Like anyone obliged to eat regularly at this outpost of the catering world, this column has often suffered at the grasping hands of the English country house hotel restaurant. At one in Devon, we drove for hours along dirt tracks to be smugly informed that a child under 14 was half as welcome as a Komodo dragon wearing a polonium-210 helmet. At an old priory in Bath, it was to "the Abbot's", as they know the gents, that much of the food found its way via a carrier bag smuggled in from the car. Another country house of horror in the New Forest had clearly been created for the sole purpose of hosting the Society of Suicidal Breatharians's annual dinner.
Long exposure to these paeans to twee and pretentious incompetence have installed a bizarre early warning system, and at Goldstone Hall the hairs in my nostrils began bristling when a waiter revealed that the dining room was closed in preparation for a "wild boar roast" that evening to celebrate Candlemas. Candlemas, for anyone less expert than those of us who've just Googled it, is a pagan-Judaeo-Christian hybrid midwinter festival, a bit like Groundhog Day but without Gobbler's Knob in Punxsutawney, PA, for its leading venue. "If Candlemas Day be fair and bright/Winter will have another fight," an ancient rhyme has it. "If Candlemas Day brings cloud and rain/Winter won't come again."
How such traditional verses plan to adapt to climate change is their business, but this Candlemas Day brought much cloud and ceaseless torrential rain, and being led through various function rooms to an empty conservatory/farmhouse kitchen (exposed brickwork, terracotta tiles, a huge Welsh dresser, lemon-yellow walls; all a bit late 1980s), where we were entirely alone, seemed poor reward for a long drive in dreadful conditions. At least to me. "I like it here," said my wife. "It means no one can hear you bellowing, so I needn't worry about the embarrassment."
The bellowing yielded to mellowing, however, at the presence on the table of a jug of iced water - an astounding sight in a country house hotel, where a request for tap water is generally met with an explosion of claxons and a Swat team. Then came some excellent walnut bread, and a menu absolutely in tune with a solid redbrick Victorian house ... no aubergine caviar, no facetious mingling of assonant flavours, not the hint of a jus or a drizzling; but good, gutsy dishes relying where possible on local ingredients.
We began with a tian of crayfish and crab, both impeccably fresh, with sharp pickled celery to balance the seafood's sweetness; a slab of chicken liver parfait, served with Melba toast and Cumberland sauce, which was fine; and best of all, a terrine of ham hock and apricot that looked sumptuous and tasted "wonderfully smoky and robust, as if it was made in a farmhouse kitchen".
By now we'd been joined by an elderly trio whose ability to speak at normal volume (a high Whispering Quotient is a regular scourge of the country house hotel) confirmed how unusual this place is. So did the main courses. Grilled halloumi struck me as a lazy sop to vegetarians, but it was prettily presented with crunchy Mediterranean vegetables, and my wife loved it. A small boy of our acquaintance raved about his roast breast of guinea fowl ("ludicrously tasty"), which came with a terrific wild mushroom sauce and over-sweetened red cabbage, and my braised lamb shank with a leek and red wine sauce was so tender that you had only to glance at it crossly for the meat to flake off the bone.
Puddings were mixed, the texture of a honey crème brûlée having collapsed into dishwater but chocolate nemesis with caramel sauce being "utterly wonderful". Coffee was fine, the wine list oddly loath to take liberties, and the service charming beyond fault. That the owners need to concentrate on wedding parties and gimmicky hog roasts to make a living says far more about the general English uninterest in good food, which confines that alleged foodie revolution to London and the odd pocket of excellence, than a chef whose talent perhaps deserves a grander stage.
Rating 7.5/10
Telephone 01630 661202.
Address Cheswardine, Market Drayton, Shropshire.
Open All week, lunch noon-2pm (3pm Sun); dinner from 7pm.
Price Short set lunch menu, £17 for two courses, £22.50 for three; long menu, £25.50 for two, £32 for three.
