Telephone: 01264 810833.
Address: 31 High Street, Stockbridge, Hampshire.
Rating 14.5/20
'Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,/Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)," as Rupert Brooke put it. Well, it was a bit after June, but it was noon, and the fish were there, replete with flies or something else, and definitely dawdling in the pellucid waters of the river Test at the back of the Greyhound in Stockbridge.
For those who are ignorant of these things, the Test occupies a supreme place in the mythology of English fly fishermen - undeservedly, in my view - and Stockbridge is its Olympus, or whatever the capital city of the gods might be. It is a one-street village, but that street is lined from end to end with temptations, among them an excellent butcher, a fine greengrocer, an antique shop or two, a fishing emporium of wounding expense, and the Greyhound. The Greyhound has been here since time immemorial, but it was taken over fairly recently, cleaned out, cleaned up, and a chef of some repute, Darron Bunn, put into the kitchen to give fishermen something to get their teeth into after a hard morning or afternoon doing battle with the monsters of the river. And so one wat'ry noon Tucker and I swanned (fishermen hate swans) in to give the place a serious trial.
It is pleasing, in a House & Garden basic rustic kind of way, all wood and plaster, inglenook and beam, 18th-century features carefully restored and brought out, and with minimal tat. The place was full of men with perma-tans, checked shirts and red trousers, loafers or docksiders, and women in white shirts with the collar turned up and jeans and Gucci slip-ons. There might even have been the odd fisherman about in moleskin and Viyella, but I wouldn't swear to it.
Bunn's menu was carefully designed to please such people, and there is nothing wrong with that. It was a vade mecum of the modern kitchen - risotto was there, and pesto, too (with goat's cheese), as well as scallops, a fishcake, sea bass (roasted) and turbot ("pan fried"), foie gras with beef, linguini to go with sea bream and mussel and saffron bouillon, and a panna cotta, which has become as ubiquitous as crème brûlée was 30 years ago.
Tucker was tempted by a pressed terrine of chicken ("corn fed", naturally) saltimbocca, which intrigued me as I couldn't quite make the connection between the classic of Roman cookery involving veal, Parma ham and sage, and this particular incarnation. And then he was all for the fillet of sea bream with linguini and trimmings. I decided to be more conventional, opting for fish cake with poached egg and chive beurre blanc, then breast of Gressingham duck with mixed bean hash and balsamic jus, another combination that provoked curiosity.
I assume that the saltimbocca side of the terrine was justified by the inclusion of Parma ham and sage, which added a potent piquancy to an otherwise hunky, chunky dish. My fish cake, meanwhile, was soft, squidgy, sexy and rich, made all the richer by the perfect poached egg on top and richer still by the beurre blanc. It was the kind of dish that fills you with pleasure at the same time as filling your arteries with cholesterol.
The fillet of sea bream was an accomplished dish: decent fish perfectly cooked, fragrant bouillon colourful with veg, finely floppy linguini for substance. The duck was less happy, both in its parts and in its cooking. The breast, which I think had been cooked off the bone, was not so much blushing pink as raw red, and it was cut into large chunks that were largely tooth-resistant (either that, or my teeth aren't what they once were). Second, the bean hash would have been fine with a fried egg on top, but I am not sure that, allied to duck, it is a match made in heaven.
By this time, Tucker was blowing a bit, so I called for the panna cotta with stewed summer fruits and two spoons, whereupon it became clear that he wasn't blown at all, just resting. So we put the panna cotta to the spoon, in spite of it being on the rubbery side, and called for the bill. It was £80.85, split almost exactly between food and drink, which was pretty fair, even taking the occasional technical lapse into account. Without them, it would have been better than average value. And so we swanned off, replete in most senses of the word.
· Open Lunch, all week, 12 noon-2.30pm; dinner, Mon-Sat, 6.30-10pm. All credit cards except American Express. Wheelchair access.
