Don't mention you-know-who - this was to be the guiding principle of today's review, which concerns a catering establishment in Torquay, on the grounds that it was all a long time ago, let's hear no more about him, all forgotten now, etc, etc.
Except that, far from being forgotten, he still casts such a gigantic culinary shadow over the town that when The Elephant won Torquay's first Michelin star almost two years ago, even the region's director of tourism couldn't help but mention him herself. "The Basil Fawlty image of Torquay always was just a creation," Maureen McAllister observed, "and this really puts it to bed."
If so, you can't help wonder why this is The Elephant's first national review. Is it simply that the other critics lack this column's appetite for trekking through the culinary deserts of Britain in search of the odd oasis? Or does the notion of a first-rate restaurant in Torquay remain so laughable that, despite Ms McAllister's insistence that "there is no faster rising star in the world of food than the English Riviera", my so-called rivals cannot bring themselves to point their cars westerly along that little back road called the M5?
Perhaps it's a bit of both, but if Ms McAllister makes one glaring mistake in her analysis, she is not alone. Many people wrongly view the Michelin star as the true gold standard for a restaurant, but few do so more transparently than The Elephant's head chef, Simon Hulstone, a man whose obvious ability is compromised by the craving to please those sneaky little operatives from the French-owned guide rather more than the regular punters.
Hulstone is not, of course, the first Torquay restaurateur to attempt to ingratiate himself with undercover inspectors, but his commitment puts Fawlty in the shade. The upstairs "fine dining" room - known rather irksomely as "The Room" - is a handsome enough space with its polished floorboards, antique light fittings, big mirrors, high-backed, two-tone chairs and views over the sea. But its soul resides on walls that are festooned with framed menus from establishments belonging to Alain Ducasse, Paul Bocuse and others from that elite band of triple-starred chefs.
"Uggghh," said my wife as she glanced at the interminable list of ingredients on the menu. Marriage is all about low-level telepathy (I know that; I read it once on the back of a matchbox), so I took her point at once. The last thing you want in a pleasingly vulgar coastal town, in a restaurant 25 yards around the corner from a row of amusement arcades and shops selling rock and Viking hats, is self-indulgent exhibitionism.
"This is just a shrine to Michelin, isn't it?" she went on as a pre-starter of truffle oil-infused popcorn arrived. "Can't we do a runner and have fish and chips on a bench facing the sea?"
We could not, although one of the phalanx of Polish waitresses did ask the kitchens if a 10-year-old of our acquaintance could have the Guinness-battered haddock, chips and mushy peas from the brasserie downstairs, and this was permitted. His parents, however, were lumbered with the posh stuff, and were as impressed with Hulstone's technical adroitness as they were irked by the verbose ponciness of his menu.
My wife kicked off with "Paignton crab 'Martini' with creamed avocado, mango and mist salsa, and warm crab beignet", a good, fresh dish prettily presented in a tall glass. But my starter of "hand-dived St Mary's Bay scallops" - is anyone really bothered about the provenance of their shellfish? - was a mess, a paltry trio of emaciated mollusc coming with oversalted "veal-dusted sweetbreads" as well as those twin faddish horrors, the baby food (a purée of asparagus) and the cat sick (almond milk foam).
Just as we were writing off Hulstone completely, he surprised us. Although the Guinness-battered haddock was a spongy, flaccid disaster, both fish dishes from the fancy menu were stunners. A plump fillet of line-caught sea bass had such magnificent flavour that neither its accompaniments of "warmed gazpacho sauce" and "olive oil sorbet", nor imbecilic crockery styled after an inverted Spanish priest's hat, could ruin it. My wife also loved her "pan-roasted day boat John Dory on parsnip purée with a verjus and spring onion butter", which was crispy and juicy and well complemented by the buttery sauce, although she suspected she would have preferred the night boat version.
Yet whatever the Michelin people may think, there is far more to a restaurant than the quality of its cooking. Even on ostensibly one of the busiest nights of the week, this place was barely a third full, and that uniquely English, desultory air that comes from people feeling intimidated by their food chased us away before the puds. We paid up and headed for the car, gratefully sucking in the aromas of sea and stale chip fat, and agreeing that, for all the obvious failings in cooking and service at a fictional hotel up the road, we'd take the fiascoid hilarity of Gourmet Night at Fawlty Towers over another meal at the "Pretentious? Moi?", Michelin-fixated Elephant any time.
