Telephone 01527 579007
Address Bromsgrove, Worcs
Open: Lunch, Sun-Fri, 12.30-1.30pm; dinner, Mon-Sat, 7.30-9.30pm.
Price Three-course set dinner, £27.85 (or four for £32.75).
Wheelchair access and disabled WC.
8/10
As its website makes clear, the history of Grafton Manor is peppered with intrigue. It was on this site in 1605 that the Gunpowder Plotters met for a little chat two days before the (non)event. Later that century, the then owner, Charles Talbot, sailed to Holland to encourage William of Orange to seize the throne, having mortgaged the estate to help fund that hostile takeover.
It would be stretching things to claim that anything occurred during our dinner to give such engaging historical details a run for their money, but a conundrum arose that will intrigue me for the rest of my days. Were the words with which our enchanting waitress introduced us to the pre-starters an instance of eerie coincidence or an example of exquisite self-parody? Half an hour earlier, in the pleasingly shabby sitting room upstairs, she had got herself into a bit of a state over a bottle of sancerre, and my friend and I looked at each other and muttered, "Acorn Antiques" - her panicking about the temperature of the wine, expressed in a rich, Black Country accent and accompanied by a pirouette of confusion, was purest Mrs Overall.
So when she later delivered the pre-starters with the proclamation, "Two ssssoups!" - the catchphrase of Julie Walters' second best-loved character from the Victoria Wood show - it seemed too good to be true. A bookie would probably quote you 8-11 the pair, but forced to bet at gunpoint I'd plump for coincidence over self-parody, because, for all our waitress's fussing, the service was light years from Walters' shaky waitress. In fact, it was impeccable, and not a drop of a subtle and notably good truffle oil-infused Jerusalem artichoke soup was spilled as she ladled it into our cups.
By that time, it had long been apparent that Grafton Manor is an unusual and deeply charming place. To find a bedroom as vast as mine - with four-poster bed, sherry decanter on the table and bookcases full of Trollope - not to mention a huge bathroom with free-standing bath, plus breakfast, for less than £100 a night verges on the miraculous. It confirms that this is that rarest of modern British entities, a hotel owned and managed by people less interested in fleecing punters than in showing them a good time.
The kitchens are run by the owners' elder son, Simon Morris, who appears in a framed newspaper cutting by the front door, resting against the motorbike on which he rode around India collecting recipes. Obviously it worked, because he was the 1997 Curry Chef of the Year, the first non-Asian to win the title; judging by the one Indian dish on the set menu (there is no à la carte), he has a real gift for the cuisine. Having said that, my starter of ravioli of oxtail with sautéed leeks was pretty good, too, the pasta having the perfect texture and the meat being properly opinionated. My friend went for an excellent pea, mint and lemon soup, which was delivered wordlessly, one ssssoup not having quite the same ring.
The room, imbued with a mid-80s yuppie boom feel by the slightly naff wallpaper and with little hint of the subcontinent, was empty by this point, and we were deep enough into a second bottle of wine for my notes to be barely legible. However, the savour of my friend's sali Goa chicken cafreal, a spicy, succulent curry with the authentic afterkick of freshly ground chilli, "lingers in the memory", as my friend put it, "like a Raoul Dravid on drive". By comparison, my roast tenderloin of pork with a cider jus was fairly pedestrian, and much more a Chris Tavare defensive prod to silly midoff.
The portions tend towards the rustic, so we passed on puddings (though Hyderabad apricots with mango and cardamom ice cream sounded pretty divine), and went back to the baronial drawing room to talk arrant rot over a third bottle. It was after 1am when we realised we'd been keeping the waitress up for the past hour and a half. She couldn't have brushed away the apologies more sweetly.
As a responsible newspaper, we cannot condone either the blowing up of the Houses of Parliament or the inciting of foreign princes to seize the British throne, but for anyone contemplating these or other acts of high treason, I cannot recommend Grafton Manor warmly enough.
