Flagship on Stour

A momentary detour, if I may, from edging my body slowly but ever so surely to the point of  a massive internal haemorrhage. Just back from a food shopping sortie to Shipston-on-Stour. This town is living proof of the reported recent trend for a defection of affluent city dwellers to the country. Not that the streets are lined with yummy-mummies in Hunter wellies and nobby types called Toby or Marcus driving round the market place in their new 4×4′s. It’s more that there’s a range of shops and services here whose longevity in any other location, you would worry, might not last beyond tourist season.

I mean, how many market  towns this size – less than 5000 people lived here at the last count – can support two butchers, two delis, a green grocer & fishmongers and a newly refurbished independent wine merchant? A toy shop’s just opened here, for crying out loud. I can’t recall the last time I heard one mentioned because it hadn’t just closed. But the biggest vote of confidence for this town’s staying power has to be the opening of a new ‘fine dining’ venue down by the river. If anything’s going to test Shipston’s resolve it’ll be Ashley James at the Old Mill. I just hope for his sake his signature dish doesn’t involve liquid nitrogen. Three words, Ashley. Value for Money. 

Parking your car is a doddle in Shipston and most of the spaces are free. Of charge, that is. I don’t think it’s any coincidence its retail centre continues to thrive.  Not when  you add its physical accessibility to the obvious wealth and discernment of the surrounding population. I’d invite any planning department to drop in here before deciding on my behalf yet again that the best thing for all has got to be wider pavements and more loading bays. 

You might wonder if I actually remembered to pick up what I went for. Pork fillet and fresh soup from Righton’s, sausages from Taylors, bananas and potatoes from Turner’s. Check. And I thought a nice red Burgundy would go nicely with dinner tonight but you’ll know, if you were kind enough to skim read the previous entry, that I got smashed up on Saturday. And I’m still feeling it so Edward Sheldon will have to wait. Takes a few days to get over something like that.

www.rightonsofshipston.co.uk  / www.taylorsofshipston.co.uk / www.edward-sheldon.co.uk / www.atasteofthecountry.co.uk / www.theoldmillshipston.co.uk

Contact details for Turner’s can be found at www.bizwiki.co.uk /

www.shipstononstour.com

Petty Duke Syndrome

Caught up with the Old Man this weekend. Part of it was enjoyed at the Duke in Leamington Spa where we had a superb value lunch. And not just because he paid. Dad raved about his Fish and Chips (massive for £8) and I had a share of Today’s Pizza. For a place specialising in big plates, mind, (pizzas are either eighteen inches or a yard long, noodle dishes are preposterously generous) the management may wind up having to review the house china. 

The flatbreads are of a scale that they have to come on vinyl boards and George’s colossal battered fillet was amply contained, but Benson’s burger arrived on a small ashtray. The sandwich itself was a triumph and, replete as it was with its gammy BBQ and caramelised onion condiments, he was like a pig in shit. It’s just that it was a challenge to keep it, his chips and a superfluous extra pot of smokey ghee on the playing surface. I’m guessing the psychology behind this is similar to that behind stuffing a pair of socks down your briefs for an enhanced perspective of, to borrow his vernacular, Stephen and the Twins. But the portion’s easily big enough. With that in mind I’d suggest they give the man some elbow room in future. He had expressed more than a mild irritation at this juggling act whilst all the while resisting the sore temptation to confirm that the thing was, regardless, ’f***ing lovely’ in front of his father.

It’s okay, though. I got drunk and swore in front of him at dinner instead.

www.thedukeleamington.co.uk

Baadass

Pubs in residential areas generally fall into two categories. The first are like bricked-up static caravans, service overspill-estates and unless you’re 6’3”/250lb, you wouldn’t walk through the door of one without being prepared to leave via a window. In the other are those extraordinarily charming, terraced sidestreet safe-havens that blend in so seamlessly the only clue they’re there at all is their softly illuminated, come-hither signage. The kind of place about which telling someone is like boasting you know how to find it.

