Crystal Palace, Baby!

Westow House in Crystal Palace is the living embodiment of everything a pub should be. Like the glory days of the village tavern where crusty hobbits would gather for flagons of ale as it was the only building around with a roaring fire on heathenous medieval nights, Westow House is a pub for actually living in, as they were meant to be. An ale-filled extension of your home.

I first came here last year with the good intention of a quick drink to watch the rugby turning into a 10 hour marathon of board games, Guinness, couch-bound lengthy conversation and some serious soul train music. It was love at first bite of the most exquisite steak this side of an Argentinian slaughterhouse – sourced from a secret Penge butcher, non of your fancy Ginger Pig here – with triple-cooked goose-fatty chips and a side of sweet, chilli-laced razor clams.

Vast and sprawling, Westow House offers drinkers little pockets of comfort, from the bookshelf-strewn front library with its exploding 70s carpet wallpaper, a large dining area around the bar with a sports screen for Sundays, then a back-room where you’ll nestle a pint between a ping-pong table, vintage pinball machines, the Atari coffee table and raised stage which boasts the “world’s comfiest battered pub sofa”. The big screen is wheeled out for matches of significance, DJ’s play residencies at the weekend and families can come here en-masse for highbrow, delicious nosh and a 3-hour read of the papers. They have a bottled beer menu and about 6 real ales on tap at any one time, friendly staff and the sort of vibe and charming crowd that means you can never stay here for “just one drink”.

The walls are adorned with the biggest mish-mash of curios so if you’re here on an awkward first date you’ll never run out of things to talk about. Even the loo boasts design touches I would love to replicate at home.

So they recently took on a new Chef. The food here has always been excellent. Even when they cocked up my Christmas dinner booking, we opted for the standard menu and were suitably spoiled with slow-braised shin of beef and a sort of creme-brulee of foie gras. But this last Saturday it was all a bit faff and ponce. Not bad at all, just all a bit over-the-top with the foams and the plate fluff and lacking in the usual Westow yum-factor. I get that the Chef needs to make an impression. But that’s not going to happen with cucumber jelly and crab served 80′s-style in a martini glass.

I took the rabbit terrine with Apricot Espuma (it’s not even foam, it’s poncy “Spanis” foam) and aprilla cress. Terrine was chunky and well-made if a tab bland. Not sure the apricot enhanced it in any way, but mostly it was annoying to have it served without bread. Much better was the warm mackerel salad with beetroot and dandlion. The mackerel was chargrilled and smoky, the dandelion bitter against a perfectly runny egg. Nommy.

M. had the pork jowl and gratin dauphinois. The pork was incredibly tasty and soft, maybe a bit dry, but delicious all the same. Excellent dauphinois, all cream and ooze, went down a treat. I got my nashers round one of the guest ales, a rich and meaty Lambeth Walk Dark Porter by microbrewery By The Horns based near Wimbledon.

But food is a mere detail, one wobbly moment will never put me off – I predict many more happy hours whiled away in the bosom of this Earth Mother of pubs, cold pint in one hand, giant tray of oysters under my nose, Scotland beating France in the 6 nations (well, one can dream!) and sunny summer days on the sprawling terrace. There’ll be much more eating in SE19 coming soon on the blog, but if you need a place to start, make it the Westow.

The pub changed hands three years ago and is now under the stewardship of Eric Payet – from La Reunion island, and his wife Tracy who managed front of house. The menu has shot up in quality with British classics served with cheeky hints at a more exotic interpretation.The food, quite simply, is exquisite.

I had black pudding with caramelised apples, mustard butter and crisp smokey bacon. Soft, pungeant pudding complemented perfectly by the fruit, and a crispy, pan-fried swedge of pineapple.

Dad had a simple, but very tasty Salade nicoise, with a runny poached egg, ultra crispy croutons and a serious no-messing-about mustardy dressing whipped together with the tuna to coat the leaves, radishes and slivers of fennel.

