SCOTT'S

UP ON THE HILL
PEOPLE NEVER STARE

I was travelling home on the tube doing my usual thousand-yard eye stare just zoning out after a hard days work when someone asked me if I was alright because I looked a bit out of it. I was tempted to ask the staff at the newly opened Scott’s the same question. My arrival was greeted by that same stare except in their case it was over my shoulder, presumably in case someone more important hove into view.

Scott’s is another offering from the Caprice group (Ivy, J Sheekey, Le Caprice) and is a refurb of the original Scott’s established over a hundred years ago. It’s located on Mount Street in an area so tony it makes Manhattan’s Upper East Side look like Upper Clapton. If you have the odd mill lying around you could probably afford a garage…with a short lease. In fitting with the surroundings the frontage of the restaurant is very classy as well with a doorman and everything. The lovely art deco theme is continued when you enter the room. I half expected to see a hair-slicked Larry or Johnny swan in arm-in-arm. Instead I got hedgehogs with their trout-pout girlfriends and the heady scent of money mixed with Botox.

After managing to getting the staff’s attention I was shown to a nice spot at the large central bar. There are some tables dotted around and a more formal space at the back but the bar is the place to be if you want to check out what’s going on. Although this was mostly meeting-and-greeting with lashings of air-kissing thrown in and a zero celebrity count.

Once seated I got a small pitcher of tap, some tough (as old boots) bread and a small tray with, bizarrely, pork scratchings (!), olives and nuts which I nibbled with a glass of chilled albarino while perusing the menu. And a very nice menu it is too. Mostly fish and shellfish based but with a smattering of meat dishes. It’s similar to, but larger than the one at J Sheekey's.

From a good selection of oysters I went for six natives accompanied by some spicy sausages. The sausages were ok but not particularly spicy, the natives were tip-top, as they usually are.

I decided to fit in a proper starter in the form of a double fried egg with some baby squid in a squid ink sauce. This was rather good: the egg perfectly cooked (not fried twice rather a double yolked egg fried er…once) the squid lightly cooked, fresh and clean-tasting, the sauce a winning amalgam of squid ink and olive oil. I like dishes like this a lot.

I resisted the temptation to fit in a portion of deep fried sprats and went straight to a main course of slip soles cooked in shrimp butter. A lovely dish that would have been even better if it wasn’t served directly after my starter. Instead of whipping it away there was some sort of bizarre fine dining standoff between the waiter, the man behind the bar and myself. Eventually, I offered to take it then. To be fair they did offer to cook me a fresh main but I didn’t want to send back a perfectly good dish. I also had some ordinary chips and a micro-dish of soggy greens. The slip soles were great though, all rich meaty flesh and sweet brown shrimps.

It seemed a shame to come all this way and not have a pud so I had a sloe gin jelly which with the sugar-frosted sloes on top was a nice finish to the the eating part of the meal. There was a bit more drinking to do though as I was comped a glass of dessert wine and then followed up with an excellent double espresso and grappa combo (well of course I did).

When eventually I hauled my body off my bar stool and out the door there was no farewell from the many staff - they were all far too busy. A complete contrast to St. Alban where the service was exceptionally friendly, even to a civilian like me. Still, an enjoyable evening recommended for good food but indifferent service (apart from the chap behind the bar who was very good).

To walk it all off I decided to go via Oxford Street to take in the 'world-famous’ Christmas lights. Oh dear. Back to reality and how.

PS Apologies to any residents of Upper Clapton for any offence I may have caused by comparing their lovely neighbourhood to the hellhole that is the UES

THE HAT & FEATHERS: TOO MANY SPLODGES SPOIL THE COOK

KEEP REMINDING YOURSELF IT’S ONLY A PUB

There is a Wes Craven film ( I think ) called “ The Last House on The Left” if I recall rightly, the hook line was “ Keep Reminding yourself it’s only a film”

I am not sure why, but a riff on that line was running through my head all evening as I “ enjoyed” a meal at the Hat & Feathers

I suspect that it is because the restaurant at The Hat & Feathers is one of the more misconceived horror shows I can recall in a very long time.

