A small space with big hospitality.
About an hour into coming to The Small Canteen, you’re gonna need to stretch your legs. Because the portions here are generous. And when you do head to the bathroom, you’ll have to physically exit the restaurant, go around the corner and into the back lane, and look for the green door that matches the one you’ve just left.
Normally, any restaurant making me do this would be on the wall for a hanging. ‘The Small Closet’ doesn’t have the same ring, does it. But for The Small Canteen, there’s a mutual understanding here. The understanding being, you’re gonna get an absolutely delicious meal, but as the name implies, it’s a small restaurant. Too small to house a bathroom. And that’s OK.
It’s more than OK. I’d go as far as to say pound for pound, this is one of my top five restaurants in Newcastle.
It’s in Sandyford, I think it used to be a sandwich shop and it’s run entirely by just three(?) members of staff. Owner Sam Betts quietly assembles dishes, watching out over the four or so tables. He’s about as far away from you as you would be from your mate pulling a pizza out of the oven in their kitchen. It’s intimate and you can literally join in with the next table’s conversation. Chef cracks on.
There’s a single waitress, sorry I didn’t catch your name, but your genuine warmth was just lovely. You asked about our weekend without a hint of performance. You make the large portions here seem like generous goodwill, despite single-handedly running the front of house.
I assume there’s a third member of the team. There’s a door to a kitchen area which must only be as big as a shoe cupboard. There must be someone else in there. The pan rattler, the precise bream fryer. Maybe a pot wash? I kinda like the mystery.
It all feels a bit supperclub-ish. They seem to have fallen out of favour nowadays, but in the way they were appealing with that ‘tea at a mates house’ vibe, The Small Canteen captures that spirit.
The thirteen covers order from a chalkboard that’s delightfully DIY. Have a look for yourself. And if you’re in search of more info on this restaurant, that’s about all you’ll find. Social media posting is sporadic at best. And there’s no website to speak of. OpenTable?! Each time we’ve booked our table by text message. Like, SMS. I’m torn as the restaurant-lover in me is a fan of the barebones approach. The marketer and customer, maddened.
It does show that the focus here — for a change, praise the fucking lord — is squarely on the food, and nothing else. There are swathes of restaurants opened in the NE over the last five years that could learn an awful lot here.
Three options each of three courses for about forty quid, proper Northern portions. A few decent wines, by the near-extinct carafe. That’s yer lot. You start with bread, which comes with a signature trio of teaspoons and lovely moisteners to get your pulse going. It, incredibly, isn’t an upsell, it’s just the banging instrumental intro track. It’s Fuckin’ in the Bushes.
So how does a tiny, cramped, no-frills restaurant capture my attention so emphatically?
It’s a case of ‘no bad bite here’. It’s that good. If I was picking favourites, there’s a wide pool to choose from. The flaky homemade crackers that come with the potted crab, and a bright pickled cucumber on the side.
The juices from plump blackberries and confit duck that mingle together and form an autumnal jus for sweet chard and roasted onion. Proper autumn, that one.
Twice I’ve had slabs of sweet and succulent bream, it must be a favourite of chef. Sherry-braised ribs 🤤 with a deftly-spiced apple compote drop off the bone. A velvety and sumptuous leek gratin would stick to the ribs if it weren’t for a sharp endive side salad to cut through all the richness. A wedge of plum and pistachio cake has mascarpone ice cream, perfect sweetness, and the best of the season’s fruit.
And the pastry, christ. Well-made tarts and cakes almost define the restaurant, immutable on the menu. Perfection in shortcrust, whether asparagus and goats cheese, or leek and stilton, you have to start here. They sit with a simple seasonal and expertly dressed side salad. It’s precision, modest bistro food. It’s just really bloody good.
It feels like it’s feeding people, rather than the dick-swinging bravado you get with some chefs. Chef gives a subtle nod on the way out that says ‘I know it’s ace, I hope you did too’.
I’m erring towards believing that to survive as a restaurant in 2025, you’ve either gotta be great value, or you’ve gotta be doing bloody great food. There’s just no room for mid when everyone’s feeling the squeeze. You’re gonna send people home disappointed.
The Small Canteen manages to be both brilliant and great value. And in today’s penny pinching environment, you need to experience here exactly what happens when you strip away all the guff. Just three people coming together to serve you great food at a great price, with genuine hospitality. Absolutely cracking.
Address: 17 Starbeck Ave, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE2 1RH
Contact: 07816524826
