‘This was sophisticated, wise and wonderf

It’s always reassuring to discover that one’s godlike heroes are as flawed and human as oneself. A neighbour of mine in Somerset, let’s call him Rowley Leigh, which is after all his name, is one such person. A chef of great talent, a restaurateur of considerable influence, he is a man of such deep intellect and knowledge that one looks up to him for wisdom and guidance.

I have admired the dishes he has created over the years: there was his chicken and goat’s cheese mousse at Kensington Place, then his Parmesan custard with anchovy toast at Le Café Anglais – both London establishments, both now gone but writ large into the canticles of Britain’s culinary story.

Rowley now lives off Exmoor, not far from us, which means that from time to time I can meet the great man for lunch and attempt to learn a few things from him.

At the start of lunch at Spelt, a newish addition to the pretty Devon village of Bampton (a village of charming people with the most beautiful of hands, if you’re asking) I looked to his example before ordering.

If there was ever a man who can suss a menu and spot the treats, it’s surely Rowley. His surety of vision and purpose would obviously render less significant foodies as mumbling fools as they pondered on what to order.

So it came as a surprise as we looked at the dishes offered in this bright, cheerful café of a place, to notice that Rowley was in fact a quibbling wreck of indecision.

While I, spotting the slow-braised lamb scrumpets and fillet of hake, knew at once my path in life for the next hour or so, he was like Jeremy Fisher, scrambling from lily pad to pond’s edge to find his way out of turbulent indecision.

Rowley blamed the night before. ‘You know when you get a load of wines to taste and end up drinking them all…?’ he was saying. Then he went for the soup and a dish from the brunch menu: ‘thickcut butcher’s shop bacon’ et al.

Wines sit on shelves around the little back dining room where we sat, the walls adorned with wallpaper depicting rows of books (the effect ruined from place to place by plug sockets that daft regulations insist are placed a metre up from the floor).

Rowley spotted a bottle of Fleurie (that’s the sort of talent I’m on about) and we enjoyed it with our starters. His soup was a pleasingly rustic-looking one of cauliflower with cheese, a thickish soup with large cheese gratings on top. My scrumpets – bits of lamb in breadcrumbs – were crunchy and decent, if needing a little seasoning and being mean on the yogurt, more of which the staff happily brought to the table.

Then Rowley’s main course arrived which was essentially a rather boring, dry-looking breakfast which he steadily chomped through.

I was enjoying an actual piece of cookery; some very fine hake: flaky, cooked just right, and with a delightfully rich and clever sauce made of mackerel. There was a heap of wilted spinach and broccoli and a fondant potato fragrant with garlic. This was sophisticated, wise and wonderful cookery.

Unlike the profiteroles that followed: two fat cardboard-style relics with cold chocolate sauce on top. Profiteroles should be light, piled high, with soft pastry and naughtiness pervading.

But Spelt is a place of quiet, easy charm that I thoroughly recommend. Save to say that, even if you have a murderous hangover, give the kitchen some credit and challenge them to cook you more than breakfast.