Pseudo Fine dining in a raucous pub environment. It’s the future you know?

KEEP REMINDING YOURSELF IT IS ONLY A PUB

It’s not that the chef doesn’t have skills. In fact he is so in love with his technique that there are more splodges on the plates than on a Jackson Pollack. However, you never need much reminding that a few feet away downstairs the biggest decision being made is between Starporamen and Fosters ( substitute any two pissy lagers as required )

The nature of any room above a pub is that it is going to be, well, a little loud. That’s fine. It’s the nature of the beast and, as long as one realises that serving a meal that needs much level of contemplation is going to be a bit silly, one should be fine. The Fox gets it right, so, to a lesser extent does The Princess and The Sutton Arms ( excuse me while I have a quiet moment…………….. that’s better ) was the perfect example. Good simple food from great ingredients not screwed around with.

No one has obviously explained this to the good folk at The Hat & Feathers.

And, they are good folk. Very nice indeed. From the moment I arrived and managed to get through the packed bar by shouting “ There is a sale on at Suits 4 You” until it cleared, the staff were very friendly if not hugely efficient. Unfortunately, they seem to be labouring under the weight of false expectations both of their location and their clientele.

KEEP REMINDING YOURSELF ITS ONLY A PUB.

The room upstairs is laid out for higher things. Linen table cloths and multiple glasses show you that they do not want this taken as a Gastro pub. Heaven forfend. The menu the same. A few foams here, a bit of orange powder there. This is not a cook, this is a chef and you’d better damn well take notice.

Shame then that he seems to put smears and splodges above ingredients.

With two courses for £22.95 and the temerity of a wine pairing, you need to deliver decent cooking and great sourcing. This did a bit of one and none of the other.

Bread was of the " why bother if you are not going to get good stuff?" variety.

A starter of a confit duck salad with beetroot and parmesan was off the mark. The leaves were limp having been dressed too early, the duck was dry and stringy, the beets soft and the crisp, well not crisp. To compound matters someone had thought it was a good idea to lace the whole thing with a good dose of truffle oil to the extent that you could taste little else. Indeed, I am still tasting it now.

The wine pairing with this was a Rioja. It tasted of, well, truffle oil.

KEEP REMINDING YOURSELF ITS ONLY A PUB

The main course was a slow roasted fillet of beef with anchovy crumb and horseradish.

The beef was perfectly cooked but it had as much taste as a lottery winning navvy. The rest of the plate was like a crash scene of the chef’s cleverness. A smear here, a bit of jelly there, a splosh there. It might have held up, if well done in a quieter environment but not in a place where your every mouthful is punctuated by shrieks of “ you would, wouldn’t you?” from below.

There was a £3 supplement. It didn’t go on buying the beef.

KEEP REMINDING YOURSELF ITS ONLY A PUB.

I fancied a pudding. Well, it’s Christmas and it’s been an odd year, so I deserve it.

The waitress said if she had to eat one pudding it would be the Banana Split. So, She was cute. Who am I to argue?

Well, of course, it had to be a Banana Split with a twist. A banana mousse, some vanilla ice cream, a dried banana slice crisp, and a few drops of chocolate sauce. Not actively bad, just misjudged. You want to give a real twist on a Banana Split? Just make one properly. Don’t give me your smooth cheffy stylings on a Banana Split theme. For Heaven’s sake.

KEEP REMINDING YOURSELF ITS ONLY A PUB.

I got the bill at the same time. With service of 12.5% it came to £43. A lot to pay for cooking that wants to show it is clever without ever being able to show it is intelligent.

But, what do I know? The pub was packed and the restaurant was pretty full too. Although, I wonder how many people will stagger upstairs after a too many pints extolling “ I just fancy a plate of Salmon Bonito Potatoes, candied fennel, coriander and pine nut oil”

Not me.