Mum feasted on honey-glazed ham hock with triple-cooked chips and pickled pineapple. The chips were glorious, cleary roasted when ultra-fluffy and deliciously seasoned. The ham hock fell apart at the touch of the fork and perfect with the uncuous eggy topping.

A pub then, with nothing to fault, except that I only get to go there when the folks take me (MUST get that damn driving licence!!)

Jumping up and down permitted

There’s something a bit odd about staying in a hotel in your own city. It’s also quite pimpy, so the best thing to do when given the opportunity, as I recently was to the London Malmaison, is take someone you fancy the pants off (rather than your mum), raid the mini-bar, drink too many cocktails and really good wine at dinner then spend most of the night dancing ’til you pass out in bed to the dulcet tones of One Direction on the randomly picked turn-down service TV station.

Bar Snacks

Malmaison London’s minibar seems prepped for the arrival of a bunch of teens on Spring Break. Downstairs, there’s an ultra-posh, quite sexy Veuve Cliquot bar, but behind the tiny minibar door in our room there is little more than ready-mixed “bacardi & cokes”, peanuts and bizarrely, a box of “energy patches” which we immediately put on for the hell of it. The room was small but comfortable with a nice big shower – we likey – and fantastic smelling bath products, including massage oil. Good thinking Malmaison. The location is fantastic, minutes from trendy Smithfield bars, and the epic Fabric.

We both hit the Champagne cocktails before dinner, at the dark, indigo-tinged bar where we were served delicious, plump and juicy olives. My Classic Champagne cocktail went down a storm, M. opted for big fruity girly thingymajig as we got our teeth into the menu.

coquettish croquettes

I was there for a game-fest – I haven’t yet had my fill since the Glorious 12th and spotted pheasant,mallard and venison à la carte. I started with rich and creamy oxtail served on a bed of smooth mashed potato. All fine except that the ox appeared to have the smallest tail in the world compared to it being served with arguable the world’s largest potato. A reversal in the proportions would have been exquisite as the oxtail was full of flavour. The dish also came with unnecessary croquettes, making me feel full before I’d even reached my main course. M. had foie gras parfait, which was pleasant and of good texture if not overwhelming on the flavour front.

Fake steak

Mains saw me staring down a big hunk of mallard, pungeant and well seasoned, if a little dry which does happen with mallard, overall however, quite tasty. M. however suffered from sorry steak syndrome. The 28-day aged fillet which he ordered rare came to the table looking like a flattened, grey French roadside-diner steak broiled to oblivion and served with flaccid chips and a lumpy béarnaise. As two avowed steak fans we were sorely disappointed.

A Dashing Douro Delight

We alleviated our disappointment with a vibrant and spicy, chocolate tinged Quinta do Vallado from the Douro and were about to order more when we suddenly noticed the incredible Bowmore whisky flight on the dessert menu. Genius, genius Malmaison for offering this, an excuse for me to pontificate on aromas, noses, finishes and palates largely of my own invention as I sniff and snort through whisky mists…

Inevitable palate of smoked bacon...

Our tasting notes include such gems as “Nose: toffee, orange peel, almonds, white grape” for the 12 year with an aftertaste of nail polish and tobacco… The 18 year prompted comments along the lines of “popcorn, caramel, toasted peanuts and like eating a liquid dessert”. The 15 year old Bowmore apparently reminded me of Ovaltine… Speaking of dessert, my concoction of caramelised figs with ice cream was a treat, ending our meal on a (whisky-induced) high.

So, a bit like the curate’s egg – London Mal was good in parts and a nice cosy corner to chill out in in one of my favourite parts of London, however, if the food could rival the beverage offerings I’d be back more often…

Malmaison London
18-21 Charterhouse Square
London EC1M 6AH

Brandy! Ho! Ho! Ho!

Christmas peoples! It’s that festive time of year again when Ole Frankie Sinatra gets wheeled out singing Jingle Bells, I wee my pants at the sight of Christmas lights and see every evening as an excuse to pop a cork. As per tradition, I have made my first batch of Mince Pies 2011 and contrary to previous years I am saying “meh!” to vegetarians and pork-sensitive types the world over and stuffing my pies with suet – just because I can.

