Restaurants

James Pembroke

One of the joys of growing old is the opportunity to indulge in meanness.

We have all seen the metamorphosis of squanderbugs to penny-pinchers. When taking us out to lunch, my late father-in-law would become a champion of fish and chips. If anyone was brave enough to ask about starters, he would blast out a well-rehearsed reply: ‘The soup’s awfully good.’

We were advised we would be too full for pudding, and coffee was ‘just as good at home’. I never thought my time would come and, when it did, I assumed I would have retired so that I could devote my waking hours to scouring supermarkets for bargains.

And yet I have been struck down in middle age.

It started in Shropshire. Our dear hosts, Charles and Sophie, suggested we try out Pensons, a large barn restaurant on the Darnley estate. The chef, Chris Simpson, has earned himself a Michelin star. After briefly scanning the menu and wine list, I announced that lunch was on me, overruling our hosts’ genuine protests.

It’s a week now since I finished my delicious starter of cod, apple, celeriac and truffle sauce, and my tiny quail, which could have been a circus dwarf in another life. And, despite enjoying it ecstatically, I have since done nothing but torture myself about the bill of £103.22 per head for a three-course lunch with three-quarters of a bottle of wine each.

I even regaled Charles’s neighbours the next day at lunch. In front of him. Dickie tried to soothe me by confessing he had spent £250 a head there for dinner recently with clients. He only made things worse. We agreed that for a country restaurant’s cheapest bottle to be £35 was absurd; and £40 for three courses is £16 more than at the Wolseley.