A break with tradition
Above: The Lygon Arms
I have to admit, I love tradition.
Perhaps it’s in the blood. The most traditional person in my family was Great Uncle Ernest who died, aged nearly 101, ten years ago now. He was one of the last survivors of The Somme and refused to speak about his experiences until the last couple of years of his life when, with almost total recall, he told me of trekking along the roads of France, dead horses lining the route, to get to the front line. One of his fellow soldiers was so petrified, he twice ran off, screaming. The first time, he was brought back into line. The second time, they took him away, never to be seen again. The whispered rumours among the troops told of ‘cowards’ being strapped to wheels and left out for hours in the heat of the sun.
Great Uncle E had worked in the railways – a reserved profession – but got fed up of women handing out white feathers. Most reserved industries supplied their workers with badges but, for some reason, the railways didn’t do that. When he finally went to enlist in March 1915, aged just 18, he found his younger brother had joined up illegally at 16 by using his birth certificate. As a result, he had temporarily to change his name to Albert.
I knew him in his later years, when his home was full of homemade fudge and butter shortbread, and a gong was struck to summon us to dinner every night. He was unfailingly courteous and always raised his hat to ladies he passed in the street. Alongside his beautiful manners, he could also be alarmingly cantankerous.
When he died, we came across an ancient French phrase book he’d used during his many travels. Probably more useful as an ABC of how to cause a diplomatic incident, it teemed with handy sentences such as, “I say! This is a first-class carriage so kindly leave at once”; and “Hang it! I do believe you are sitting in my seat. Vacate it this instant.”
Every lunchtime, he’d take a taxi to his favourite restaurant – always somewhere steeped in tradition – at noon, on the dot. This is his birthday month so, as a kind of pilgrimage, we decided to dine somewhere he’d have approved of.
So it was we ventured out to Broadway on what felt like a typical midsummer’s day (it was tipping down with rain). He’d have loved The Lygon Arms, with its old-fashioned courtesy and attentiveness. There are proper cupboards to hang your coats in; there are people all over the show to lead you to the bar, take your booking, give you vital bits of information about the area. But – and this is probably the best bit – it’s had some hefty sums of money poured into it to bring it up to 21st century standards. Nor have they popped into MFI to achieve it: craftsmen have been drafted in to make sure the flagstone floors, stone mullions and wood panelling are expertly renovated.
Well, you can’t muck around with history like this. Although the first mention of it seems to date from 1532, you can confidently bet it stretches even further back in time. There’s a stone fireplace in one of the bedrooms that has every appearance of 14th century artistry. That would make sense. Richard II, a son of the Black Prince, was on the throne at the time, whose crest was a white hart. That was the name of the inn until the middle of the 19th century when it was changed to honour the Waterloo veterans Captain Henry and Colonel Edward Pyndar Lygon who bought it.
Will Shakespeare stayed here, apparently, on his way between London and Stratford theatres. Indeed, if Great Uncle E were to be picky, it would be an historical gripe. The Lygon might term it ‘neutrality’ but allowing Charles I to pop in and meet his supporters on May 9, 1645 – via a hidden, spiral staircase is one thing; but then to open your doors to Cromwell on September 2, 1651 – the night before the Battle of Worcester – smacks of indecisiveness.
But that’s a small criticism, especially when you consider that lunch here costs an eminently reasonable £12 for two courses, £18 for three. Nor does anyone appear to have skimped in the process. We’re served terrine of chicken and artichokes and a crisp beignet of French Brie on roasted Granny Smiths to begin with. And that’s followed by pan-fried breast of guinea fowl, and a seared fillet of Scottish salmon topped with a brioche and lemon crust. It was all first class and excellent value (though considering neither of us chose the third dish – a vegetarian risotto – it was irksome that that was the one to arrive with a silver cover the waiter removed with a theatrical flourish.)
We snubbed the crème brulée and went for the mint chocolate chip iced parfait with brandy snap – which was fine – and a baked mulled berry and rice pudding crumble with ice cream that was fab.
With a post-prandial tea at £3.60 and a filter coffee at £4 – plus a bottle of wine – it’s quite easy to swamp the price of your meal. But we had to raise a glass to Great Uncle E.