A well-written menu is a thing of beauty. It tells a story, as rich in plot and subtext as any novel. Sadly, few chefs know how to mix the words. I once saw a menu which described scallops as having been 'paraded' as if, worryingly, they were so fresh they could get up and wander about the plate. Lumps of animal protein are regularly 'enveloped' in sauces, as in totally hidden. And then there are the grandiose statements in which two ill-matched pieces of fish become 'a symphony'. The kind of restaurant which uses this sort of language to describe fish is also the one likely to provide you with a fast movement.
Unsurprisingly, it is almost always the mediocre chefs, straining to overcompensate, who use the worst language. The good ones know that a fine dish needs only to be simply described. Michael MacDonald is a good chef. His understanding of language is obvious from the name he has chosen for his restaurant, which opened in March: The Vanilla Pod. There are lots of restaurants named after ingredients: Aubergine, The Red Pepper, The Green Olive - fine establishments all, but they are named after utilitarian ingredients. The vanilla pod speaks only of luxury, which is why it is such a good name. It's not something you need. It's something you want.
It's the same with the food served here, which is inventive without being overwrought, delicate without being understated. Despite the terribly English look outside, inside there is something strikingly Mediterranean about the burnt-umber walls and the terracotta-tiled floor of the dining room which, on a furiously hot day, hit the spot. We were shown to a table by the open doors overlooking the garden and served a little cup of chilled yogurt and cucumber soup, its foamed surface scattered with icy shards of lime and pineapple granita. It was sharp, fresh and delicious.
At lunch and dinner, three courses cost a reasonable £25.50, though at lunch there is also a narrower menu costing just £15.50, which is beautiful value for food of this quality. My sister Amanda and I, aware of our responsibilities to you, naturally ordered from the longer list of dishes. I started with a ravioli of confit rabbit on garlic cream and herb salad. Amanda had warm cured salmon trout on a fennel salad with sour cream and chives. These descriptions are so clean and precise and balanced I barely need to add any commentary, but I do so love the sound of my own fingers typing. The rabbit ravioli was a compact but light piece of work enclosing soft strands of rabbit that had been bound with finely chopped herbs and moist breadcrumbs. The garlic cream was aromatic rather than the strident beast its name suggests. Amanda's starter was a subtle combination of the sweet smokiness of the trout and the slight acidity of the fennel.
We both had fish for our main courses. Steamed fillet of sea bass and new season asparagus came with a saffron and vanilla velouté, in which the saffron provided not just colour, as so often, but an intense earthiness. Roasted turbot, expertly caramelised, came with artichokes, baby new potatoes, port sauce and sweet cloves of roasted garlic. It was one of the most savoury fish dishes I have ever tasted. Puddings were equally accomplished. In Amanda's lavender panna cotta with sweet pickled raspberries, and lavender and honey sorbet, each flavour was distinct without being in competition. When I cut into my bitter-chocolate fondant, my incision released a sea-green centre of sweet and nutty pistachio cream. I dream of eating it still.
Service was polite without being fawning. Bread was warm. Life was good. Any criticisms? Well, the wine list is short, so the choice by the glass is limited, but I'm probably just trying to prove I'm not a pushover. To be honest, Marlow is not my cup of tea. It's the kind of polite, manicured town where people probably don't fart. But that won't put me off. The Vanilla Pod has given me reason to return.
