Table talk

Michael Deacon at Wyatt & Jones in Broadstairs

A satisfying seafood lunch on the sunny Kent coast

i don’t know how often this happens in your part of the country, but it seems to be a regular occurrence in mine. it happened on my way to Broadstairs in kent to visit this week’s restaurant. A group of men–it’ s always men–had piled their bikes against a set of empty seats beside the doors, then gone to sit elsewhere. Soon the train grew crowded and hot. women and children were having to stand. But the bikes continued to recline serenely against the empty seats. the men did not reappear.

iwisht hey had, bec au sei would have been fascinated to hear their reasoning. ‘But our bikes need t hese seats. they’re tired. they’ve done 20 miles t his morning. Bet t hat’s more than these women and kids have done. And anyway, the stupid train company hasn’t set aside a special carriage for our bikes. where else are we expected to put them?’

one answer, i suppose, would be, ‘ Your ga rage, or bet ter st ill a scrapmetal compactor,’ but it is unwise in these circumstances to be rude. Such men can be sensitive creatures, so it is better to be gentle, and resist any urge to say, ‘Here’s a n idea for nex t t ime, At A time of A weak minority government, when no party appears capable of attracting sufficient public suppor t to win a major it y, a llow me to suggest a radical new policy that would g uarantee its proponents a landslide electoral triumph. Automatic life sentences for men who block empty seats on trains with their bikes.

‘Let us rise above temptation and do what the British have always done in times of hardship: nothing at all’

Above Broadstairs lobster with ‘delicious, salty, buttery’ potatoes. Below Sticky toffee pudding with ‘exceptional sauce’ lads. Instead of taking the train, why not try to get where you want togo by actually cycling?’

For the same reason, I would never condone any passenger, no matter how long-suffering, who waited for the train doors to open at the next station and quietly deposited the offending bikes on the platform, while their owners sat on the train, oblivious.

That, I fear, would merely ex acer-

bate tensions between the cycling and non-cycling communities, which are already running dangerously high. So instead, let us rise above temptation, and do what the British have always done in times of hardship: nothing at all, except roll our eyes, mutter darkly under our breath and launch into a sustained whinge on social media.

Of course, if you happen to be the sort of gentleman who blocks empty seats on trains with his bike, you may be feeling somewhat put out. ‘Now look here,’ you may be thinking. ‘This is supposed to be a restaurant review. Yet you’ve dedicated the opening 452 words to an irrelevant harangue against my fellow cyclists. This simply isn’t an appropriate place to put such a thing.’

To which I would reply, ‘NOW YOU KNOW HOW THE REST OF US FEEL.’

This week’s restaurant, since you mention it, is Wyatt & Jones, a busy little place with a good view of the sea. No, it isn’t new, but it’s summer, and Broadstairs is one of our loveliest seaside towns, and I think you should visit. And while you’re there, I expect you’ll want something to eat.

The menu is British with a seafood slant. I star ted with t he oysters: two ‘chip shop ’, two mi so, two natural. With the chip-shop ones, it was hard to taste any thing except batter, but the others were good, especially with the tingly tang of the miso. They slid down nicely. Well, I say nicely: there’s no nice way to eat an oyster. The shell is always just the wrong shape for your mouth. It’s a bit like trying to eat a fried egg out of a soap dish.

Next, on the waiter’s recommendation, I had the Broadstairs lobster. In general, I’m not a huge lobster fa n, because t he meat-to-shell rat io is so low: in desperation, you find yourself lifting each leg in turn, hunting vainly for any morsels you might have missed, and then laboriously scraping off little scraps f rom t he shell wit h a si ngle prong of your fork, like a member of

Time Team with a lump of pottery. The meat on t his specif ic lobster tasted f ine, but to be honest I much prefer red t he potatoes it came with: delicious, salty, butter y and garlicky. I realise that‘ I liked the potatoes’ sounds like the faintest praise possible, but genuinely they were really good potatoes .( No, probably not a quote you’d use in an ad, is it. ‘Good potatoes’ – The Daily Telegraph.)

I had nothing less than full-blown enthusiasm, however, for the desserts. The trifle was gorgeously fluffy, while the sauce on the sticky toffee pudding was exceptional: a big thick slick of shimmering sweetness. I know, this is totally the wrong time of year for a heavy dessert, especially at the seaside, because you’re dressed lightly, which can make you feel self-conscious. You want to save sticky toffee pudding for winter, when your excess es can be safely concealed beneath a massive jumper. This particular sauce, though, is worth the risk.

If you’re tempted by Wyatt & Jones, I’d recommend booking for lunch, so that afterwards you can wander down to the beach, which is a matter of feet away, and spend there st of the day baking contentedly on the sand.

Oh – and if you’re planning to travel by train, remember to pack a fold-up chair, just in case.