A few rows back from Angel tube, The Charles Lamb is a boozer that knows its business. Marketed as a Pub and Kitchen, it’s unpretentious – there’s no accounting for everybody that uses it – has been appointed classically and with excellent taste, and then split aesthetically and spatially down the middle. Always busy and atmospheric, the range of product on offer in this pub is pound for pound about as good as I’ve seen and the wide-ranging demographic in attendance is testament to that.

Immediately of note, particularly during the colder months, are the warm spiced cider and the mulled wine. Both well-considered crowd-pleasers and pertinently, for those with a healthy, well-meant appreciation of a mixed clientele, both pleasers of crowds of women. Smart move. Another real asset is an expertly assembled wine list featuring the Charles Lamb’s own cuvee, sourced directly from French producers as a conscientious move to curtail rising wholesale prices. This represents terrific value as the cornerstone of an all-European portfolio, among which a guest is normally available by the glass.

Along the bar is a balance of everything you might reasonably expect in the way of lager, as well as a couple of continental options you might not. In the way of beer, not every hand pump is in operation at all times, but the stock real ale tends to be Dark Star’s Hophead – a lightly floral example of a style largely responsible for real-ale’s recent resurgence  – and it’s always in cracking nick. Ideal for chasing down a ramekin of roasted almonds or wasabi peas. 

The cooking here is honest and the food’s really bloody decent. Simple but not plain, interesting but not over-elaborate, the menu has a French-flavour and for London is very sensibly priced. Above all though, and I love this about it; it’s tight. There’s choice without there being too much to think about. A handful of Starters (between £4-£6), half a dozen Mains (averaging at a Tenner), four or five Desserts (£5-ish); it’s all deadly. This is a great thing for two reasons. One, it doesn’t distract from the fact that this is, unmistakably, a Pub. Two, by keeping it compact they’re indirectly reaffirming a duty to their public and their responsibility as a Kitchen to supply fresh food. They can and will allow themselves, just occasionally, to sell out of a dish or two. Not least since the enormous quiche flaunting itself on the back bar and the ‘Susan’ of sausage rolls under your nose are available either hot or cold. With ketchup.

If I had to take issue with the menu itself, it would be to say that it can often require too close scrutiny in order to determine precisely what’s what on it. Make no mistake; I appreciate a blackboard. But they’re a means to clearly and concisely deliver information. If it’s your primary or only means, presentation (this one isn’t brilliantly written) and positioning (just inside the door) are key, particularly in a place as crowded as the Lamb gets. Given I’m often ‘a few sheets’ by the time I come to order mine, invariably it couldn’t matter less to me. However it can be a private matter, deciding what to eat, and I know for a fact there are punters who will be reticent to approach the oche if either the board or its vantage point encroaches on others people’s personal space.

I do recall also thinking that the CL’s last Christmas party menu trod all too precariously the line between keeping it tight and almost missing a trick. It’s an art, sure, and in no way should any establishment feel an obligation to its offer. I would worry, however, that by opting to overlook the traditional rather than simply get creative around it I might just dissuade an office collective with a budget that’s otherwise ready to party. No turkey ? No chocolate ? Enough said..

In terms of rough versus smooth, mind you, that’s all I’ve got. The management know exactly what they want this place to be. The temptation, particularly in this part of town, to try be all things to all people must be enormous. The decision to set your gastronomic parameters to those things you know for absolute certain you can deliver consistently well, whilst appearing simply to be common sense is therefore, I think, two things. It’s bravely reserved, and it’s confidence inspiring to consumers who, in improving but uncertain times, just want something they can rely on. People, I give you the Charles Lamb.

email:food@thecharleslambpub.com

Faux on the Wold

Paxford’s near Chipping Campden in Gloucestershire and the Churchill Arms sits, resplendent as its cigar-chugging sponsor after a trouser-loosening triple-header, at its historic centre. The staff working the floor are delightful. The exuberant warmth of the welcome smacks very much of a recently re-invigorated regime, a feature of the service here that will hopefully hold true long after the pub’s new website, currently under construction, has been completed. There’s locally sourced Hook Norton and Wye Valley ales on draught – both in mint condition – today’s papers, books on the shelf and fresh daffodils on the tables.