This year’s filling is as traditional as the Queen’s Speech, and as usual comes with lashings of brandy. So without further ado, to make Emma’s calorie-ridden, animal-fat bearing, ultra boozy mince pies, you will need:

For the filling…

• French Brandy. 1/4 for pouring into the mix. 3/4 for pouring into the chef.
  

  Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice

• 2 handfuls of chopped mixed candied peel.
• 1 handful of ground almonds
• 3 handfuls of soft brown muscovado sugar
• 4 small diced and peeled apples
• 1 handful of crushed walnuts
• 1 1/2 handfuls of suet
• 1 teaspoon of mixed spice
• 1 teaspoon of ginger
• grating of nutmeg
• 3 crushed cloves

For the pastry…

• Are you kidding me? It’s Christmas, who needs the stress!? Go out and by some ready made…

How to make ‘em:

Grab an ovenproof bowl and mix into it all your dry ingredients. Splash over a generous helping of brandy until the mix is dark and sticky. Cover with aluminium foil and pop into an oven at 120° for about 3 hours until your mince pie mix is thick and smelling wonderful. In the meantime, watch a cheesy movie with the remaining brandy and some chocolates. Or dance in your kitchen. You know you want to.

Noel Nom Nom

An hour before the mix is ready, roll out your pastry and cut into 24 circles – 12 slightly smaller ones (the pie bases), 12 slightly bigger ones (the pie lids). Butter a pattie/cupcake tin and lay your pie bases onto them. Pop in the fridge until the mix is ready.

Remove your mix from the oven, let it cool with the cover still on. When cool, take out your mince pie bases from the fridge and add a dollop of mix into each one. Cover with the mince pie lids, seal by pressing edges together with your fingers. With the leftover dough, make some funky shapes (Xmas trees, stars, leaves, whatever you like) and stick onto the mince pies with a bit of milk.

Pop into the oven at 180° for 30 minutes or until golden brown. Serve warm with thick cream or brandy butter. And a hefty serving of the good stuff in a glass.

HURRAH! Merry Christmas!

]]> http://itinerantepicure.wordpress.com/2011/12/11/mince-pies-2011-suet-and-butter-and-all-that-jazz/feed/ 0 51.257131 -0.006321 51.257131 -0.006321 itinerantepicure Emma's Christmas Mince Pies 2011 Emma's Christmas Mince Pies 2011 Emma's Christmas Mince Pies 2011 http://itinerantepicure.wordpress.com/2011/11/11/hotel-du-vin-cambridge-shmokin/ http://itinerantepicure.wordpress.com/2011/11/11/hotel-du-vin-cambridge-shmokin/#comments Fri, 11 Nov 2011 12:40:06 +0000 itinerantepicure http://itinerantepicure.wordpress.com/?p=909 Continue reading →]]>

Shmokin' (and Freezin'!)

There are a few lessons I need to learn in life. One of them is that I don’t like cigars, a fact that I seem to forget EVERY time I drink single malt whisky. I get carried away by the peaty booziness and convince myself I am really in a dusty Havana club, then light up a bad boy. Then I cough up a lung and the illusion dissipates faster than a fart in a wind tunnel.

Hotel du Vin in Cambridge is so damn comfortable, cosy and indulgent we barely actually saw any of Cambridge at all, remaining ensconced within the hotel walls. A cigar bothy in the back garden proved a haven of such deliciousness that I once again fell prey to Cohiba-shaped crime. I could have swum laps in the bathtub, moulded into the bed and I finally learnt to use a Nespresso!

C. and I were here to attend an “apple masterclass” – which we worried might involve a lot of fruitarian theory and note-taking but which, essentially, was a boozy voyage of discovery that shifted from Apple-Mojitos to refined and kicking ciders from nearby producers Glebe Farm, via Thatcher’s Rosé and – to soak up the drink – a perfect tarte-tatin doused in Brandy.

