Telephone: 01424 772 314
Address: 1 High Street, Battle, East Sussex
Rating:13.5/20
Another day, another historic town, another display of daub and wattle vernacular architecture, another vision of This England. But Battle, of course, was the first place in England to become a bit of France, because the Battle of Hastings was fought a couple of hedges away. It should have been called the Battle of Battle, but I suppose that didn't really appeal to the heritage historians of the day, so they co-opted Hastings for the job. Still, Battle is pretty and nice, and well patrolled by charabancs and people carriers of every shape.
The Pilgrims fits in with the Battle profile very nicely, being a picture-esquely rickety 16th-century inn, with the air of having plenty of heritage about it, and loads of those fetching black beams lurching all over the shop, shown up nicely by white plaster. It had been brought to my attention by virtue of the close ties it claims to have with local suppliers. "We currently work with more than 100 local farmers, dairies, fishermen, producers and cottage industries," proclaimed the menu. "Some are organic; some are biodynamic; some are in conversion, and others are kitchen gardens and young businesses too small to afford certification." Sounded groovy to me, although I was less sure about the "we aim to fuse this to international, cosmopolitan cuisine"; not sure at all, in fact.
Local sourcing seems to be all the rage just at the moment, with even Waitrose and Asda proclaiming their conversion to the cause. Of course it makes sense but, call me naive and old-fashioned, I wish I could believe that it indicated a case of the sinners coming to repentance and a fundamental commitment to principle, rather than a slick marketing exercise. I am sure that this is not the case with The Pilgrims, which grew out of a local enterprise, The Food Room, which promoted the area's produce.
To be honest, I don't think it's simply a matter of local being best simply because it is local. It should be the best because it tastes good. If it tastes like old socks (or new socks, come to that), it doesn't matter if it comes from just down the road or from the other side of the world - it's inedible. Taste has to be the key criteria. Being local, of course, the raw materials should taste better. No air miles to contend with, no centralised distribution, no being picked only half-ripe, no sitting around getting tired and despondent, just seasonal perfection and ripeness is all - heavens, it sounds like poetry.
However, it wasn't fruit or veg that caught my eye on the daily menu, but herring roes, pan-fried and garlic-spiced, on toast. I can't remember the last time I saw herring roes on a menu. It's a damned shame. I know that they're fish sperm by any other name, and that that notion doesn't sit easily in the mouths of many in these squeamish days, but really! Properly handled, they are quite as glorious and rather more interesting than a whole slew of other seafoods. In the event, those at The Pilgrims were tip-top, huge creamy curds, the richness of which was nicely offset by the garlic and chilli.
Next came grilled whole Rye Bay plaice with sauce vierge. It was Friday, and I hoped that the fish would indicate a certain purity of soul. Sadly, it didn't indicate a similar purity in the kitchen. There was nothing wrong with the plaice from Rye, which was fresh as local should be, and accurately cooked, but the so-called sauce vierge was cloddish in a way that only hacked up, unskinned tomato mixed up with flotsam of pungent olive hunks can make it. Not nice, and it did for the poor old fish.
I felt the same about the Food Room treacle tart. I am a great lover of the treacle tart, favouring the filling fattened up and softened down with breadcrumbs, and livened up with lemon juice and rind. Above all, I like to feel my teeth sink up to the gums in soft, squidgy filling before feeling the stiffer resistance of crisp pastry. This aesthetic contrast goes some way towards justifying a flood tide of double Jersey cream to tone down the sweetness and help it all down. The trouble with this version was that it was impossible to tell where the pastry ended and the tart began, because the pastry was so uncooked it had the same texture as the filling. The filling, too, was sweetness pure and simple, and plain boring.
It was disappointing, because the ideas in the kitchen seem to be pretty sound, and the instinct to promote local gear is admirable; but technical shortcomings let the side down. Perhaps it wasn't wholly surprising. The pavements of Battle were seething with the new invaders in Crimplene and trainers. Inside the fine dining room of the Pilgrims, with black-clad waiting folk, there was just me and one couple. It's difficult to keep a kitchen on top of its game in such conditions.
The customers can't have been put off by the prices - £12.75 for two courses, £17.20 for three; my bill of £28 included a couple of glasses of wine, water and coffee - but I get the feeling that the restaurant has something of a crisis of identity. Is it a show place for local goodies, a fine dining establishment or a watering hole on the heritage trail? The Pilgrims needs to make up its mind.
· Open Lunch, Mon-Sun, 12 noon-5pm; dinner, Mon-Sat, 7-9.30pm. Menus: Lunch, £12.75 for two courses, £17.20 for three. Wheelchair access (no WC).
