The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - The Telegraph Magazine
The Cut
Table Talk
When I stood up, two members of staff practically fought for the honour of showing me where the loos were.
They weren’t giving me special treatment because I’m a reviewer. I’d booked, as always, under a false name. Maybe it was just because it was a weekday lunchtime, and the place was fairly quiet, and the staff didn’t have enough else to do. But even allowing for that, there was an awful lot of fussing and hovering and pacing. Goodness, the pacing. I was facing the window, so I couldn’t see it, but I could certainly hear it. Back and forth, back and forth. It sounded as if Poirotw as trying to solve a murder behind me.
From time to time, one or other of the staff would materialise silently at my shoulder, just when I was reaching for my phone to type a surreptitious note. I half felt like turning round and pleading, ‘Look! For pity’s sake! I’m trying to pretend to be an ordinary member of the public here! If you keep lurking behind me like that, you’ll see the notes I’m writing about you, and it’ll give the whole game away! Admittedly, since the notes say you’ re doing an awful lot of fussing and hovering and pacing, maybe you’ll get the message and stop being so infuriatingly helpful! But on the other hand, maybe you’ll go too far the other way, and gob in my dessert, and tip so upon my lap, and “accidentally” shove me face-first into the spelt risotto! Oh, I don’t know! Please, I just want to scribble furtive comments about you in peace!’
I didn’ t say that, of course. First, because it would have been silly, and they were only doing their job. And secondly, because the food they were bringing me was absolutely terrific.
On the house I had an appetiser of venison bonbons: four neat little pingpong balls served with a mustard dip. Lusciously moreish. Then the starter, which, I was told, was the chef’ s signature dish: braised suck ling pig’ s trotter, with quail’ s egg and apple carpaccio. It was stupendous, a burstingly succulent flavour-blend of sweet and meat. Accompanying it were baked pork rinds (in essence: extremely posh bacon crisps ), presented upright in what looked like a tiny wooden toastrack – the big round yellowy rinds poking out in twos, like giant mouse ears.
For my main I had t he pit hiv ier, a golden dome of pastry floating above a bed of snipe, foie gras and chanterelle mushrooms. Like the starter, it was a kaleidoscope of flavours and textures: nutty, meaty, crispy, juicy. I also had a helping of chips cooked in beef dripping: salty, but madly addictive.
This really was very good food. Even my side of cabbage was delicious. Why, you could almost have persuaded a child to eat it.
(Sadly, though, we’ll probably never know for certain, because The Oxford Blue isn’t keen on kids. ‘While children are not disallowed at The Oxford Blue,’ sniffs its website, ‘we would like you to be aware that we have fantastic childfriendly pubs in the neighbourhood.’ In other words: buzz off and take your squalling brats with you. Bah. I’ve half a mind to bring my three-year-old next time. ‘That’s right, darling, turn your ipad up nice and loud. Loud as it can go. Special treat.’)
For pudding, finally, I had the Cambridge burnt cream, which was the soft est crèmebrûléeI’ ve ever tasted. It was practically butter – cool, super-sweet butter.
What a lunch. Pure decadence. By the end, I was dopily, drowsily full. Thankfully, however, I didn’t drop off.
If I had, I suspect I would have awoken on an emperor’s chaise-longue, surrounded by waiters intogas wafting me with palm fronds.
Even my side of cabbage was delicious. Why, you could almost have persuaded a child to eat it