We got off to the right start then… An apple-bobbing session followed the guided tastings and I sadly lost the “who can make the longest peel” competition, however the entire 2-hour class was quite the barrel of fun, with just the right balance between presentation, drinking and educative fun. Part of a series of new ideas to complement the very reputable wine-tasting and cheese-discovery weekends Hotel du Vin are famous for, let’s hope there will be more seasonal “masterclasses” in the future.

The class was followed by a pick-me-up in the Hotel’s labyrinthine bar and its cosy nooks – Cambridge’s Hotel du Vin has partnered with the Scottish Single Malt Whisky Society to provide visitors with a vast selection of single-cask tipples of enormous variety. I settled for a snifter of Campbeltown – “manly and penetrating” as described by the menu (who could resist?!). Champagne followed by which point the journey to the Bistro for dinner had become a feat of endurance.

I love the Bistro du Vin in Soho. It tops my list of places to recommend in London so I had high hopes for the food here. Our starters were both exquisite – C. had a fluffy, creamy, twice-baked cheese soufflé with red onion jam and I had sweet, plump, meltingly-cooked scallops with black pudding and a discreet cauliflower purée topped with fresh pea shoots. So far, so nom. Sadly, mains were a tad of a disappointment.

My partridge and bread sauce was well-cooked and tasty, but the gravy it came with lacked salt and tasted slightly burnt and bitter. And I had doused the whole partridge with it. C’s lemon sole looked a bit tired and was over salted, it also came with very boring and uncrispy “pont-neuf” potatoes, which are essentially, chips. It was all going so well! My side of red onions, beetroot and horseradish though was delicious…

We both opted for the Cheese Trolley, being the cheese whores that we are and here Hotel du Vin Cambridge redeemed itself and came into its own as we were guided expertly and lovingly through the contents of the heavenly selection -supplied by Premier Cheese – by a charming waitress who clearly knew her stuff. We gorged on Gaperon, a garlicky, bulb-shaped cow’s cheese from Auvergne; punchy Lanark Blue and the incredibly pongy little brother to Stinking Bishop, the May Hill Green…

Hotel du Vin staff are what really make the difference. Clearly extremely well trained they all also genuinely enjoy their job and love where they work, a fact refreshingly obvious when you talk to anyone from the reception to the bar manager. The service throughout was effortlessly professional and everyone we spoke to bubbled with enthusiasm – without the over-the-top phoneyness reserved for roadside diners in America.

We did eventually see Cambridge too, which you probably don’t need me to tell you is definitely worth visiting…

A view from above...

A sea view does so much to lift the spirits. Crashing waves or serene waters, blue skies arching over deep green water or storm-battered spray, either way I find the ocean is the most soothing and intoxicating balm. Both depressed by London, M. & I head out to Cornwall for a very short, but much needed escape overnight at Bedruthan Steps hotel. 4 1/2 hours on the very comfy seats of a First Great Western train and bingo, we were greeted with the cool drizzle and vast swathe of pancake-flat sand of Mawgan Porth’s beach, overlooked by a higgledy-piggledy mass of cottages, a pasty shop, surf shack and obligatory old man pub, and the square 50′s architectural oddity that is Bedruthan Steps hotel.

Beat that beach!

Inside is all family-friendly warmth and welcome – I love the slight melancholy of off-season places, it is all sweet post-holiday wistfulness but everyone smiley and helpful. Our room is big and comfortable with a giant, divine bed and that glorious view across the cove. The hotel itself is decorated using local textiles and has won all sorts of fantastic Sustainability awards and accolades that it well deserves.

We’re here for the hotel’s harvest, real ale and cornish song festival. And we’re in Cornwall. Hard to go wrong for me. Neither was the prospect of delicious food and ale dampened by a couple of hours splashing about in the Bedruthan Spa’s jacuzzi and sauna like two fat, contented sea lions (one brown, one deathly white).

Real ale nominess...