DOS HERMANOS OOP NORTH: DAY THREE – THE FINAL MEAL

They call Yorkshire God’s own country and they are not wrong. It really is preternaturally beautiful and, when I woke up even more bleary eyed than the day before ( if such were possible ) I took the opportunity of a short stroll with Paul the three miles to the Priory and back and reminded myself why I am pleased to be a Yorkshire lad. Even if I do come frm the grimy end.

Before all of this, of course, another brekkie. Made this time by Andy who had volunteered his services to give Sarah a break. Nice chap. Splendid it was too. Excellent free range eggs run through with herbs and some of the best black pudding I have tried anywhere. Just right to set me up for the walk and some fresh air.

By the time we returned, The Blacksmith’s Inn was in full Sunday Lunch effect and Gary was on the owner’s side of the bar pulling pints like a man born to it. Sarah was whizzing around welcoming the early lunch guests and Hermano Primero? Well, he was propping up the bar and already a pint of Tim Taylor’s to the good.

Paul was ready for the off by now and headed off in his little Weeble wagon across the Pennines to Hale which left DH on our own to gird our loins and enjoy a traditional Sunday lunch of pork or beef which Andy had topped and tailed with a few extra courses just in case we had not eaten enough over the weekend.

Watching the plates of roast meats coming out to the other diners, I thought I would struggle to even start let alone finish the splendid looking portions, but one taste of a butternut squash soup with a surprise chunk of black pudding at the bottom had my appetite up and running and ready for battle.

Next up, a forcemeat ball wrapped in blanched cabbage which reminded me of the Golobki my Polish ex used to cook for me. This was stuffed with pheasant and chicken livers, served on a celeriac mash and topped with some splendid wild mushrooms. A meal in itself.

But no. We had more to come. A chunk of coley came encased in a batter made with Tim Taylor’s and sat on top of a perfect pea puree. As a little extra Andy had added a tender scallop with some home made ketchup.

Then to the main event. We had both chosen pork although the beef looked pretty fine too. What we got was a huge slab of Berkshire with great crackling around it and some spectacular duck fat roasted potatoes. Andy had also thrown in a huge Yorkshire pudding which was crisp on the outside and soft on the inside as it should be. As if this were not enough there was yet one more slice of that incredible sea salt crackling for which I had developed an almost obscene affection on Friday.

We had pudding. How we managed it I shall never know, but we did. Some rather good home made ice creams of which a toffee apple one was the star.

By the time we had finished off all this lot, downed the last of a very agreeable St Emilion and a small snifter, we were ready for the off.

By now it was the end of service. Gary was still pulling pints for the last remaining guests. Andy was giving someone the benefit of his forthright opinions and Sarah, well, of course, she was still hard at work probably fumigating our vacated rooms, poor love.

The journey home was, shall we say, an interesting one and the antediluvian nature of the train tracks on the under funded rail network gave me regular reminders of how much we had eaten over the last few days

But it was worth it. Worth it to see Yorkshire in all its winter sunlight splendour. Worth it to try a few new restaurants. Some good, some more mixed. But, most of all it was worth it to see Gary again, meet the lovely Sarah and to encounter Andy. All passionate about making this as enjoyable experience for everyone as possible.

If they ever did an encyclopaedic definition of the perfect weekend in the perfect country restaurant with rooms, they should just show a picture of The Blacksmith’s Inn.

DOS HERMANOS OOP NORTH: DAY TWO (EVENING EDITION) THE RED CHILLI

Post Anthony’s we obviously were going to be a little bit peckish so had taken the precaution of booking a supper reservation at The Red Chilli, one of the most talked about Chinese restaurants in the country and one which specialises in food from Beijing and Sichuan.

We had a few hours to kill so we decided to take in a few local galleries before heading to catch an early carol service.

Nah, just kidding. We went to a few pubs. All pretty horrible as it happens although why we expected pubs in the centre of Leeds on the busiest Saturday of the year to be beacons of genteel hostelry I have no idea.