The lengths to which the owners have gone to retain the integrity of this pub, however, – and it is an absolutely belting venue,  ripe for an all-dayer – just don’t sit well alongside the approach to food. The cooking is absolutely top-drawer. The anomaly is in the presentation, both on the menu and on the plate. The dishes are written using terminology that would fly over the head of most people. Most would, I would hope, be simultaneously struck by the glaring grammatical errors recurring all the way down. I hate to be a prude, only if you’re going for a fine-dining angle you want to instil confidence that you can deliver it. In short, if you can’t spell it, can you cook it?

The confit of guinea fowl with poached dates (£5.50) was a treat, and serving it in a French Kilner preserving jar is a genuine touch. Presenting it on narrow slate was one too many, impractical, and as ever with this type of starter the portion of caraway toast was barely enough to account for a third of it. The ‘Braised belly of lighthorne lamb’ (capital L, Lighthorne is a place), ‘aubergene caviar’ (it would have been easier to mis-spell baba ganoush) and white bean jus (a sauce to you and me) was, after all that and at £14.50, just brilliant. The order of extra potatoes which I was rightly told I’d probably need, set me back an additional £2.50. It might well be a personal thing but I’d just include the starch and charge £16.50. They’ll still be making their margin and still be offering good value. This way, though, they’ll avoid aggravating those traditionalists that reserve a right to have their carbs included – the beans in the ‘jus’ don’t cut it on their own, frankly – and also the risk of bringing a tardy side order to a half-finished plate. A candy-encrusted Honey and Walnut Parfait with dots of apple puree and a shot of coffee ice (£5.50) was a fresh and light choice of dessert. It looked like Elton John, though. I mean it worked but, my, it was busy. Again, the oversized glass plate, in light of everything going on, was just poncey.

Simplifying the food concept here would make the Churchill a more attractive proposition to more people. The demographic when I was there was, with the exception of me and one girl with massive ears and a plum in her gob,  unnecessarily old. I wouldn’t change the content, it’s just how to sell it. Accurate or not by describing your food using words like ‘beignet’, or ‘emulsion’ instead of dressing, you’re raising expectations. Talk straight, be modest and people will only be pleasantly surprised. Offering Sardines on toast as a bar snack for £5 is much more like it. But when your scotch egg goes out perched on a wiry egg cup with Cumberland sauce spooned affectedly around it, you’re just asking for some arsehole in red cords to enquire if he’s to shy at it with a coconut. Cook it well, plate it, send it out.

This pub should be busier. It needs a literate manager to write the menu and to leave the obviously talented chef to do what he does best. Make wholesale changes to the crockery – white, ceramic and round in a variety of sizes normally covers it – fuss considerably less, pour rather than drizzle, and with most other things in place here you’re looking at the finished article.

www.thechurchillarms.com info@thechurchillarms.com

Pacific My Way

At Terminal 5 yesterday, waiting on the inbound BA048 from Washington State, I was aware of something I wanted to relay about Seattle and in particular the city’s Pike Place market. Conscious of a need to appropriate it to this feed I was also especially keen not just to appear to be blithering on about the fact that I went there once.

Pike Place, for those that might not know, is like Seattle’s answer to Borough Market. It’s artisanal, if not quite as specialist. There isn’t, for example, a pitch selling only one product of cheese. ( How, incidentally, at London rates a Comte-only concern remains a going one is a miracle to me, much as I love the variety. And I can’t tell you how much the kid in me would love to approach this stall and persist in asking for anything but…). Nor is there, while I do love about Borough the sense that it’s largely run by young people re-energising the fields in which they are no doubt ’fountains’, the air of self-consciousness which nevertheless hangs over it.

I think, which is where this strikes a Hymnal chord, it comes down to attitude. It’s about expert professionals being able to relax around what they do. It’s about the equally product -savvy Fishmongers at Pike singing while hurling whole Salmon at each other and then laughing about it. It’s about young kids passing out free samples of ripe peach from the blade of a kitchen knife. You know what? Yeah, I will excuse fingers. And I know we’ve got to be strict on  health and hygiene these days but actually I’m charmed by the absence of his latex gloves. It’s as much about buying Sausages from Uli’s because they’re the bollocks as it is about the fact there might be a terrifically hairy blues guitarist jamming outside Lowell’s. It isn’t about spending a fiver on a loaf of bread in SE1 just so you can say that you did.