The whole hotel is divided up into “family” space (i.e - screaming kids most welcome) and “romantic couple” space (i.e – pretty much anyone else). This did not mean we escaped the clown show in the bar – which I warmed to after two very generous gin martinis. Another downside is the non-existance of any space for smokers to go out and enjoy the view and a cigarette. Despite it being off season, and the availability of an enormous grassy terrace overlooking the sea that was empty as the Sahara, M. had to walk to the car park behind the hotel for a fag, which apart from adding an unecessary guilt factor to the whole thing, also ruins the “let’s go and watch the sunset on the terrace” possibilities for two adults who happen to like a ciggy once in a while with their drinks.

"Aaargh Jim lad" and other malarkey

Dinner was preceded with a local ale tasting courtesy of Wooden Hand brewery based in Truro. Their small, but perfectly formed offering of five ales comprised two pale ales, a bitter, a reddish hoppy ale and a delicious chocolatey bitter “Black Pearl” which oozed velvety, oystery flavours. The yellowy “Pirate’s Gold” also deserves a mention as it is rather a fruity little number and therefore right up my street.

Onwards to dinner and the harvest menu – my slight disappointment at the lack of seafood (no crab, no oysters!) was easily compensated by a very good dish of mackerel stuffed with cracked wheat, currants and pistachios that was both interesting, super fresh and with good texture. M’s rather tiny cauliflower fritters with lime yogurt didn’t exactly light the braai-man’s heart on fire, but I thought they were very tasty and that I wouldn’t have minded seeing more of them on the plate.

Pollock!

Ale and beef.

Bar snacks...

M. moved on to some serious meat, a stupidly melty-in-the-mouthy ale braised beef with roasted salsify and horseradish dumplings that were punchy and filling. I had pollock, which I know Gordon Ramsey likes to rave about: “unchampioned fish!” It’s not my favourite, but it was well accompanied with pistachios and fresh chard and had firm, sweet flesh.  Lots of fresh local veggies were served on the side and we washed the lot down with a good, spicy South African wine.

Dessert (not usually my forte) had me wibbling with happiness. Plum and lavender tarte tatin with a thick glop of clotted cream ice-cream. M. went for the baked apple (not so wow) with apple sorbet (mahumba!) and caramel (naarm! sugar-high!). By this point the Cornish singers were out and I got all whimsical as they played the sort of folksy, fisherman’s shanties-type music my Grandad would cry to and which I secretly collect on my iTunes.

Carnewas - Bedruthan Steps beach

The following morning we trekked up to Carnewas and the jaw-dropping spectacle of Bedruthan Steps beach following a fantastic breakfast – excellent work chaps – of every kind of meat imaginable and a fantastic cloudy apple juice from a nearby farm in Liskeard. We swam in the water pretending it was not ball-numbingly cold and played boules by a cave. Then we sadly packed our bags to go home to the big smell of London.

Escape while you can, book a break at Bedruthan.

Let's Dance!

In this grey and wistful time of year, with England enjoying the average annual rainfall of a small tropical country on a daily basis, what we need is a bit of brightness, sunshine and good living. What better then than an evening in the company of the delightful Shanti Maurice team, their colourful dancing girls, exquisite Mauritian cuisine, rhum-laced cocktails and pampering? The invitation was like a breath of fresh air in an otherwise gloomy month and we huddled into Moti Mahal, one of my favourite Indian restaurants in London, to enjoy a night hosted by Shanti – a boutique lifestyle resort in the virtually untouched “Soma” South of Mauritius.

Grandma!

Soft-shell crab - DIVINE!

Rum cocktails, vodka cocktails, more cocktails!

The team at Shanti had brought “Grandma” with them to the UK, a minute, and very sweet old lady, with magic cooking fingers, who is the central focus of a fantastic and rather unique dining concept at the resort. “Grandma’s Kitchen” invites guests to eat in Grandma’s home where she will cook traditional meals from the Mauritian Creole repertoire without the pomp and fuss of fine-dining getting in the way. The food is shared in a big group, bringing visitors “into the home” and offering them a taste of the real island, enjoying all the while the tales of Grandma’s childhood and the history of the island - tales laced with a thrilling background of many intertwining cultures.

Chef Willie!

