18-20 Suffolk Parade, Cheltenham (01242 700055). Meal for two, including wine and service
I have always regarded the daffodil as a cheerful bloom, and having lunch in a restaurant named after one seemed a fine idea on the sort of gloomy winter's day when the sky never managed to get beyond the colour of a day-old bruise. And there are, indeed, a lot of jolly things about the Daffodil in Cheltenham. It is housed in an old cinema and admirable effort has been made to play up every Art Deco flourish and twirl. Two flights of stairs worthy of Gloria Swanson sweep in great curves from ground floor to gallery. There are mirrors and bright flashes of primary colour, old cinema posters and a fine vaulted ceiling. Where once the screen hung is the open kitchen.
At which point the jolliness stops, for at this movie house the feature presentation is a right old turkey. Yes, at lunch, it is cheap - just £14.50 for three courses - but cheap is not the same as good value when the kitchen seems so determined to deliver a poor performance. The menu reads like it was composed while sitting in front of a week's editions of Ready Steady Cook, and eats like it too. So there are sweet-chilli dressings and thyme rostis and mongrel creations such as feta and roquette pesto, which is one of those idiotic bits of wanton innovation that makes me want to chew the nearest table. In what way is feta better than parmesan? Why does roquette make more sense than basil? I blame that Ainsley bloody Harriott.
It is possible, I suppose, that a kitchen that knew what it was doing could deliver something nice to eat from the dishes listed here, but you will not find that kitchen at the Daffodil. The problems began with my starter, a smoked Applewood cheese souffle with a tomato and onion salad and a smear of basil pesto. Let us take it as given that the tomato was a dreary, flavourless disc of mush - because it was - and consider the souffle.
A real souffle is not easy. Chefs on daytime TV shows who are trying to flog books with the word 'simple' in the title will tell you otherwise, but a good one requires a light touch and a profound understanding of the effects of heat on whipped egg whites. The souffle here had the thick, claggy texture of a muffin, as if it had been prepared in advance and then heated through on service. I have no idea if it was, but it would take real talent (or a real lack of it) to achieve that texture by cooking it from scratch.
My companion's starter, a sandwich-filling tian of avocado and ground chicken, came with a toxic slick of that sweet-chilli dressing. Why? In what way is the bullying sweetness of chilli jam meant to bolster oniony avocado and mayonnaise-drenched chicken? Answer: it doesn't. My friend ordered a glass of wine, and then another. 'I've got to do something to cheer myself up,' she said.
Mains were, if anything, worse. A lump of 'crispy skinned' salmon came without any skin at all. The fish was overcooked so that albumen had set in white blobs between the dull flakes, and it came on a watery risotto mined with spring onions and smoked halibut. It was finished with a coagulating cheese and mustard sauce which, frankly, is enough to finish off any dish. My friend ordered another glass of wine.
A chargrilled hunk of tough chicken came on two thin disks of soggy rosti, tasting not at all of the claimed thyme, with an industrial-strength tomato and bacon sauce. A side dish of chips had that uniform cut so beloved of Mr McCain, which must have taken ages to pull off in the kitchen. A white-chocolate and coffee cheesecake had a flaccid base and was horribly over-sweet, while a warm chocolate pudding was, in fact, two slices of heated sponge drenched in sauce.
There are two dispiriting things about all of this. First - and unusually for a restaurant with lousy food - the front-of-house staff were very good. Our waiter was efficient, friendly and not unaware that there might be failings in what he was serving. He, too, didn't think the sweet-chilli jam such a beezer idea. The second is that there are other very good places to eat within a few seconds' walk of the Daffodil: turn right out of the door and there's Brosh, which does zingy things with the Sephardic culinary tradition; turn left, and there's Le Champignon Sauvage, one of the most thrilling gastronomic restaurants in the country. There is nothing so depressing as eating badly when you know you could be eating well elsewhere.
As we left I noticed that the woman on the front desk was reading a medical textbook. It was open to the page on normal penile function. Frankly, after such an unstimulating trip to this lovely picture house, it was reassuring to see at least some evidence of excitement in the old place.
