The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - The Telegraph Magazine
‘The fish and chips were ludicrous, a punchable piece of hipster meddling, of pointless showing of f ’
Hit and miss modern British in the Home Counties
When I Was my son’s age, we never ate out. mainly t his was because we lived in Poolewe, a village of hobbitlike remoteness on the western coast of the highlands. We could no more have popped out to a restaurant than we could have swum to Greenland.
But even after we moved down to edinburgh, it was pretty rare. People ate out a lot less in those days. It was a treat, an occasion, something to mark a grown-up’s birthday. around once a year we went to a place called The Country Kitchen. I’ve been trying to remember what I thought of it, and all I’ve come up wit h is ‘brown’. It was very brown. mind you, everything was brown, in 1980s scotland. Clothes, cars, furniture, wallpaper. Brown, brown, brown. everywhere you went, you felt as if you were wearing glasses made from a bottle of ginger beer.
In the decades since, happily, society has made a number of advances. not only have scientists devised exciting new colours such as red, blue, yellow, orange, pink and green, but people go to restaurants frequently, often for no greater reason than that they feel like it. according to the Office for national statistics, the average household spends £45 a week on eating out. In short, it’ s become less special. But also more fun.
here’s a measure of how times have changed: at the age of three, my son has already been to more restaurants than I had by the age of 18. all right, so this is partly because I’m now a restaurant reviewer and if it’ s the weekend I always take him with me. But even
Three-year-old boys aren’t always reliable arbiters of fine dining – but, on this occasion, I think he called it right
before I had this column we regularly took him out for lunch, a nd we also take him to places I’m not reviewing. Recently he had his first trip to Pizza Hut. He was in raptures .‘ Deli-cioussssss !’ he groaned, clutching a hunk of garlic bread with one hand and rubbing his tummy with the other. He took another mouthful. ‘Delicious again!’
I asked how many stars he would give Pizza Hut .‘ FIVE !’ he bellowed, then thrust an orange ice lolly in my face while shouting, ‘LICK IT! LICK IT, DADDY! LICK IT!’
One day, he’ ll make a very fine critic.
For this week’s column, he came to cast his ex per t eye over Hawkyns, a new restaurant in Amersham, Buckinghamshire. Nice place, Amersham. Very well-to-do. The estate agent’ s window teems with phrases such as‘ sixbedroom country house ’,‘ Grade II-listed cottage’ and‘ separate annex and paddocks’. A few doors down stood a shop selling Barbour jackets and fishing gear, while the second-hand book st all featured no Dan Browns or Danielle Steels; instead, glowering regiments of non-fiction hardback sin stern browns and solemn greens.
Hawkyns itself is suitably upmarket, but in a casual, relaxed kind of way, not frostily formal. The menu is British. I started with the blow-torched mackerel, which was fine: the fish full and firm, the skin crisp. My side of mash was excellent: supremely creamy. My wife had a reasonable risotto, made with big, bulging pearls of barley.
My son had the fish and chips. He barely touched it, probably because it looked nothing like fish and chips. On first glance, it was ludicrous, a punch able piece of hipster meddling, of pointless showing off: the cod a naked, smooth white blob, the batter not a coating but a delicate sprinkle of crumbs, and the mushy peas served as a dainty purée. Imagine asking for that down your local chippy. ‘I say, would you mind awfully adding a dash of that marvellously piquant little jus you do? Sorry, can’t think what it’s called… Ah yes – vinegar.’
It deserved to taste terrible. And yet somehow – almost to my disappointment – it was terrific. The batter, what there was of it, was fantastically rich and crunchy, and the salt and vinegar piercingly pungent, the st ink of it shooting right up your nostrils like it does on the seafront. Since my son still didn’t trust it, I very happily ate it all for him.
On the other hand, my own main was dire. It was duck, squatting in what I can only describe as a slick of black boot polish. Boot polish wasn’t mentioned on the menu, but since none of the listed ingredients accounted for the foulness of it, I suppose I’ll have to assume that’s what it was. At any rate, it was sour, ugly, a nd cont a minated everything else on the plate.
My son wanted to try some. I handed him a piece of duck, and watched, as a look of bewildered dismay spread across his face. Hurriedly he fished in his mouth with a finger, trying to hook the offending item out. Three-year-old boys aren’t always reliable arbiters of fine dining – at home, this one routinely asks for a cracker with Marmite, licks all the Marmite off, and then leaves the damp cracker on the sofa for someone to sit on – but, on this occasion, I think he called it just about right.
Puddings were so-so. Chocolate ta rt, thick as clay; applet arte tat in, a glistening yellow y disc of sweetness; and toasted marshmallow, accompanied by two uncut tably solid bricks of rhubarb.
Hawkyns has potential. One or two dishes are lovely. But others are downright odd. Still, early days. It may yet become great. When my son inherits this column, I’ll send him back.