Spicy beef with udon

This evening, Grandma was serving a chicken curry and rich, spicy meat curry with an octopus salad. Thick, warming, delicious. We couldn’t much communicate together except for a few words of patois French, but hopefully she understood my enthusiastic dribbles and noshing sounds. Beyond this, Chef Willie – quite a hero amongst former guests who all seemed to know him very well and sang his praises – dished out plate after plate after plate of incredible dishes. A special mention has to go out to the soft-shell crab which was simply perfect, a lamb biryani oozing wafts of cardamom and coriander and barely-seared Venison carpaccio with mustard seed – outstanding. Other dishes included wasabi king prawn, chicken tikka, spiced beef curry with udon and grilled codfish with deep-fried onions. There was more, but I was distracted by a volley of rhum cocktails, most notably the delectably smokey Rhum, single malt whiskey and lychee combo which almost had me joining the Sega-dancing girls in straw hats.

Made in SA

Africology Spa products - good enough to eat!

There are worst ways to spend a rainy Wednesday. Did I mention the hand massages? Using a range of natural products and essential oils by South Africa’s AFRICOLOGY brand, Asha the therapist and Shanti Maurice’s senior Spa Manager Novie oversaw the administration of soothing, nurturing hand massages. The scent of Frangipane washed down with the lychee and passion fruit cocktails and frankly, I could lie back and dream of island paradise.

Sad then, to trot into the rainy night over Covent Garden. But I have a book of Grandma’s recipes to take home – I plan on nailing that soft-shell crab to see me through the winter blues.

Fish tank

Battersea by night is an odd little place. The dark, industrial riverside, winding silently through the backyards of garden centers; badly lit wastelands flanked by lego estates, then suddenly, at the end of a fuzzy golden-flickering road, a towering skyscraper and the low-drone of a heliport. Yes, a heliport. Apparently, this is where Al-Fayed and Abramovitch park their little zippers when in town. Perhaps they even stay at the ultra-random, sausage finger-shaped HeliHotel in front of it too, then zipline across the dank Thames, Bond-style, to Harrods for a spot of shopping. Either way, tonight I am in this bizarre back-of-beyond to sample the delights of The Fish Place, a relatively new joint specializing in super-fresh British fish, in season, and a break-the-rules wine policy.

A dessert-shaped representation of the Heli-Hotel

M. and I are here for the lobster-fest – a week long special menu celebrating in- season lobsters from our Cornish waters. For lobster, I will happily schlep across Battersea in heels, wondering why the road doesn’t show up on the GPS. For the lobster we got served at The Fish Place, I would do it five times over. The Fish Place has a few tables on the ground floor, but the real “tank” is upstairs, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a smattering of tables looking out over the silvery Thames, in the direction of sunset, in a setup not unlike an aquarium in shape. The lime green, acqueous grey and blue interior is a touch stark, but once sunset starts it’s all-eyes on the windows and you barely notice the wavey distorted wall-hanging.

I start with Dorset crab claws, fresh as all hell and deliciously sweet and tender. Served simply and without fuss, it comes with a silky mayonnaise made with the rich brown of the crab. Excellent.

M. has Devon scallops, grilled, with a delightful combination of sauteed girolles, chorizo and confit tomatoes – the level of cooking is superb, almost unbefitting of such simple interiors and out-of-the-way location. We ask to have our food matched with red wine, as suggested by the wine-menu which waffles a bit too insistently about wine-matching to a crowd that I believe isn’t as ignorant as it makes out. That being said, whilst I know the white wine + fish rule is happily broken, I still wouldn’t know what to pick with a seafood meal, so we agree with the waiter’s choice of a Morgon 2009 which, when chilled, goes quite well with the fatty seafood thanks to its sweetness and especially nicely with the girolles and confit toms with its cassis and jammy flavours.

Dribble-worthy fish

In a lovely old-fashioned twist – and something I wish more restaurants did these days, we get served a palet-cleansing elderflower sorbet between courses. Narf. Almost wish it was on the dessert menu.

