A frightfully British affair
Above: The restaurant at Lower Slaughter Manor
You have to marvel at Rob Scott, the restaurant manger of Lower Slaughter Manor. For never once does his charming smile turn into a rigor-mortis-type grimace. Even when dealing with the American family at the table next to ours.
“What would you like to drink?” he asks Kid Number One.
“What have you got?” Kid Number One recalcitrantly drawls.
“A whole bar-ful, Sir,” the admirable Mr Scott replies. “Ginger beer, lemonade, apple juice, orange juice, pineapple juice…” (Kid Number One does the mental equivalent of drumming his fingers on the cloth and rolling his eyes (though, equally, these could just be hamburger-withdrawal symptoms).)
“…banana juice, strawberry, cranberry, blackcurrant…”
“I’ll have a Fanta.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have Fanta – but we do have orange juice and lemonade!”
You could cut the atmosphere with a Hershey bar. But, honestly! If you’re visiting a country house hotel such as this, you really should know to bring your own fructose corn syrup, sodium benzoate, and dioctyl sodium sulfosuccinate with you.
Freshly-squeezed orange juice? Tch!
Mr Scott turns to Kid Number Two. “And what can I get you to drink?”
“What have you got?”
If there are times when the staff of Lower Slaughter Manor feel as if they’ve wandered on to the set of Groundhog Day, then they don’t show it. But what makes me want to walk past these American dumplings and cuff them, while pretending I’d tripped, is that I’ve been to plenty of places where it’s perfectly permissible to be rude to the staff – mainly because they started it.
But this isn’t one of them.
Reader, take a deep breath. After a series of bitter disappointments that were in danger of making me retreat to my dining room clothed in my wedding dress with only a mouldering cake for company, here is somewhere good; a place where the glorious façade of the (basically) 17th century house is complemented by the best of 21st century courtesy and service.
It’s one of the out-and-out pleasures of the place. You’re greeted with a smile and, for those occasional guests blessed with a sense of humour, a feeling that you’re in on the gentlest of jokes.
The hallway is immaculately set out; the daily newspapers lined up; the furniture beautifully polished. A waiter turns up on cue with pre-luncheon drinks; the restaurant manager introduces not only himself, but names the waitress who will be looking after you. All this for a set price of £23.50 – and you get a three-course lunch, too!
The dining room’s pretty gorgeous – all decked out in chocolate brown in a way that manages to negotiate a path between stuffily traditional and nail-screechingly modern.
The waiting staff aren’t local – they’re from Poland – but they’re not only well-trained, they’re also extremely good company. When Roxanna accidentally spills a neutrino of our excellent-value £26 Australian Shiraz, she holds out her finger dramatically by way of explanation. “I hurt it yesterday,” she announces, in the faux-tragic tones of Olivier’s Hamlet... Well, we thought it was funny – but maybe you had to be there.
The lunch menu (you can just opt for two courses at £17.50) offers a choice of four dishes in each category. We have a wild mushroom soup, followed by breast of corn-fed chicken with thyme jus and fondant potato; and in the other corner, a chicken liver parfait and spiced foie gras with toasted brioche; and pan-fried beef fillet strips with a roasted flat mushroom and chateau potato. The food is extremely good – not knock-out – but highly enjoyable, well flavoured and well sourced, especially for the price.
Normally Ian and I would chat; but we can’t rival listening in to the conversation at the next table where, no matter how obstreperous their offspring, the parents bestow on them looks of utter pride.
“I don’t know why you’re scoffing,” Ian points out. “You’re exactly the same with ours. Even I’m not allowed to tell them off.”
Which is true. I used to defend the children when they were little by personally taking the blame for everything they did. Usually that worked; sometimes Ian saw through it.
“I’m afraid I accidentally broke your camera, Ian.”
“You’ve broken my camera? How on earth did you do that?”
Pause…
“I appear to have sort of scribbled on it, then stuffed it down the toilet.”
We finish with a vanilla crème brulée and an iced chocolate mousse with fresh strawberries. Finger-licking good. (Though in a terribly British sort of way.)
Outside, as we leave, there’s a magnificent gleaming vintage Rolls Royce, complete with chauffeur, waiting for guests. We scoot into our 1985 turquoise Peugeot, with the odd smell and bent boot, at top speed, just in case we hear any strident tones asking, “You mean you have to wind the windows down yourself?”
Well, a bit of exercise never hurt anyone.
Lower Slaughter Manor is at Lower Slaughter, GL54 2HP, tel: 01451 822150; www.lowerslaughter.co.uk