St Clement's,
3 Merctoria, St Leonards-on-Sea, East Sussex, (01424 200 355).
Meal for two, with wine and service, £50-80
It would be easy, I think, to rave about St Clement's. The journey to get there is so unpromising that the sight of a tidy dining room and a sensible menu full of dishes made for eating is enough to make someone with an overly developed interest in their lunch go off on one. If, as Keith Waterhouse once said, Brighton looks like a town that is 'helping the police with its enquiries' then St Leonards-on-Sea looks like a town that has been convicted, done the time and is now out on parole. On my short walk from the station I passed half a dozen charity shops, an acute indicator of economic slough. It comes across as a place with more important things on its mind than whether the fish is local and the vegetables seasonal. It had an air of dignified stoicism; a sense of itself, and what it is not - which is to say, a seaside fantasy land for London types trading down to a mortgage-free, raffish lifestyle overlooking the sea. Real people live here.
Ignore that context and St Clement's becomes less something to rave about than exactly the sort of restaurant every mid-sized British town should be able to support, where good taste and great execution rule. No culinary boundaries are broken here, nothing will startle you, but you will eat very well. It is the antithesis of the fancy-pants metropolitan joints. Here the chairs and tables are of the honey-varnished faux-cottage variety that fill the breakfast rooms of B&Bs across the country. There are some interesting modern paintings on the wall, a small bar, and beyond that the kitchen. The waitresses are summoned to collect finished dishes not with the ping of a bell but by a very human and humane holler. It's that sort of place.
Those waitresses could also teach more complex establishments a lot about how to treat customers. One thing that drives me nuts is the refusal by waiters to tell you the price when announcing specials, as if cost were as ghastly as a dose of thrush. You are left wondering whether you can actually afford the chef's today-only way with razor clams and wondering how to phrase the question. Here it was all very simple. The waitress told me that the special starter of scallops poached in a butter and herb sauce was £8.50, the main course of red mullet, John Dory and scallops with pepponata was £16, and the lobster £22. See! That didn't hurt.
Although there is, as there should be, an awful lot of fish on the menu, things from land figure too. I started with one of those, a slow-cooked pork terrine, which was soft and unctuous, spiked with fresh green herbs and heading in texture more towards the rillette end of things than a pâté. It came with cornichons, red-onion chutney, a little hot toast and - an inspired touch - some crunchy walnuts, which did wonders for the texture.
As I waited for my main I saw all the other things I wasn't having pass me by: the thick slices of pork belly, with shards of crackling, perched on a pillow of mash; the leg of lamb with pommes dauphinoise; the simply grilled plaice and the discus-sized fish cake with a crisp golden crumb. Many of these dishes, it should be said, turn up on the daily-changing lunch menu, which is probably one of the best bargains you'll find between here and Torquay. Two courses are just £10, rising to £13 for three. In the evening add a fiver.
I had the mixed fish special, and it was as the lady had described: fillets of red mullet and John Dory plus one lovely fat scallop, with a tangle of slow-cooked peppers, some sauteed potatoes and dollops of a vibrant salsa verde with more of the same in a pot on the side. The salsa verde had the sort of boisterous garlicky savouriness which, the moment it hits your tongue, you know will have your loved ones pulling faces and recoiling from you. But it was too good. I slathered it on to the plate and poured what was left over on to my underdressed side salad, and banished thoughts of my wife. Sadly, I noticed that even here the curse of the out-of-London restaurant, the white oval bowl of steamed broccoli, had found a place. Still, at least it didn't just turn up; you had to order it, which I hadn't.
I finished with a soft, sticky tarte tatin, sprinkled with a little rosemary, and before leaving took a moment to examine the noticeboard in the front porch. Among the photocopies of approving write-ups and handwritten letters of thanks was a copy of the letter that the makers of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares send out to every restaurant in the land, enquiring as to whether they thought themselves in need of shouty Gordon's help. It felt as if the letter was there solely for the amusement of the regulars. This restaurant? Our restaurant? St Clement's? Not likely...
· Tim Atkin's wine column returns next week.
