The Travel Critic

Let’s get this out of the way straight off: Aqua in Bristol is excellent. Not “pretty good for a chain,” not “fine if you’re in the neighbourhood,” but properly, resoundingly excellent. The food, the service, the whole set up. Top notch. And yet, bafflingly, no one in Bristol seems to shout about it. Maybe it’s because there are a few of them scattered around the city, and the presence of more than one outlet immediately triggers the reflex assumption of mediocrity. But this one doesn’t get the credit it deserves, and it should. So here we are.

The immediate problem, when your mother begins the annual campaign of “dropping hints” about her birthday (which in my family comes as a sustained two week bombardment of “oh, don’t make a fuss” while clearly expecting a fuss), is venue selection. There are boxes to tick. The atmosphere must be fancy but relaxed, grown up but not po faced. The food has to meet the absurdly high bar of someone who has spent decades producing Yorkshire puddings that could double as flotation devices. And the service, crucial, must be traditional enough for her tastes (no QR codes, no iPads, no hipster barman with ironic facial hair telling her that gravy is “off menu”), but also genuinely friendly. Aqua ticks every one of these boxes, which is why I booked it without hesitation.

I knew, of course, from prior experience. A private indulgence of mine, on Sundays when I have no patience for faffing about with roasting tins and the oven timer, is slipping into Aqua for their roast beef. A treat, really. Sunday lunch tends to summon the image of a creaky country pub, all low beams and dodgy fires, but the truth is it is about the food, not the backdrop. And Aqua knocks it out of the park. The beef comes in great rosy slabs, pink in the middle, charred at the edges, the way your fantasy butcher would have it. The Yorkshire pudding? The size of a football, but miraculously not just air, sturdy enough to hold a proper lake of gravy. And the gravy itself… world class. Glossy, deep, rich, the kind of liquid you would ask to be embalmed in. The vegetable platter arrives as though someone in the kitchen has actually tasted vegetables in their life, which is rarer than you would think. Carrots taste like carrots, cabbage tastes like cabbage, all cooked properly instead of into oblivion.

I have thought a lot about the whole “death row meal” cliché, and frankly, if they ever catch me, I know what I will be having: Aqua’s roast beef. No question.

And then there is the service. Properly friendly, properly attentive, the kind of team who clearly care, not in the corporate “our manager told us to” way but because they are proud of the place. We were shown to a booth, comfortable, private, and perfect for people watching. My mother was charmed, my conscience was clear, and my waistband a little tighter by the end.

So yes, Bristol, listen up. Aqua is a must visit. It is not trying to be edgy or obscure. It is just bloody good. And if you do take your mother there, maybe do not let slip that the roast beef is better than hers. Some things are better left unsaid.