Mobility scooter to Table 4, please

TABLE FOR TWO On a cold January day, Kathryn Flett finds comfort in robust cooking in Hampshire CHESIL RECTORY £ 90 7/ 10

Iam writing this on the third Monday in January, aka “Blue Monday”: statistically + algorithmically x equationally = the most miserable northern-hemispherical day of the year. Though swiftly derided as “farcical” by A N Academic when it was cooked up in the 2000s by a travel company’s PR, the idea has gained traction nonetheless.

Personally, however, I couldn’t be feeling more upbeat if I’d just landed a modest Euromillions win, simply down to a bit of advance planning. Given my January has been neither Vegan nor Dry, when I finally finished the Christmas stilton, threw open the front door and emerged pale and blinking into the low winter sun, like Jacob Rees-mogg foraging for Euro-sustenance, I yearned for a hostelry with heft, wattle and daub, a roaring fire and lots of extremely comforting, mostly red food – intending to head off the prospect of Blue Monday via the medium of “robust” cooking.

On the basis of not much more than the fact that I haven’t been in ages, I decided to do this in Hampshire, specifically Winchester (and because I am d’un Certain Age, I cannot even write the word “Winchester” without singing my favourite song about an ancient building entirely ignoring somebody: “Oooh Winchester Cathedral, you’re bringin’ me down/ You stood and you watched as my baby left town”).

Winchester’s The Black Rat (also on Chesil Street) may have a Michelin star, but it was firmly ruled out due to a name evoking pestilence and death. Instead, we landed at the Chesil Rectory. Back in 1450, Johannes Gutenberg was almost certainly thinking, “Wow, we can print the lyrics to songs about cathedrals!” when he started operating his mechanical press, while, at the same time on the other side of the world, the Incas were building Machu Picchu and musing “We’d be hashtagliving-the-dream if only someone, somewhere was constructing a device for putting words on paper!”.

Meanwhile, in Winchester, a bunch of British blokes built a modest, twostorey, half-timbered building that ( because I don’t think they were vending fridge magnets to the faithful in the latter part of the 11th century in the cloisters) remains the town’s oldest commercial building. Congrats, Winchester – bad luck, Peru.

Seized by Henry VIII during the dissolution of the monasteries, the Rectory passed to Henry’s daughter Mary Tudor, who, in turn – after her wedding at the cathedral nearly bankrupted the city – gave it to Winchester to help settle the debt. It’s been a restaurant for about 80 years and the current team, including ex-fortnum’s chef Damian Brown, has been in situ since 2008.

What with the stoopy-beaminess, I wouldn’t head here if I needed to avail myself of, say, a mobility scooter – though you may need one afterwards. However, if your extremities are fully functioning and you’re shorter than, say, 8ft, you’ll be fine. It’s a charming space, neither funky nor entirely trad, divided into two rooms on the ground floor and two upstairs, with a pretty private dining room. We had our pick of tables at 12.30pm m on a Friday (it filled up a little in due course), urse), choosing the corner closest to the he wood burner. I recognise that this his is a space that comes es into its own in the evening, but I loved the green leather banquettes and service that t was neither oppres- pres- sively formal nor chummy, just attentive. It was all very relaxing.

“Are you doing Dry Jan?” asked one of a pair of adjacent lunching-ladies to her friend. “Well, dry-ish…” They ordered wine and so did I – albeit just the one, a glass of Stellenbosch sémillon.

On the downside, while the bread was very good, I was surprised it was served with rapeseed oil; I don’t want it on my comfort-carbs. As easy-listening jazz burbled and the fire snapped and crackled, I worked my way through the ALC menu – first, an unctuously flavoursome haddock and leek rice-fest with lightly battered prawn beignet and lime beurre-blanc; one of the best risottos I’ve had in a while. My rice was followed by two very pink, very large duck breasts on a deep bed of red cabbage, plus a ramekin of quacking confit – a big fleshy dish, “robust” box duly ticked; it’s rare that I can’t finish a main course, but I struggled.

The date, meanwhile, decided on the set menu, scarfing his Laverstoke black pudding and scotch egg with devilled mayonnaise like the man born north of Watford that he indeed actually is: “Mmm, black pudding-y” was all I could ascertain through mouthfuls; it looked splendid. He followed it with the Chesil fish pie and winter greens: “Great to get a fish pie on a set that isn’t just three chunks of indeterminate white chunks with a couple of cringing prawns,” he said, digressing from an anecdote about photographing watercress in nearby Alresford to identify “langoustine, possibly mustard-soused haddock and something as firm as a scallop, and prawns, too, obviously” – though of course I cannot vouch for the veracity of this because he was on the local ale.

We shared a dessert of white chocolate mousse and dark chocolate brownie, lifted from fine to near-stellar by an exceptional passion fruit sorbet. Coffees were chased by a couple of Baileys truffles and white chocolate fudge, and so, eventually, (via an 118-mile drive) it was home to bed, conceivably until April. By which time all social media platforms will have been uninvented, we shall have Brexit Brexited both kindly and joyfully and, having havin been turned from potentially Blu Blue to properly-in-thepink, I sh shall have changed my name t to Pollyanna. Thanks,

Winch Winchester.