Beaulieu, Hampshire, (0845 123 5613).
Meal for two, including wine and service, £120
Remarkably, there are some restaurants I have never eaten in. Sometimes this is a matter of principle. I admire a lot of what Jamie Oliver does, for example, but the limited choice evening menu at 15 is too expensive. It costs £60, the same price as dinner at the Square in Mayfair which has two Michelin stars, and until the price drops I won't be going. At other times my failure is down to pure incompetence. In that category I include never having eaten at the Merchant House in Ludlow, Shaun Hill's one-man-band operation which was credited with igniting the food revolution in the Shropshire town and described by people whose opinions I respect as being a beacon for all that is sensible in top-class cookery. It opened in 1994 and closed last year. And I still hadn't been. When Hill shut up shop I felt like an idiot.
Then last autumn he surfaced as a consultant at the Montagu Arms. The hotel was pushing him as their director of cooking which is a new title on me. My understanding is that this means Hill has a significant, if part-time consultancy with the hotel, and comes down from time to time to put the brigade through their paces, though the prominence of his name at the top of the menu was always going to be a hostage to fortune. A number of the dishes that friends had rhapsodised over at the Merchant House are now listed on the menu, and it would be tough not to judge the place by the standard Hill's name sets. By that test the Montagu Arms was always likely to fail and, while there things to recommend it, I'm afraid it does.
The hotel is a solid lump of red-brick Victoriana. Americans looking for the England of Four Weddings and a Funeral would quite likely get all frisky at the sight of the wood panelling, and the over-stuffed sofas and flouncy curtains. The grandly titled Terrace Restaurant is a wide space of the sort that would happily accommodate a family wedding complete with drunken uncle, but which is just a little too big for the intimacy of a fancy dinner. Around this area move a collection of young, anxious waiters who are too desperate to make sure you're having a good time.
It doesn't help that the management insists they wear name badges so they look like they're serving you breakfast at a Moat House. Nor that they are commanded to ask you regularly whether you are having a nice time. The most curious element, however, is the wearing of tired and baggy white gloves, which they only put on to bring dishes. It doesn't make the waiters look elegant, but as if they are customs officers preparing to give you an intimate examination.
So to dinner. Canapes included a pleasingly salty piece of battered halibut and curls of cured salmon and ham, both served at the right temperature. Our starters, both Merchant House dishes, missed the mark. I have heard people hyperventilate over his monkfish with a mustard creme fraiche sauce and cucumber, and I saw how the flavours could work. But the fish was over-cooked, and I found myself wondering wistfully what it tasted like when Hill himself made it. I felt the same way about seared scallops on a lentil and coriander sauce. The scallops had been prepared sensitively, but the sauce played in the mouth like some faux Indian concoction. It didn't help that in transport, both plates had been tipped so that everything had ended up loitering on the left.
Of the main courses the fillet of brill with mussels, leeks and a salty saffron sauce was the star. But my wild duck was tough, possibly because it had not been allowed to rest. The plate was too hot. (Incidentally I asked the waiter what sort of wild duck it was. Mallard? Widgeon? 'No,' he said, 'Duck. Which flies.')
Then we got to pudding, and - Hurrah! - it was as if a different kitchen had taken over. A somloi, a kind of Hungarian trifle that Hill probably picked up when he worked at London's Gay Hussar, delivered light layers of sponge and cream with the crunch of walnuts. My chocolate pithivier, the scored pastry shell holding a soft rich, frankly indecent filling of dark chocolate, was as beautiful to look at as it was to eat. If the whole meal had matched the puddings I would be singing from the roof.
There is also the price issue. Three courses costs £39, which is a few quid more than Hill was charging at the Merchant House. Obviously they have more staff to pay, but they also have many more tables. Right now it feels like they are trading on a name, one they have not yet earned the right to intone.
