OX

A bench beside the Lagan

The room works from Oxford Street, beside the River Lagan. Stephen Toman is executive chef and co-owner, drawing on Belfast roots and stints abroad that took in Arizona and, in Paris, the two-star Taillevent and three-star L'Arpege, where he met Alain Kerloc'h. Kerloc'h, a sommelier from Brittany, is the other co-owner and runs the cellar. In Belfast, OX opened in 2013 as a French-trained, Irish-supplied restaurant, built around seasonal produce, meat and fish brought into a spare room rather than a theatrical one. The method is classical without becoming heavy. Beetroot can take the same weight on the plate as beef. Halibut may arrive salt-cured, with cauliflower, buttermilk, almonds and dill oil; Antrim beef can carry black garlic, smoked potato, bone marrow, turnip, shallot and girolles. The house holds one Michelin star, and the daily pressure of a tasting menu that changes with the produce shapes it. The kitchen is small enough for the bench-side decisions to matter, and formal enough that each gesture has to land cleanly.

French technique on Irish ground

The cooking at OX rests on a clear bargain between the pass and the supplier. French technique gives the frame; Irish seasonality decides what fills it. A gougère may begin with Coolattin cheddar from West Wicklow and onion vinaigrette. Jerusalem artichoke can be set against chicken skin, soy and trompettes. Crapaudine beetroot meets venison tartare, tarragon and mustard, not as decoration but as structure. The menu has carried Skeaghanore duck with quince, parsnip and chard; halibut with pine nuts, squash and veal jus; an onion galette with tomatoes, basil, Ballylisk cheese and broad beans. The room’s signature dishes hold the same line, Orkney scallop with curry oil, Chateaubriand with foie gras and parsley root, celeriac with winter truffle and foie gras. The wine program follows with equal restraint, leaning into natural and biodynamic bottles, French classics, lesser-poured regions and Irish drinks. The adjacent Ox Cave loosens the format with cheese, charcuterie and wine by the glass or carafe, but the discipline remains recognisably related.

The room keeps its nerve

The dining room does not soften the work with excess. High ceilings, wood floors, plain decoration and sparse furnishings leave the plate with little cover. Local church chairs, exposed white-painted brick and wooden tables without cloths make the room feel closer to a workshop than a salon. The kitchen sits at the back. Tall windows bring in the river light, with the Lagan and Harland and Wolff visible from the upper level. Sound stays conversational, even with timber underfoot and height above the tables. That restraint suits the food. A dish of salt-cured halibut, or a course built around crapaudine beetroot, has to carry its own shape in a room like this. The final memory is not theatre, but the quiet friction between church chair, white brick and Orkney scallop with curry oil.