Matthew Fort 

JSW, Hants.

Eating out
  
  


Telephone: 01730 22030
Address: 1 Heath Road, Petersfield, Hants.
Rating: 16.5/20

'Come to Petersfield," said O. "There's a fine restaurant here." And when O commands, I come running. And, indeed, she was right. There is a fine restaurant in Petersfield.

Not familiar with the place? It's a neat, trim, tidy, well-brushed, all-in-order kind of town, in a well-brushed, all-in-order, best-kept-village corner of the Hampshire/Surrey borders. There is not, I couldn't help thinking as I drove through, a shortage of money hereabouts.

Mercedes estate cars are more numerous than Volvos, and four-wheel drive juggernauts more numerous than either. So why, that Friday, was JSW not bursting at the seams with the better class of luncher? After all, if you can afford a troop carrier to get your children to school, then surely two courses for £15, or three for £19.50, should not be beyond you. It is typical of the cockeyed priorities in this country that people are prepared to pay more to fill up with petrol than they are to fill up with food.

JSW stands for Jacob Saul Watkins. He is the man in the kitchen. His wife, Ricky, is the lady who looks after the diners. This is a true restaurant de famille - small, personal, exact, far removed from the world of high concept and the million-pound design makeover. It has a clear character, albeit one that is a trifle reserved and perhaps a little serious. The room is long and light, with large, striking pencil drawings by JSW's sister that add visual substance to the pale beige walls. The table furniture is classy and unfussy. In short, it's the kind of place where the colour is provided by the food, and by the company.

In this case, there wasn't much to worry about on either account. O is a diverting companion, and the food was highly flavoured. That is not highly flavoured in the vulgar chilli-lemon-grass-and-balsamic-vinegar mould, but in the balanced roast-scallops-herb-risotto-and-red-wine-sauce mould, or the home-made- black-pudding-with-onion-rings-and-Jersey-Royal-potatoes mould.

Onion rings - why, the very sight of them on a menu makes my tastebuds tingle in anticipation, and when served with home-made black pudding, well, my cup overfloweth. And both the pudding and the rings were textbook, too: the former was of the soft, melting, slightly sweet variety, with chunky nuggets of sweetbread adding substance; the latter were thin and dainty, with the delicate fruitiness of blanched onion locked inside a crisp, light breadcrumb jacket. The potatoes were pretty okay, too.

It was a simple, earthy dish to lift the spirits, and raised a rung or two up the gastronomic ladder by serious skill in the kitchen. O's scallop and risotto was a more sophisticated dish at first sight. The red wine was a clever idea to balance the rich, marine caramel of the scallops and the heavier weight of the risotto. All parts were well done, but none, I think, compared to the excellence of the black pudding and onion rings.

There are some ritzy ingredients on the short (4:4:4) menu - foie gras (paired with sweet and sour mushrooms), langoustine (in a raviolo), and loin of veal. To these, I suppose, we must now add cod, as it has become an endangered species and is taking over from sea bass and monkfish as the smart fish of choice. O, following some obscure Friday ritual, had the cod. It arrived, a solid white brick of flesh, with its surface nice and toasty, sitting plumply on top of a bank of mash, with a moat of umber sauce lapping about it. That is another good idea - matching meat-based stocks with fish helps to bring out the marine flavours and adds a certain horsepower.

The sauce that accompanied my rabbit had a more refined character, veal or chicken based, I would guess, brought into line with a touch of rabbit stock for good measure. Peter (as in rabbit) himself (although it could have been one of his sisters) came in two ways - the saddle roasted, sliced and laid around the curve of the plate, and the forelegs minced and stuffed inside a sexy pastry casing. Again, the class and pleasure of this dish lay in the skill of preparation rather than the originality of the idea - tender, moist rabbit, rich pastry, delicate saucing, etc.

In fact, the puddings - feuillantine of rhubarb and assiette of Valrhona chocolate - were about as near to showy as JSW got, and they were handsome rather than striking. The rhubarb, in particular, was a fine pud, crackly varnished feuillantine set against light, delicate nuggets of rhubarb, with a small splodge of cream here and there for that soothing sensation. O's three chocolate bonbons had the full blast of top-grade Valrhona, but were masked by a slight oversweetness. Or that's what she said.

That lot came to £39, which was very fair in view of quality, quantity, and pleasure. The wine came to a bit more. Quite a bit more, if truth be told, but the wine list was not without its temptations, being particularly rich in half bottles, and O was in the mood to relax and unwind. Who was I to say she shouldn't? It was Friday, after all.

· Open Tues-Sat, 12 noon-2pm; 7-10pm. Menus: lunch, £15 for two courses, £19.50 for three; dinner, £25 for two courses, £29.50 for three. All major credit cards.

 

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