Anyway, we made it through to 8pm without being glassed (which, if you have looked at the picture of Paul’s gurning fizzog you will acknowledge is a feat in itself) and we headed off to The Red Chilli.

I am not sure why Gary let us book this place given that it was a long way removed from the normal Chinese offerings in this part of the world. It was perfect for me and HP but the two more white bread of our company squawked like little girlies when they saw some of the things on the menu and, after much argument during which I swear Gary asked for sweetcorn soup and a crispy duck, we managed to reach some sort of compromise.

However, the truth is we were so drunk by this time that it would not have mattered what we ordered and, if truth be told, I cannot recall many of the dishes except for the fact that they were searingly hot.

I do remember some very good cold five spice beef to begin served with some excellent salt & pepper squid and “wonder” chicken shreds.

Main courses involved some pretty decent ribs and a couple of fiery hot pot dishes from their “home style” menu which had us all sweating like a fat kid on a cross country run.

Gary and Paul were pretty out of it by this stage ( so we were DH but I have pictures to prove their wimpishness while we can use the defence of Corpus delicti ) and much of the food went uneaten.

I am unsure how we got home but, we did. I think it involved a train and a cab and lots of over exaggerated “shush”s with fingers over lips in the style of a Laurel & Hardy film as Gary made sure we did not wake up Sarah who by now was probably having a well earned shut eye.

Mmm, too much too drink and a meal consisting almost entirely of chilli? I closed my eyes and tried hard not to think of the inevitable consequences in the morning.

DOS HERMANOS OOP NORTH: DAY TWO ( MORNING EDITION ) ANTHONY'S LEEDS.

I never imagined that running a restaurant would be easy work, but I also, never imagined that it would be quite as gruelling as it appeared the next morning.

Let’s just stop for a brief moment and pay tribute to Sarah Marshall. Through out our visit she put up with three drunken forty some things and her husband lurching through her precious domain with unfailing good humour and cheeriness.

She also seems to have discovered the secret of perpetual motion as, for the whole time we were there, I do not think I saw her stop for a moment. From the second I dragged myself out of bed and sat across the breakfast table from a bleary eyed Paul, she was a non stop dynamo. She made and served breakfast to the paying guests, cleaned up afterwards, moved to the guesthouse and cleaned the rooms, put the laundry on, re set all the tables for lunch and, before we left for Leeds, I am pretty sure I saw her wielding a vacuum cleaner with frightening efficiency.

Truly, she is hewn from that material which makes the Northern woman a very special creature indeed.

The breakfast was splendid and set me and Paul up for a little wander around the village and a brief jaunt to Kirkby Priory. All very welcome after the excess of the day before and the horrors of the day to come. When we got back after our walk Robin was up and about but there was no sign of Gary. It transpired that he had managed, in his drunken state the night before, to leave his keys behind the bar and lock himself in their living area. Numerous phone calls down to the bar where we were gassing achieved little and he was about to launch himself from the kitchen window before we realised what was going on and had Sarah come and rescue him which she did with the words “ bless” as if this was not an irregular occurrence.

By 11.30am, we were ready to head off for the next round of restauranting and caught a taxi to York and a train to Leeds which Robin, quite accurately, identified as “ The Shoplifter Special” By 1pm we were banging of the door of

ANTHONY’S
Anthony Flinn began cooking at his eponymous restaurant about three years ago and was, quite rightly, showered with accolades and singled out as one of the brightest and best of young cooks in the country. The front of house presence of his father and wife added to a level of professionalism that made this one of the destination restaurants in the country.

They aimed high for a star and, shamefully, did not receive one. I suspect this took the wind out of their sails a little and they now seem to be to be consolidating the business by opening other outlets like an impressive looking patisserie in the town centre.

I had not been for well over a year and was concerned that the failure to get a star and the distraction of new businesses would mean that the main restaurant had lost its edge. This was compounded on arriving by the news that, despite proclamations to the contrary on the website, Anthony would not be cooking our lunch but leaving it to his second chef.

