A nosy at Parkers

There were two occasions when I shocked Claude, my lovely French teacher of the soulful eyes and the tragic life.
The first was when we moved to a new house in the Valley of Chevreuse, and I skipped round to each of my neighbours, knocking on their doors and gaily introducing myself.

“You did what?” hissed Claude. (Yes, I know you can’t hiss without ‘s’s in a sentence, but when you say it in French, it does have one, which you can make very hissy-sounding indeed.)

I repeated the information, slowly and surely, just to check I hadn’t accidentally told her, in inaccurate French, that I’d daubed my neighbours’ doors with custard and run round the garden wearing only lime-flavoured jelly. I hadn’t; it was worse.

She threw up her hands in horror. “What were you thinking of? You don’t go round knocking on people’s doors.” (Yet more ‘s’s in French version.)

She had me know that she’d lived in the same Paris apartment block for 10 years, and had only met her neighbours the day they moved out. Even then it was somewhat unintentional as she’d been trying to negotiate their furniture in the lobby.

The second (infinitely worse) example of my crassness was when she discovered the wine we regularly drank. It was, Claude announced grimly, the grape variety and vintage normally favoured by the ‘sans abris’. (She was quite clearly referring to the particularly unfortunate section of the homeless who couldn’t quite stretch to paraffin.)
We gently but gratefully rebuffed Claude’s attempts to introduce us to the delights of Parisian cold-shouldering and wine snobbery. Why on earth, we asked her, would you ruin a perfectly mediocre palate? It was far more convenient to be able to enjoy cheap wine. Moreover, if we could somehow also cultivate a love of sheltering in cardboard boxes, we could seriously downsize.

But the legacy is there: Every time I’m in a restaurant, looking at a wine list, I feel the ghost of Paris past sniggering over my shoulder. “Go for the one in the plastic bottle,” it sneers. “It’s very you.”

I think Bacchus had the right idea: just enjoy it and don’t worry about what other people are thinking. When I first went to the restaurant at Cheltenham’s Hotel on the Park – some years ago now – it was called the Bacchanalian and was dominated by a statue of the god himself (easily identifiable by a goblet of wine in one hand and a box of paracetamol in the other). The restaurant’s further distinguishing feature was a giant black Flemish lop-eared rabbit called Mr Wumpkin, who lolloped round guests’ feet in the small but beautifully-designed courtyard.

Both are gone: Bacchus possibly to the Priory, and Mr Wumpkin to the place where all good rabbits end up. (No, not there! This might be a restaurant, but Mr Wumpkin was a well-loved family pet.)

I love the Hotel on the Park. Sometimes I think about moving from the area, just so I can come back and stay here. It’s billed as a luxury town house hotel, and that’s exactly how it feels. If you asked 100 people to list what they most want from a hotel, I’m sure you’d come up with something pretty much along these lines.

Today, the hotel’s brasserie is known as Parkers; Ian and I mosey along on a Saturday night to see what else has changed. The very nice lad in the bar pours us both a drink, and gives out a menu, which isn’t overly expensive and does look extremely tempting: crab spring roll; classic smoked chicken Caesar salad; pan-fried brill; breast and leg of free-range guinea fowl (starters from just under £5; mains from just under £12 for a vegetarian, and from £15 otherwise.)

The restaurant, he explains, is fully booked; but we’re early and, to begin with, the only ones there. And – sorry to be picky – but that’s where the trouble starts. We’re shown to our tables by another very personable young lady – emphasis on young – but there’s absolutely no finesse: no pulling back of chairs or pouring of wine or fluffing out of napkins. In an hotel of this calibre, that feels so wrong.

At this early hour, the two other young waitresses in the corner have the (not overlarge) room to themselves – bar Ian and me; as a result, they chat away, every word of their fascinating conversation clearly audible. Starting our own conversation would have felt like a rude interruption, so Ian and I whisper occasionally to each other so as not to distract them.

If you were to call at someone’s house and be greeted by these three, you’d probably ask if their parents were home. The place seemed to lack a grown-up.

Perhaps he was in the kitchen. My roasted plum tomato and thyme soup was OK; Ian didn’t particularly enjoy his duo of duck – marinated breast, honey and mustard dressing. He said it was something and nothing; (BUT this is the man who, on a visit to Slimbridge (one of the greatest places on earth), thought it was full of mallards.)
With the Mediterranean vegetable tartlet and the absolutely excellent roasted cannon of Welsh lamb (celeriac puree, garlic scapes, cepes and girolles, lamb gras), things were looking up... But were back down to ok with the lemon and Greek yogurt parfait and the bitter chocolate tart.

With coffee and a bottle of fairly ordinary wine (which we, of course, loved) the bill was £96 (including a discretionary service charge of 10 per cent, automatically added. Am I the only person who hates this? Are we such cheapskates that restaurants don’t trust us to leave a fair gratuity?)
Put someone experienced who really cares front-of-house, and raise all the food to the level of our main course, and you’d be talking. But, as it was, the experience was a mite disappointing.

It’s a shame because the hotel feels so fab. Come back Bacchus and Mr Wumpkin. Is Son of Mr Wumpkin out there anywhere?

Hotel on the Park is at 38 Evesham Road, Cheltenham, GL52 2AH, tel: 01242 518898, www.hotelonthepark.com

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