Now that I’ve comitted delicat-erecy and really upset you I should probably counter by affirming what a great destination Borough is. Of course it is. There’s loads to see and it’s an education. Maybe I was just seduced by the Pacific Northwest. I’m pretty convinced, mind you, that if you go there, and to Pike Place, you’ll know exactly what I’m getting at.

Welcome home, Houghie. Oh, and thanks for the music.

www.pikeplacemarket.org / www.boroughmarket.org.uk

Rib Off

I know what you’re thinking. Despite being in East London, though ( London Fields, to be exact ), this wasn’t a hooky boozer and we weren’t fleeced. The Prince Arthur had sold out of Aberdeen Angus. Not a problem for me – shit happens – and my wing-man soon came around. But being someone of faith that any Pub with requisite sense of its onions will go all out to cover all bases, I also know that whenever we used to sell numbers on a steak dish it meant only one thing; there wasn’t enough else to choose from.

Arthur's Seats

I love a short menu. I’ve said it before. But if you’re going to be concise you’ve got to be commercial. The trouble is that the ’28 day aged Rib of Beef, Peppercorn Sauce and Hand-Cut Chips ( for two to share )’ (£38) was head and shoulders the most inviting thing on it. What was presumably the last portion was ferried past us as we walked in. It looked awesome. Everybody thought so. Everybody, it seemed, shared it. It was no more and it wasn’t 8.30pm.

In its absence, then, there was a decision to be made. I still want carrion, I know that. I’ve been shifting furniture all afternoon. What else is there? ‘Jugged Hare’. Absolutely clueless as to what that means. Didn’t even bother with the accoutrements. Braised Cumbrian Chicken (with Chicken and Tarragon Mousse? You go to the trouble of making a cavity and then fill it with itself ?) What else is there? In the way of meat, I’d had it. There’s a traditional Fish and Chips (£12.50), but we had that last night (Fish House, Lauriston Road), and there’s a blonde Skate Wing from Guernsey  (£15) who, despite bringing with her brown shrimp, egg, and a dill and horseradish dressing, I know from experience will be all skin and bone.

So what did I end up with? Bubble and Squeak. What else ? Me old muckers B and S. With a crispy Hen’s Egg – a perfectly runny, homemade ‘scotchie’ - and Hollandaise. £11 nicker. Chim-chim-cheroo. Chuffed, I was, an’all.  And you can spare me your faux-cockney, anti-veggie panto protestations because it was, to quote Alfie Doolittle, ‘lavverly’.

They pull it off here at the Arthur for  number of reasons. Firstly, the greeting as we entered was all smiles and personality. They wanted us to stay and eat. They wanted to help. Us and each other. And I’ll forgive anybody anything for that. Second, while for a pub it feels a bit too clever and can appear a bit frilly on the plate , there are no shortage of classics – pints of Prawns are sold with Mayo, Rock Oysters with Shallot Vinegar by the half dozen – and there’s absolutely no disputing the quality of the cooking. Pan Fried Chicken Livers, Sauteed Wild Mushrooms, Toasted Brioche, Madeira Reduction (£6) as a starter were a sensation. Sweet. The other fella’s Wood Pigeon and Guinea Fowl Terrine with Sourdough (£7), equally so. He did go for the Chicken, which he demolished and, as I say, mine did exactly what it ought’a.

This is a proper East End pub. Upscale and distinctly English it, and its food offer, sits beautifully within its sorely sophisticated habitat. A better range of ales would be preferable – there was one, Fuller’s, of the four pumps in use – but the wine list showed decent variety; the Gamay warmed the back of my throat when the beer had ceased to cut it. The smartly dressed diners in attendance when we arrived later gave way to card schools and characters looking to catch dessert before the kitchen closed, and the Deep Fried Chocolate Sandwich with Praline Ice Cream looked like a confection worth coming back for. If only they’d convinced the man on the stove to replace a Fish dish with a Lamb or Pork, maybe stick in a gourmet Burger, and I wouldn’t have had to kick off on a mildly negative note. These girls smile so sweetly, though, when they told us the Rib was off it rather felt like they were doing us a favour.

www.theprincearthurlondonfields.com

Lion Down

I wasn’t there to critique the place. But as my body literally creaked under the weight of dinner (a good four hours after I’d put my fork down) and as any attempt to relieve the pressure only caused me to be a little bit sick in my own mouth, I lay awake wondering how anybody powers through three courses at Hinxton’s Red Lion. Granted, due to a short-term maladie I’d let relatively little pass my lips in the preceding 36hours, but still…..