Now his second has worked at Champignon Sauvage so must know what he is doing, but this is not his food and he cannot have the same connection to it as the man who created the menu.

So it was. Don’t get me wrong, this was a meal of a very high standard but there was a certain lack of attention to detail and an absence of the “ wow” factor which spoke of a place which has hit the wall and is struggling to maintain the passion it once displayed.

The service, led by Olga was as spot on as ever and we took little time in deciding to take the whole table on the tasting tour for £60 a head for nine courses.

A small amuse of a swede veloute had a surprise blueberry at the bottom of the cup which did not altogether work. What did work, though was a delicious crumble of brown shrimp with a pistachio top. Lovely.

I always look forward to the bread here which is some of the best on offer anywhere and even more enjoyable when served with Anthony’s spectacular butters and a lawny olive oil. I recall it being warm. Here it was stone cold. Either this is my memory serving me poorly or the restaurant doing the same. I think it was the latter and is an example of some slippage.

A perfect white onion risotto was topped by Parmesan “air” ( these boys and their foam guns, eh?) and dried espresso flakes ( not for me because of my allergy to coffee ) I am uncertain that the foam added much to what was an otherwise superlative rice dish.

My star dish of the meal was a small sliver of seared tuna on top of a slice of ham hock terrine with pickled garlic.

Each dish came with a small sprinkle of micro greenery which was not for pure decoration but, in each case, added to the final taste. With the tuna came some Rock chives which Paul in his sole contribution to the culinary landscape declared as “ ah, oniony” Bocuse, he ain’t.

Annoyingly, two or three of the dishes were subject to hugely aggressive seasoning to the point of being almost inedible. A Venison carpaccio with home made black pudding came with a skewer of tiny squid that were so over salted, my diastolic levels almost went through the roof. A shame as it was a clever idea for a dish ruined by poor execution.

Another high point next, a chunk of cod with wild rice and a cannelloni of crab and pork came with yet another foam, but in this case it did not detract from the quality of the ingredients.

A breast of squab with a macaroon made of foie and vanilla was an interesting if not altogether successful combination. Gary felt his squab was too rare to finish and both HP and I dived in at the same time to make sure nothing went to waste.

We had two dessert courses, one was amongst the most memorable of the year, the other was too but for all the wrong reasons.

A chestnut custard was topped with a beurre noisette ice cream and a slick of croissant veloute. Stunning. The veloute was like a sweet liquid bread pudding. I could have devoured a huge bowl of it for breakfast.

A flop though was yet another cannelloni, this time made with a malt loaf surround and stuffed with caramel. Put simply, it just didn’t work. The malt loaf thingy was actually quite nasty.

Petits were as good as ever but, shamefully, they did not have fresh mint tea only offering a bag. I never quite understand this. They can spend ages growing these extraordinary micro greens but can’t get any mint. Ho hum.

With snifters before and after and Gary making sure he got through their stock of Riesling and Chorle Le Beaune, the bill was about £110 per head which included a charge for the exemplary and friendly service.

As I said, there is no way that this could ever be described as a bad meal and indeed there were some parts of it that were up with the best I have ever had there. There was however little to raise an eyebrow, nothing that spoke of the imagination of this hugely intelligent cook. More it had all the hallmarks of a menu designed to be cooked by a talented second chef when the main man was not in occupation and to offend as few people as possible.

It spoke of freewheeling rather than pedalling furiously and Anthony Flinn is capable of better. So much better.

