Telephone 01628 482277
Address 126 West Street, Marlow, Bucks
Open Tue-Sun: lunch, 12 noon-3pm; dinner, 7pm-11pm
Price Around £80 for lunch for two with wine
Partial disabled access; no disabled WC
Marlow in summer has the kind of strawberry-hued, gooseberry-and-elderflower-cordial Englishness that American and Japanese cinema-goers pay a lot of money for. It's Merchant Ivory meets Richard Curtis movie territory. On our Sunday lunchtime visit, we strolled past a sun-dappled river Thames lined with candyfloss trees showering summertime confetti. I imagined a homoerotic romance unfurling in Higginson Park, next to the river; across the road, I half-expected to see Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant skulking around in the graveyard of All Saints' church, talking about the misery of having once been the world's biggest movie stars.
Like many towns in southern England, however, Marlow's cricket and cucumber sandwiches image belies a strong commercial heartbeat. Its streets are not only filled with Georgian architecture and literary ghosts, but with mundane chain shops and modish bars and restaurants. You can't move for foie gras on toasted brioche and chilli squid. Not served together, of course: Marlow hasn't yet been afflicted with the madness of London's menus, it being the buttoned-up older sister.
Set slightly apart from the hubbub of the town centre, the Hand and Flowers is an old boozer that's been refurbished by Tom Kerridge, who has cooked in London at Gary Rhodes, Monsieur Max and Stephen Bull, and, most recently, at the Michelin-starred Adlard's in Norwich. It's not a gastropub - heavens, no - but a traditional pub with a smart, Anglo-French menu. The front of house is managed by Kerridge's wife, Beth. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked when we'd barely stepped inside. We liked her immediately: she was warm, chatty and ditzy, and gave lots of character to the place.
Inside there are exposed brick and stone walls, squishy banquettes and very low wooden beams. There's a bar counter that offers cask-conditioned ales, and you can drop by for just a drink if you wish. We liked the details: silver candlesticks; fresh flowers and ornamental plants on windowsills; chunky, antique-effect wooden tables; Riedel glasses. Those glasses were soon filled with sparkling Jean Veron white (£5 by the glass) and, later, with a bottle of rich, fruity shiraz from Firefly (£18).
Ah, the foie gras on toasted brioche. We had to try it: we were in Marlow. The foie gras was pressed with duck liver into a rich, velvety parfait, and served with a feather-light wisp of brioche (we could have done with more of it) and intensely figgy orange chutney. Goat's cheese and tomato tartlet was a thin rectangle of flaky pastry layered with caramelised onions, sliced plum tomatoes and a quivering quenelle of whipped goat's cheese. It was a touch overseasoned, and the addition of raw onion rings didn't do it any favours, but it was otherwise lively.
Next, we dug into succulent roast pork belly with a dryish but flavoursome sage stuffing and perfect crunchy crackling. The accompanying roast potatoes were mushy-soft, without a crispy exterior, but a tart apple sauce and sweet-sour red cabbage were both perfect. The light and nutmeggy potato gnocchi flecked with fresh herbs, combined with fleshy globe artichokes and a silky pouch of bosky (though underseasoned) mushroom ravioli, were excellent, with all the elements coming together very well. Of the two breads, a distinctive, open-textured walnut and sesame with a salty crust was our favourite.
We finished with an apple crumble tartlet. The pastry was slightly brittle, the somewhat sparse filling deliciously sharp, and the streusel-like crumble topping heaped on top, rather than browned - overall, then, something of a misjudged dish. We loved the accompanying blackberry sorbet, though: it was suffused with vibrant autumnal colour and flavour. The cheese platter was a fairly standard selection, but the combination was too mild and could have done with stronger varieties for balance.
Not technically brilliant cooking, then - they need to work particularly on texture and seasoning - but you know what? We liked this hospitable, well-run, family-owned pub anyway. My main criticism isn't so much about individual dishes, but about lack of seasonality.
Classics such as pork with sage and apple are all very well, but they were incompatible with the weather. It was like somebody showing their autumn/winter collection when you're thinking of beachwear.
After lunch, we walked back to the riverside. An annual French market that sells mainly food was clustered inside Higginson Park. The air was thick and sweet with the aroma of freshly baked Brittany biscuits. There were stalls piled high with organic prune and rhubarb jam, duck and venison sausages, tinned cassoulet and Normandy cider. Olive and tomato fougasse were sliding out of ovens, and someone was cooking tartiflette. Yet the stall with the longest queue was selling green and blue flowers made of fabric.
