‘A farm shed that’s more Shoreditch than Devon’

The Lost Kitchen teeters on the edge of Tiverton, a town in mid Devon. Once a large farm building, some kind of shed, it’s been converted into a restaurant. I’d almost say lovingly, except I know that’s not the actual experience of doing these things. If you have a farm and you have a shed that you wish to use for things other than animal shelter – say as a horse arena, tennis court, swimming pool, garage for your classic cars, recording studio, artist residence, Airbnb, marijuana factory or restaurant – the process contains little in the way of love. Think frustration, exasperation, bewilderment, sleep-deprivation, bank-balance destruction and days when your overriding thought will be, why are we bothering?

So when I see something like The Lost Kitchen I’m swelling with admiration before I’ve even walked in. For this converted shed has the checklist of dreams: location (nodding to the town and country); parking; outside seating; a fun hotchpotch of chairs swiped, possibly, from every conceivable local auction house and ebay; tables made from neighbouring trees; colourful art, hanging stars and curtains; a shop selling baskets, cards, wrapping paper and chopping boards; and a vast, white-domed wood-fired oven.

The oven, and the pass with heat lamps adding a warm glow to the food, greets you at the entrance with an enveloping, welcome-to-our-cave spirit. And while the ingredients are local, of course, the inspiration is from rather further afield: North Africa, Lebanon, Turkey… it’s a grab from around the world of whatever dishes feel cosy, shareable, rustic and informal. More Shoreditch than Devon, it’s an international menu to cure a hangover. Colourful but not overly challenging, you can nibble your way through Spanish almonds, polenta chips, beany hummus, Turkish flatbreads, stews of venison or lamb, veggie curries and pizzas. You can sip your Bloody Mary while your kids grind crayons into colouring-in paper handed out by the staff.

We ordered simple pizzas for the children while Emily and I dipped freshly baked sourdough into olive oil and ate deliciously herby marinated anchovies. Then I swigged from, via very fine glassware, a carafe of fabulous pinot noir. We had a plate of those polenta chips, nicely charred on one side to give some crunch to what can otherwise taste like rectangles of sweet, yellow porridge. They were topped with Parmesan and came with a soft, whipped mound of garlic – a Lebanese toum, where the garlic’s astringency is tamed to a sort of pet lion status. This was back-pattingly good. As was my slow-cooked shredded lamb, a delightfully messy dish, rammed with flavour (spice from the harissa) and crunch from a Lebanese slaw, with a wonderfully huge flatbread.

All so good. It was a shame, perhaps, that I didn’t feel like I had a head full of chisels to heighten the experience. Next time, I promise to go with a hangover to get the full effect.

Emily, meanwhile, was cooing over her shakshuka. She’d spotted it on the strictly brunch menu and begged for the kitchen to be lenient. They were. It was a clay pot of tomatoey pleasure with feta melting into the mixture and sprigs of parsley to keep it pert.

We pondered puddings but they seemed a tad too elaborate for our mood – kadafi cheesecake nest, pistachio meringue – so we agreed to the idea of coffee and bar of chocolate at home.

Old-school locals may harrumph at the exotic menu at The Lost Kitchen. I’d say mid-devonians would now be lost without it.

The vast wood-fired oven greets you at the entrance with an enveloping, welcome-to-our-cave spirit