DOS HERMANOS OOP NORTH: DAY ONE ( EVENING EDITION )
The evening began with the unlikely sight of four overgrown men hurtling along country lanes in a close fitting Nissan Micra. We looked like four Weebles , although, unlike that bestselling toy we were perfectly capable by now of both wobbling and falling down ( not Paul, of course, designated driver and all that )

Finally, after some distinctly mumbled directions from mine host, we arrived at The Blacksmith Inn,

Well, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see why they leapt at the opportunity to buy the place. It is beautiful, set in a tiny North Yorkshire village and surrounded by countryside straight out of “ All Creatures Great & Small”

The “pub” is really now a restaurant with rooms and it is obvious that it is a palpable hit with the locals as the place was rammed to the rafters and Sarah was in full effect marshalling her young brood of servers to get enormo portions of terrific looking food from kitchen to table lickety split.

Despite the fact that Gary had an accident as a child that leaves him unable to drink any beer other than Fosters, he keeps a fine old cellar of well kept real ales and both the Black Sheep and Tim Taylor’s added to the day's excesses without hitting the sides.

Sarah had put by a lovely table for us and we collapsed down to enjoy a little tasting menu prepared by chef, Andy Porter.

Let’s take a moment to discuss Andy shall we? Gary had told us he was a top notch chef with rosettes up the wazoo from former places of employment. He was right, this is a very serious chef who is capable of star level. Gary also told us that Andy was capable of talking the hind legs off a donkey in his enthusiasm for his ingredients. True again. He was happy to spend a great deal of time talking, not about himself, but about the quality of the ingredients he was able to find in this northern location. The mark of a true chef, in my humble opinion.

What Gary did not tell us is that Andy is also one of the funniest men on the planet. With that level of inbuilt grumpyness that only a true Yorkshire curmudgeon can have, the weekend was peppered with conversations in which Andy gave forth on everything and anything.

“ramblers? F**k ‘em. They come in here wanting to spend four pound and they want a drink for that. Yet they’ll spend £250 on a f**king Kagoul and a sat nav system. Where they going walking? The f**king moon?”

If anyone out there is looking for the next great celebrity TV chef, they could do a lot worse than talking to Andy. He’d be a sensation. Sort of Peter Kaye meets Gary Rhodes.

Let none of this detract from the fact that Andy can cook up a right storm as they say up North. The tasting menu was probably our best meal of the weekend ( and we had a few more to come ) and you could see the passion in the attention to detail.

Cream of Pig’s trotter with garden pea soup came with a big slab of confit bacon and a black pudding fritter.

Even better ( what better than black pudding?) was a sauté of exceptional wild mushrooms with baby spinach leaves, a perfect poached quail’s egg and a tarragon hollandaise. The egg was cooked exactly right so it broke to form a smooth coating over the mushrooms.

Cod with a celeriac puree came with cockles and some of the best tasting young leeks I can recall.

The main event was a big old chunk of rare breed pork with a pig cheek risotto, some locally made pancetta, another slab of that spectacular black pudding and a scrumpy reduction. Laid on top was the finest crackling either of DH had ever tried.

Gary told us that Andy wanted to cook the sort of things that Gary Rhodes would have cooked when he was good ( at The Castle, I guess ) Well, that era GR is my ultimate food hero so that is, as they annoyingly say on TV football commentary these days, “ a big ask” but this is as close as I can recall anyone getting to it. Local ingredients not fannied around with.

By Andy’s own admission, the only weak spot was the dessert where a tatin missed the mark primarily because the apples had not been peeled. I would have been just as happy to be given a big bowl of their exemplary house made vanilla ice cream which was riddled with seeds from the pod.

Gary chose the wine and I have no idea what it was. Let me guess, a Burgundy?

It’s worth bearing in mind that, while all of this was going on, Andy with help from one other cook and a couple of KP’s was banging out 40+ covers from a small kitchen. All the dishes from Steak with triple cooked chips to the Beer Battered Coley could have taken my fancy.

By this time though we were all a bit, well merry and the day had caught up with us. HP and Paul talked amiably but without coherence for half an hour and I did the same with Andy before we disappeared off to our rooms to suffer a night of inevitable consequences.

A good first day Oop North.