A Pie, my Lord?

That the very personable owner of this pub so reminded me of Lord Percy Percy, Heir to the Duchy of Northumberland, I might have known my Beef and Ale Pie would arrive in the shape of an enormous pie. Hand-cut chips the size of Chesterfields and every one of my five-a-day in attendance, the combined vista was so overwhelming I was beaten before I’d penetrated the short-crust. I needed help. My charitable dining companion duly took some matter off my hands but not without commenting, although I was perfectly satisfied with what I managed, that the thing about pastry is that “you’ve got to want to eat it …(as well as that which it encases)”. I think he was implying that my pie had been fired in the same kiln as his Bakewell Tart which, following the 10 minutes we were told it would take to arrive, looked more apt to be glazed than anything else. Now, I’ve seen the legacy of the BT murdered enough times in my kitchen that in future I’ll only sanction the inclusion of Classic puddings on the menu if we’re quite sure we can deliver something close to the real thing. This creation, for all that it outwardly resembled what it was supposed to, both exploded and imploded on excavation of its hot air filling and must have been as gratifying to consume as the contents of a helium balloon. If I had to guess, I’d say its approximate weight on arrival at our table was 2.5 grams.

I’ve no idea what the bill came to and given I wasn’t the one picking it up, I wouldn’t dream then of asking. Quite bizarrely, however, I can categorically confirm that it represented value for money. The proof is in three parts: i)I barely made a dent in my gargantuan wedge of Sticky Toffee Pudding ( for a moment I thought I’d accidentally ordered a sharing plate ), ii) my associate’s Ham, Egg and Chips seemed to do the business, and iii) I laughed like a drain.

And I  had 3 pints of Hobson’s Choice. Which was lovely.

Cheers, B x

http://www.redlionhinxton.co.uk

Fussy Hussy

Anyone clock the Observer Food Monthly’s ”Fussy Eater” yesterday? Jesus. An abstinent foodie with a preference for faffing about.  Thinks a lot about eating but doesn’t seem to like it much. A vegetarian – she’s either that, religious or just doesn’t like bacon - who is nevertheless happy to bite into raw fish so long as she’s not required to use her teeth. Who is pro-choice but anti-flavour. Wheat-free but willing to ingest gluten if you can guarantee she won’t feel fat afterwards. No onions. No this. No that. No fun for heaven’s sake, it might make me dizzy.

I’ve accomodated people with real – not preferential, real - dietary requirements. Most of those with allergies are appreciative of everything you do to help. Many resent their predicament so refuse to accept the chef could have done with a head’s up. This one isn’t allergic though. Ascerbic, yes. But not allergic. Don’t ask if she’s allergic. If she has to have that conversation one more time she will, ironically,  ’chew her foot off’.

I’m not fussy, she’ll say as she limps into your restaurant, it’s just that we don’t understand. Well I think I get it. You’re insane.

Mothers Meat Eating

Inside The Chequers

There would be a lot of deep breaths and puffing of cheeks. Like I was about to bungee. Then we’d huddle up and I’d remind everybody that you get judged on occasions. Then I’d vomit. Mother’s Day. The military planning, the screaming kids, the disapproving looks from those whose Old Girl’s a bit hard of hearing, and the first one since 2004 that I’ve been out for lunch rather than serving it. My Mother’s passed, bless her,  but wild horses weren’t going to stop me from latching on to willing surrogates, logging on to Moonpig and dishing out the handmade truffles. I’m catching up on lost time. Over three courses. And this is the Chequers in Ettington.

