that’s like – a one-minute montage of highlights from the past four decades is followed by a song that is either achingly cheesy or a trip down a hazy alley in my memory, and that, in turn, is followed by the exact same montage. Had there been teenagers at the pub, they’d have been reaching for their Beats.

The music is part of what used to be The Old Smugglers until recently. The pub has been there, a warm and welcoming source of beer and cheer, for as long as I can remember. I’m not certain how long the place has been a pub for, but I’d probably be safe in saying it was born before I was.

Lately there has been a change in the way the place is run and, as is often the case, this is thanks to a change in management. I’ve heard mixed opinions about the place and can’t really speak for a kitchen until I’ve sampled its wares.

Four of us needed to meet for a chat. Food was on the cards, as it always is if I’m involved. Pints of cold liquid were also mooted when we were planning the meet. Smugglers it will be, we decided.

Parking was easy, and that’s always a plus. The light outside the pub shone like a lighthouse through the thick canopy of foliage that separates the pub from the road, beckoning at us riders of the storm with the promise of warm food and cold beer. There wasn’t a storm, but you get the drift.

In we walked, and the pub is looking neat and tidy, possibly tidier than I remember it to be.

A young man and a young lady greeted us and, when we asked if they were serving dinner, indicated a massive blackboard behind the bar. The board spans the entire wall and plays host to the menu. This goes from snacks to pasta, with main courses in between, and is more extensive than one would expect of a pub menu.

People return for the burger, served with stilton and porcini mushrooms. The steak is something of a legend

The man who had indicated the menu let us take it in for a while and, with enthusiasm, suggested we try any of the pasta dishes, a steak or their burger. He knew the food well, he said, what with him being the chef and all that. People return for the burger, a large one served with stilton and porcini mushrooms, he claimed. The steak is also something of a legend, it turns out.

I liked the idea of the burger, so I ordered that and was joined by the undecided one. The carnivore ordered a rib-eye steak, served rare. The one who always chooses wrong picked a green chicken curry served with noodles.

We were offered potato wedges, chips or onion rings on the side, and two of us picked the chips.

We ordered pints of beer and cider and sat down to get our intended conversation going. We punctuated it regularly when a familiar song popped up on VH1 and we all remembered when and where we’d first heard it.

This went on for a while, filling me with hope that our food was being freshly prepared. I’m suspicious of food that’s served too quickly and we weren’t running this risk.

Just before someone cracked a joke about the beef being smuggled in from Argentina, our food made it out of the kitchen and covered every available square inch of the table. The side salad that accompanies the steak was served in a large bowl, as were both portions of chips.

The burger is huge, and naturally occupies a large plate. The tables, however, haven’t grown since Smuggler’s was The Old Smuggler. We juggled our possessions and the plates like an epic session of Candy Crush until we found a configuration that worked for us.

The burger is huge. The bun is probably 15 centimetres in diameter, and the patty recedes slightly so your first bite is more bun than meat. The patty is moist but over-minced and keenly seasoned so it tastes almost artificial. The porcini and stilton work though. I’d love to taste that concoction over a single-mince patty of half-shoulder/half-brisket. Then, I’d risk a dash across the border to smuggle one of these burgers back home.

The fries had excellent texture but tasted quite awful so I crunched my way through a couple and wished for better oil in the fry as I left the rest.

The steak was lovely. It had been really nicely seasoned, the cut was properly aged, and the cooking temperature spot on. I nicked a bite in the name of research and immediately realised I’d made the wrong choice. No amount of bribery would get the carnivore to swap though, and I can’t say I blame the tenacity.

The curry was another oddball dish. The chicken had been tenderised until it felt artificial, the sauce was thin and the noodles did nothing to hold the dish together. The flavour was there, and the heat was on the money.

If I had anything to do with the menu I probably wouldn’t offer this dish. It clashes with the rest and does no favours to the chef whose reputation is much better off resting on the strength of the formidable steak than the weakness of an item that no one will miss if it were absent.

We paid €20 each, the price likely bolstered by the €2.50 paid for every portion of chips. The price isn’t that of pub food but then the menu is more ambitious than that, and I’m sure there is skill and inventiveness in the kitchen. A little fine-tuning is all it needs for the new Smuggler’s to serve food, drink and happiness to yet another generation.

You can send e-mails about this column to ed.eatson@gmail.com or follow @edeats on Twitter.

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