Talented kitchen at work
Above: The New Inn at Coln
It’s been one of those weeks.
I’d left just enough time to do five minutes’ piano practice before dashing out, when I dropped a glass plate onto the kitchen floor with such spectacular effect that several Hollywood producers phoned, wanting to turn the incident into a major motion picture.
The dog had to be treated for shock.
Next I was invited to the House of Lords for a reception. (Big excitement!) Obviously, discretion was essential – so I told everyone I could think of. This turned out to be a large mistake. As I was lifting my foot onto the train bound for London, I happened to glance at my invitation, only to discover the event had taken place 24 hours previously.
I had to be treated for shock.
I was then on a roll. I missed a governors’ meeting, and turned up at the dentist on exactly the right day of the month but the wrong month. This, however, felt slightly more promising.
It seemed appropriate to dine out at the New Inn at Coln St Aldwyns. On a past visit, a previous owner had poured me a gargantuan drink. This would have been fine if I hadn’t decided to drink it. As I sipped, and then glugged, it became increasingly clear to me (though not much else was) that I wouldn’t be able to find my way to the Ladies without a dedicated guide or at least a pre-programmed sat nav. Reader, I did find it; but on my return to my seat – riding on a premature wave of triumph – I burst overconfidently through what I thought were the doors to the restaurant, and found myself in the middle of the kitchen. The staff and I all spent a while looking surprised.
As Ellie later pointed out, my only real option had been to snarl, “How very dare you!” before turning, witheringly, on my heels and stalking out. As it was, this sort of esprit d’escalier (by its very nature) was unforthcoming and I wobbled out instead.
Today I arrive stone cold sober, past the kitchen staff smoking in the car park (always reassuring) into the allegedly haunted but undoubtedly lovely historical precincts of the New Inn.
It’s a very English inn in a very English village that’s been around since the very English Elizabethan era. Odd, then, that when I’d phoned to book a table using the uncomplicated phrase ‘Please may I book a table?’ there was a baffled silence at the other end, proceeded by a ‘You repeat, please’.
Yes, nowadays the staff are not English, but when we all settle down, they turn out to be courteous, helpful and knowledgeable in a front-of-house sort of way.
There’s a lot I do like about the New Inn: The décor, for instance, which is fresh and contemporary. It might hack off the resident ghost, but it pleases me. Furthermore, it’s in a perfect setting, and everything it does, it does with style, class and skill.
Like the food. Here is a talented kitchen at work – no doubt about it… You can tell I’m about to be churlish, I know.
Call me a Philistine, but here’s my gripe. The menu wasn’t on the website, so there’s no advance warning that it’s going to be quite so esoteric. That’s not a problem if you’re a dedicated foodie – and that’s who the restaurant is catering for – but if you’re serving main courses which include garnishes of pickled lamb’s tongue; slow-braised ox cheek; or indeed mains of milk-fed rabbit, and whole roasted squab pigeon, they’re not going to be to everyone’s taste. (Admittedly, there’s a fab bar menu next door.) The other point is the price: £29.50 for two courses; £37.50 for three…
Now as I said: credit where credit’s due. The food is beautifully, beautifully done, using first class ingredients. The starters of ‘three tastes of duck’; and cucumber cannelloni of Cerney goat’s cheese (with quite lovely sorbet and carpaccio of beetroot and apple jelly) were masterfully concocted. The whole roasted lemon sole (pomme puree, young leeks and wild mushrooms) was equally presented with perfection.
But here’s my next bout of churlishness. I picked the poached duck egg, braised Puy lentils, new potatoes, pumpkin purée and thyme foam. Don’t be fooled by the number of words there: Believe me, it takes longer to type out that sentence than it did to eat the dish. I had to stop halfway through and think of something else to do for a while just so I could spin the experience out for a bit longer.
The coconut and chocolate lasagne was a triumph; the Valrhona ‘Guanaja’ chocolate tart was delicious. But how can you pay this much for food and – no matter how good it is – get so little? I’m pretty sure that, after energy expended in (minimal) chewing and digestion, I weighed less when I left the table than when I arrived.
I know: I’d had a bad week and only happy people can be truly nice. And, yes, there were pleasing extras such as a gorgeously delicate poached egg yolk with haddock foam and a cluster of caviar.
As we left the New Inn, feeling our way back through the car park because the lights had failed (this time, with not even the soft glow of a cigarette end to guide us), I felt this had been a triumph of taste buds over stomach.
We appreciate good food, but we’d like plenty of it. Please. Let’s face it: If we were counting the calories, we’d be staying at home with a microwave and a Weight Watchers’ frozen meal.