Quite simply, home from home

Above: Dormy House

The sheer mind-numbing terror; the desperate drinking to quell the shakes; the sickening wait, followed by the dull thud of footsteps on the path leading to your door…

I haven’t done dinner parties for a while. The trouble is, because I write about food, people expect me to be a superb cook. Actually, the cooking bit is OK – it’s the timing I’m not good at. “What was it?” the children often ask, round-eyed with wonder. As with morality, I like to think intention is the key.

Dinner parties are windows to the soul. Before they moved back to home shores, our American friends, Robin and Suzanne, used to hold generous, fun extravaganzas – muted only by Robin’s pathological hatred of mess. As we all enjoyed pre-dinner nibbles, he would prowl the room, hand-held vacuum in firm grip, homing in like an Exocet whenever you picked up a crisp. Vice president of some vast US corporation, he expected his home to run like his office. Suzanne confided she had to stack his ties in colour bands. Ian was wistful. Not only are his drawers the fashion equivalent of a lucky dip, but someone at work once said to him, “I’ve got a shirt like that, only mine’s ironed.”

Foreign languages can be learned, but customs are more difficult – and that’s never more apparent than when dining together. Once, when we visited a Dutch chap and his Malaysian wife, their rather forceful Czech au pair answered the door and insisted we go straight to the dining room. When our hosts finally tracked us down, they were startled to find us already sitting bolt upright at the table.

Foreign restaurants can be just as daunting. In Paris, for instance, waiters have the habit of catching your eye and making a direct bee-line for your table. Just as you put your hand up and open your mouth to order, they swerve at the last minute. This is a specially-acquired skill that takes many hours of dedicated practice.

You know the score at an English restaurant. The last time I went to Dormy House Hotel, near Broadway, was three years ago, on the week I set fire to our kitchen while cooking tea for 40 nine-year-olds. (I’m sure you’ve all been there: four-foot high children; five-foot high flames.) My kitchen ceiling was so badly damaged, one of my friends thought I’d marbled it. I remember my Dormy House visit particularly well because, in a bitter twist of fate, Stratford fire college happened to be dining there on the same night. The gods must have been smirking.

It describes itself as a ‘lived-in’ and ‘much-loved home from home, where nothing is too much trouble and no corners are cut’. ‘Home from home’ is an overused phrase, but in this case, I wouldn’t quibble. This converted 17th century farmhouse has a warmth that grander buildings tend to lack. And that applies to the staff, too: no stiff-backed waiters here. Instead, our restaurant manager looked the sort to tell you to put your feet up (I love anyone who says that to me), and didn’t hesitate to turn up the mood lighting when neither of us could make head nor tail of the menu. There’s a limit to what you can read by candlelight and the flickering flame was bringing back suppressed memories.

You can either choose a bar meal (prices around the £10 mark or slightly more for a steak and chips) in the discrete (not spelled incorrectly) ‘Barn Owl’, or go for the more expensive dining room. I’m sure, in summer, this is a lovely conservatory-like room that looks out over lawns and terraces. On a winter’s night, with blinds down, there’s a slightly odd ‘big top’ feel to it. But no matter – the food is good (even if the portions are not huge. It’s that old inverse – the more you pay, the less you get). It’s sophisticated, but not over-complicated. The à la carte offers such dishes as a rack of lamb with walnut stuffing, and a minted port sauce (£23.50), or a fillet of sea bass with a white bean casserole (£20). It’s not absolutely masses cheaper, but we’re both happy with the daily three-course table d’hôte menu at £36 including coffee and petit fours, with a choice of three dishes. It’s a shame they don’t state on the menu where they source their produce because it’s obviously fresh and first class – and I’d like to have known where it was from.

Excellent starters of cream of mushroom and tarragon soup, and terrine of ham hock; followed by a beautifully cooked rare fillet of beef and a nicely-done duo of pork – rich, sweet and fatty, and then lean and tender. To finish, a chocolate marquise with mixed berry compôte and an apple and plum crumble with a lovely clotted cream ice cream. Or you could have had local cheeses.

The service took a while to kick off. Ian was gnawing at the table cloth by the time the bread came – and the chap who came in after us was served first. But once they’d got the hang of it, it was friendly and attentive.

I must just about be able to reproduce a couple of things for Saturday, for my first dinner party in yonks. I’ll do the cooking and Ian will wield the fire extinguisher.