Matthew Fort
Saturday August 9, 2003
The Guardian
I met a man in a pub who said, "You should try Holbeck Ghyll.
I went there the other day for lunch with my wife, and we had
a fabulous meal, really very good." As his son was a chef, he
seemed like a fellow whose word was worth taking, and so I did,
and he was right.
The first thing in favour of Holbeck Ghyll was the attitude of
its staff. If I say that Brother James and I arrived just before
2pm rather than the 12.30pm I had originally booked, you will
get some idea of just how confused my map-reading of the highways
and byways of the Lake District became. By the time we eventually
found the right turning off the right road, I was on the verge
of a major panic attack at the thought that we might miss lunch
altogether. The staff, however, were as unvexed, unconcerned and
uncritical as it was possible to be. In spite of the fact that
we were the only lunchers, and that, in theory, the kitchen closed
for orders at 1.45pm, they were soothing, charming, easeful and
efficient.
The second thing in favour of Holbeck Ghyll is its secluded position,
on heights commanding Lake Windermere. Through the windows of
the dining room, the waters of the lake shimmered below us. Light
and shadow, shadow and light, swept over the jumble of hills beyond.
The panorama changed with the passage of clouds, as mercurial
as the handsome, art deco oak panelling of the dining room was
immutable. In fact, the beauty of intelligent craftsmanship that
took in panelling, stained glass and furniture was the third bright
aspect of Holbeck Ghyll. And the food was the fourth.
Now, I have to be careful what I say here. A few years back,
I reviewed another Lake District establishment, Michael's Nook,
and gave it a right wigging, and unless I am mistaken, David McLaughlin,
the chef at Holbeck Ghyll, had been in the kitchen of Michael's
Nook at the time, although not in charge of it. Well, if he was,
I beg his pardon, because the lunch that he put on for Brother
James and myself was exemplary, intelligent and as beautifully
crafted as the interior of the building.
"Lunch, Saturday 5th July, 3 courses £25" declared the menu in
large type, so there could be no mistaking how much we were going
to pay on the food front: no hidden extras, no cover charge, no
service charge, nothing extra for bread or vegetables - £25 on
the nose and no nonsense. There was, of course, the matter of
liquid refreshment - two glasses of sprightly pinot grigio, a
bottle of sumptuous marsannay from Bouvier, a snip at £32 from
a thoughtful, considerately priced list, coffee and a single glass
of armagnac - which came to £54 in all.
For £25 a head, there were three choices at each stage, and I
would have cheerfully eaten the lot. As it was, I ate roasted
scallops with celeriac and truffle, followed by daube of beef
with pomme purée and root vegetables, and then a selection of
British and French cheeses. Brother James had terrine of rabbit,
foie gras and chicken with sauce gribiche; best end of lamb with
shallot purée and rosemary jus; and date pudding with vanilla
ice cream and caramel sauce (as recommended by doctors).
Scallop and celeriac? Lamb and shallot purée? Maybe they're not
exactly weird or wacky, but all the same they're not the first
combinations that spring to mind - though they will be from now
on. The celeriac had been rendered to a voluptuous, velvety smoothness,
more of a sauce than a purée. Its mild, creamy earthiness was
a beautiful accompaniment to the fat scallops, each capped by
a slice of black truffle, like a judge's hanging cap. The effect
of the truffle was enhanced by the judicious use of truffle oil,
one of the very few occasions that I have found the inclusion
of this usually noxious substance justified. Similarly, to purée
shallots to use as a sauce rather than as a decorative vegetable
shows a beady mind at work, which understands the principles of
flavour and pleasure. The dulcet fruitiness of long-cooked shallots
makes a perfect foil for well-sourced, well-hung, well-flavoured
lamb.
Unlike the rabbit terrine mush at the Savoy Grill reviewed last
week, the Holbeck Ghyll version was a firm, closely set affair,
with what looked like haricot beans forming the binding matter.
Rabbit, particularly with chicken and foie gras, is never going
to deliver a bunker-buster flavour, and this was characteristically
mild, but distinctive, not least due to the nuttiness of the beans.
My daube of beef was a cultured, summery version of the hefty,
bourgeois original. A single slab of perfectly cooked, juicy,
fibrous meat rested on top of airy mash with hand-crafted carrots,
potatoes and parsnips scattered about in elegant, amber, lissom
juices. Brother James's date pudding showed a similar lightness
of touch, without losing sight of its fundamental, prep-school
appeal.
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