A French feast... in middle England
IONCE spent half an hour in Bicester Village,’ says Bill, still shuddering at the recollection. ‘I had to buy a suit for my wedding.’ He pauses, struck momentarily dumb by the trauma of his experience. ‘Dear God, it’s hell in there. Hell.’ We’re just pulling into the station attached to this vast ‘designer outlet’, and by the haunted expression on his face, he seems afraid the place might swallow him whole.
The journey from London Marylebone to Bicester Village has been fairly unremarkable. Well, except for the fact that our carriage resembles a particularly lavish photoshoot for Chinese Vogue. Or an advertisement for Net A Porter. As if a cyclone has torn through Bond Street and deposited its extortionate horde upon an immaculately groomed army of pristinely glossy followers of fashion. Add in the fact that the announcements are made not just in English but Arabic and Mandarin too, and you quickly realise this is a one-way train to Mammon.
But we alight, with lunch on our mind. Rather than Lanvin. And it’s only when Bicester Village fades into the depths of the taxi’s rear mirror that Bill finally lets out a great sigh of relief. We’ve escaped, with our wallets intact. And so to The Nut Tree Inn in Murcott, a Michelin-starred pub with a pretty pond, thatched roof, clubby leather sofas and its own house cider. A Jack Russell snuffles about the bar, in a low-ceilinged room, beneath worn, ancient beams. There’s an air of easy tranquillity in here, the feeling that within these walls, all is well in the world.
There’s just one woman who rules the floor, taking orders, handing out menus, pulling pints, serving food, smiling warmly and chatting merrily. She’s a master of her art, and radiates charm and bonhomie. Lovely in every way. There’s a retro espresso cup filled with a lobster bisque, scented with Pernod, that is both delicate and deeply bosky. It’s a masterclass in flavour extraction, and I can even forgive the couple of drops of truffle oil drizzled unthinkingly on top. Why sully perfection? There is never any excuse for truffle oil. Ever.
I eat more lobster for my starter, an immaculately fat curl of beautifully poached tail, sat atop a succulent pile of chopped flesh, held in a light mayonnaise embrace, alongside a dice of lusciously sweet alphonso mango. Tiny piles of caviar add their own saline bite. It’s a simple dish but immaculately executed. And balanced too. Just like Bill’s chicken liver parfait, smooth, elegant and subtle, scattered with those essential shards of salt. It comes with a great thick slice of charred, home-made sourdough. Damned good bread. As good as the home-made baguettes.
We share a salad that contains the very spirit of the English country garden: peas, broad beans and the last of the asparagus. And soft shavings of good parmesan. All gathered together in a sharp, lemony-tinged dressing. We even forgive the inclusion of the idiotic lollo rosso, such is the art of this mélange. Every detail is just right, from the shelled broad beans to the slivers of toasted bread.
Then halibut, that king among fish, cooked by a king among fish chefs. It’s immaculate, poached in olive oil, and falling apart in thick flakes, the very centre just translucent. No second-rate sous vide here, just a kitchen that treats a fine bit of fish with the respect it so deserves. There are puddles of intensely reduced veal jus, sticky and sublime, and the merest gasp of curry powder. Not so much the unwelcome guest, rather a thing that brings the dish together. There’s roasted cauliflower (of course there is) too, but that aside, the plate is a testament to the enduring allure of old-fashioned French cooking.
Bill’s pigeon is equally old-school, although with an assuredly modern soul. Pigeon breast, softly pink, with flecks of foie gras, and a splendidly bitter blood orange purée. The legs are minced and stuffed into knowingly spiced pastilla, the filo pastry with just the right balance between crisp and chew. No showboating or culinary cocking about, rather, hard-learned, admirably straightforward, classical cooking. With a few glimpses of the cook’s character. Chef proprietor Mike North sure knows his stuff.
We eat something sweet in an eggshell (chefs do love filling an eggshell), with vanilla cream, passion fruit purée and a dash of space dust. Modern, but not incongruously so. A piece of shortbread is pure, buttery bliss. There’s a passion fruit soufflé, which has spent a moment too long in the oven. Perfectly risen, but I do crave a gooey base. Still, the passion fruit sorbet is fresh and intense, like the very grandest of Soleros. Oh, and sticky toffee pudding, as rich, dark and handsome as Omar Sharif playing backgammon while puffing on a Turkish tab. Lashings of molasses and a burnt-toffee ice cream elevate it from the everyday to the eternal.
So, barely a foot wrong at The Nut Tree Inn: serious French cooking, where ancien regime meets unmodishly modern, every bit the equal of The Waterside Inn, with North’s personality baked deep into its bones, and the sunniest of service, in the most merry of pubs. Prices aren’t too greedy either. Oh, and there’s scrambled egg on toast, battered fish and proper sandwiches, served at the bar. In short, a modest star, with a magnificent chef. A few miles from Bicester Village. But a whole universe apart.