The screaming kids are with us and are banging the keys on the house joanna. Just when I thought the exuberance was  subsiding and the tomato pasta arrives, my niece tries vocally to out me as a sex pest. Of course I’m not but I’m no less inclined to call a taxi.

The menu was wisely and commercially reserved in its scope. A crowd pleaser, classic and comforting and designed to take the pressure off the kitchen. If I ran this Pub, though, I’d be hiking the prices up; the food’s really pretty good. My Smoked Tuna Loin with Chilli Roasted Peppers and Rocket was worth at least a quid more than the £6.50 it cost. The fish was rare and there was plenty of it. The very fashionable  Goats Cheese, Aubergine and Pine Nut Bruschetta was also hearty enough that its £5.75 tag, despite its simple make up, was obscenely good value.

The Lightly Battered Fish (£10.95) was massive and came with sufficient hand cut chips and pea puree that its sole recipient (ha ha, sole recipient) was flagging long before afters were mooted. At £12 the roasts were belting, if a bit underwhelming – here again I’d stick another slice on and up the retail - and I’d question the fact that I was not just able but hungry to have dessert. I was promised medium-rare, mind you, and I got it. That age old ‘veg on the side or on the plate?’ chestnut was thrown on the campfire too. As a concept I do enjoy the familial collaboration that is passing the carrots, but the visual impact of the main course does pale when it arrives incomplete.

All puddings ( all about £5) seemed to be  a success. The treacle tart went down like a dime-store hooker but my Brownie would have benefited from some warmth. That said, I absolutely nailed it. The kids all ate for a fiver and, to an infant, were happy with their lot. I was actually  jealous of the Fish Fingers before one was regurgitated, at which point I resumed being happy with mine. 

The Chequers as a venue is fine if a bit contrived – the reproduction french furniture needs wearing in to appear less so - and having taken little ‘un for a number one, I can confirm the Johns to be well equipped and clean. There’s a marvellously tended garden out back too – it just wasn’t quite barmy enough to sit in it. The welcome from the staff was ever so slightly tepid but I have to say I think when you’re expecting a full house and there’s a second sitting  to factor in, their priority is to get the show on the road. At table they were smiley, accommodating and efficient, and the food all came out in good time that we were able to vacate on schedule. That there were so many on, I think, was to facilitate these handovers. Intent as I am on making them money, though, they could have managed a floor that size with at least one less.

The most local ale, Hook Norton, was in good form although if I wanted a creamflow I wouldn’t have as many friends as I do.  The wine, an Argentininan Malbec, was £20 and well received by all that partook. We had two bottles.

Factor in Father’s heroic commando roll, pulled off inadvertantly in the process of stopping a toddler running head first into oncoming traffic, this really did seem to be Mother’s Day. It certainly wasn’t mine. I mean, lunch was terrific, but no one likes to be slandered, least of all labelled a flasher. Not by a two year old. Not in front of her Granny. But, so long as anyone in earshot bought my protestations, and I absolutely maintain my innocence, I’ll be back. If nothing else to show those ham-fisted scamps how I roll on the ivories. Then call me Jerry Lee Lewis.

http://www.the_chequers_ettington.co.uk

Forward March

Pubs. Big ones, small ones. Ones that do food. Well, mainly ones that do food because let’s face it, I’m going to need a snack soon to soak up this anti-depressant. A scotch egg, maybe. Or some Piper’s. Have you got Piper’s?

I’ve accrued honorary floor miles over time. I’ve earwigged on more horsepiss than you’ve had blue WKD, and while my ears are still bleeding from the offensively ill-judged guff that would hang about the bar long after everyone had supped up and gone home, it wasn’t without learning a thing or two.

I ran a Pub and Restaurant. Met some truly delightful characters, too. Never really regarded it as a skill, being nice to people, but you’d be amazed at how it sorts the wheat from the chaff when a recession hits. Particularly when coupled with a consistently high standard of output – of well cooked, unfussy and good value food, considered choices of product and staff, and a comfortable, welcoming environment.

It’s the Good Pub Guide’s National Dining Pub of the Year for 2010, by the way, so what appears here over the course of the coming weeks and months ought to be qualified. But feel free to tell me otherwise.

Pleasure being online with you…