DOS HERMANOS OOP NORTH: DAY ONE ( MORNING EDITION )
There can be few moments in a man’s life to touch the sheer joy of hearing that a friend has bought a pub. Sure, the birth of a first born must come pretty close and those first inelegant fumblings with a person of the opposite genital grouping are fun to remember. But, a mate, buying a pub! It’s paydirt. It’s solid gold at the bottom of the pan. It’s marrying an 80yr old woman with millions in the bank, a weak heart and a gorgeous daughter with low moral standards. It’s everything a boy could wish for.

So, when a chum of ours Gary and his lovely (and long suffering) wife, Sarah announced that they were going to buy The Blacksmith’s Arms in Westow, near York it was a cause for celebration among many of the male members of the food loving community.

We had not had chance to pay them a visit in the year since they opened and decided to rectify that fact by giving up our traditional December trip to Madrid and, instead, heading to the cold, bleak North to pay them an oh so welcome visit.

DH, of course did not want to do this by half measures though and Gary took little persuading to join us as we compiled a formidable list of restaurants to sample during a trip of little over forty eight hours. Given that he lives not so terribly far away and originally hails from York, we also invited my best mate, Paul. Well, he doesn’t get out much these days.

The trip up to York on Day One was harmless enough and by 1pm we had hooked up with Gary, sampled a pint at the tiny Blue Bell Inn and found ourselves at a pleasant table at our first restaurant.

J BAKERS
Jeff Baker spent ten years at Poole Court in Leeds where he was awarded a Michelin Star. After the grind of that he had every right to choose the ‘downsize” option and his bistro modern in York is the result.

An odd hybrid of simple food with an odd twist, he has not entirely lost touch with his “cheffy” roots and seems inordinately fond of his foam gun. That being said, it was more hit than miss and proved a good start to a weekend of premeditated over indulgence.

To begin, not counting the most parsimonious bowl of nuts in living memory, we shared two of their “ Grazing Plates” offering a selection of the starters. The highlights being and exceptionally good Whitby crab salad and a small cup of Mulligatawny soup. Less impressive was a plate of overcooked venison strips which were cold and chewy.

After taking the edge off our appetite, we dived into their set lunch menu which, again was more hit than miss. A terrine was suitably chunky and not served fridge fresh which is a good thing and all too rare these days. That being said, Gary’s smoked salmon was really not great. It turned out to be a mousse topped with unnecessary conserve of some fruit or other which totally destroyed any flavour from the fish.

We all opted for the “ Xmas Feast” which again came with lots of “I am a chef and I have a hankering to prove it” touches. Some worked very well. Some really did not. A small venison pie was staggeringly good and cut through with offal which gave a fantastic kick. The ‘chipolata” was made from turkey breast and tasted great when I had scraped the slightly pointless parsnip foam from the top of it. The pie apart, I think the others enjoyed it more than me. Mind you, as we were now on our third bottle of wine it’s hard to recall what we thought.

Desserts were, to labour the point, a curate’s egg of a selection. A fruit salady thing was non descript and a Xmas pudding “ cigar” was too dense and chewy. Best of the bunch was HP’s cheese selection which came with yet another foam, this time a shandy foam which, in some strange way, actually worked rather well. Like eating the head off a good pint of beer with a spoon.

The bill was about £50 a head ( I think ) which is more a testament to our ability to order than to the prices which were more than reasonable.

A mixed bag of a place but I can see myself going back there.

Paul was joining us later and had offered to drive into York and be our taxi back to Westow. Good man. So, we headed off to try a few pubs until he arrived, only distracted by Scott’s Butchers. A York institution where, after a long chat with the guy behind the counter, we were given, free, gratis and for nowt, three of their legendary pork pies. Result.

Being good friends, we of course kept one for Paul although I thought the fact he is married to a Jewish vegetarian would mean he would graciously refuse and the three of us could tuck in without the taint of guilt.

No such luck. The gusto with which he attacked this product of the pig ( see the last picture ) will have him shunned by both those communities in a matter of days. Quite right too. Everyone knows that the second pie is the best.