I have chargrilled whole lobster with chilli and garlic. Again, it is perfectly cooked, plump, sweet, fleshy, soft, with just enough chilli to pack a punch without overwhelming. M’s thermidor is drool-worthy and for a few moments we gorge on each other plates in a sort of crustacean-y erotic frenzy, shucks, cracks and pinces clacketing and eyes rolling heavenward in lobstery delight. Seriously, the Chef here is on to a damn good thing.

Pudding sort of passes me by as I am not a puddingy person, however my elderflower jelly punctuated with raspberries is fresh and simple and tasty. M’s Morgan Spiced Rum and Apricot soufflé is too sweet for my liking, but it’s got rum in it, so M’s basically reached nirvana by the first mouthful.

Staff are friendly and on hand to make wine recommendations, even offering suggestions of matchings to try at home which is always a good tip with mere morals who don’t have a Chateau-worthy cellar in their basements. The menu is updated regularly to match the seasons – just don’t wait ’til the next lobster-fest to make a booking.

Foxy architecture

Last time I had dinner in Smithfield I ended up playing a Ukelele in the backing band of 1920s cabaret diva Tricity Vogue at the Smithfiled Tavern. Today I am two doors down, on a slightly more quiet Tuesday evening, in the company of old blog-dinner companion A. to sample the “Gastro-pub” delights of The Fox and Anchor. Unlike many pubs of its ilk, which have undergone the transition to proper dining establishments, this one remains firmly a pub, thank god, and hasn’t gutted its interiors to make way for exposed floorboards, trendy “greige”-washed, faux-french rustic tables and daunting emptiness.

The staff are eager to please, in an almost over-bearing manner, checking up on us every five seconds. I am served a swift campari and tonic as an aperitif then we knuckle down to business on this sweltering summer’s eve. The problem may have lain in the abnormally hot day – pub owners in the UK can be forgiven for not expecting 32 degree weather, however the menu, despite featuring some great seasonal veggies and meats, still seemed – how to put it – …hot?

I started with razor clams, although there were some delicious looking Maldon rock oysters on ice in baskets by the bar which would have gone down a treat slugged back with a Guinness. My razor clams were tasty if a tad overcooked. Meaty, rich, paired with chorizo – nothing new but a great combo nonetheless. As a starter it could have been a tad smaller, as it was incredibly filling. A good touch were the firm broad beans tossed in the briny juices. A’s whitebait was crispy and fresh, although – and I can’t believe I’m saying this – they could have done with a bit more coating to give it bite… Served in a cartouche with good homemade mayo, the portion was more manageable than mine, and both served with good bread, rock salt and Cornish butter.

We sucked on a bottle of Fleurie La Cerisaie Momessin 2009, decent raspberry-packed Beaujolais which was needed to go with the enormous hunk of lamb I had for a main. This had me reeling back in my chair looking for the maternity ward for my impending lamb-babies. A shank the size of a small child arrived, meltingly tender, deliciously rich and served with a side of new potatoes that could have solved third-world famine. I am but a wee thing and there I was, faced with about 20 potatoes in a bowl – that’s what I call value for money! There were more yummy  broad beans, although by now I was fearing the bloaty-monster coming on.

A. had the fish cake, which was as thick and meaty as an Olympic discus, slathered in hollandaise and resting on a bed of wilted spinach. Well seasoned, but again the thick creamy hollandaise was so rich that added to the sweltering heat at the back of the pub it resulted in near delerium.

By the time we reached pudding, I felt nine-months pregnant, so I made the executive decision that launching into a massive plate of cheese wouldn’t make much difference. Nice, if unimaginative, selection, with proper crackers and chunky chutney. A. had eton mess, a glorious flurry of cream and meringue and …gleurghy, all that cream!!! Tres indulgent…

We rolled out the pub like giant wheels of cheese, with the owner and the barstaff merrily discussing the day spent at CAMRA’s real ale festival where many new discoveries to stock the pub nwith had been made. For yes, this is well and truly a pub, and in all honesty, I would like it to stay that way. I would definitely come back here for ales and whitebait, perhaps a plate of bivalves to wash down with stout, however, I’m not sure I would rush back for the dinner… Not, unless I had not eaten for weeks in advance…