Jesmond Dene House: 7.75/10
Telephone: 0191-212 3000
Address: Jesmond Dene Road, Newcastle-upon-Tyne
Open: All week, lunch noon-2.30pm (Sun 12.30-4pm), dinner 6-10.30pm (Sun 5.30-10pm)
In furtherance of this column's commitment to providing a bespoke service for ever more acutely targeted pockets of readership, today's review is aimed at those of you who wish to cheer up David Abrahams by taking him out for a meal.
Life can't have been much fun for the Newcastle property developer since news of his eccentric mode of making donations to the Labour party broke in November. The inevitable tristesse of the single person's Christmas, or Hanukah, may not have helped much, either.
What could be better judged to put the smile (and what a natural and engaging smile it is) back on that elfin face than an outing for lunch at Newcastle's Jesmond Dene House hotel? For this relative newcomer, positioned some 10 miles outside the centre of town, is New Labour to its fingertips.
"Traditional values in a modern setting seems the keynote," murmured my cousin, Nick, as we settled in the bar and this grizzled veteran of a dining companion was right. Behind a Munsterish stone exterior is a semi-minimalist, cool interior, and to sit in a retro 1960s chair with futuristic chrome armrests, with a bowl of pickled onions arrayed before you next to some fancy garlic olives, is to be sharply reminded of the fusion between old and new so sparklingly achieved by New Labour with the help of Mr Abrahams' largesse.
The special charm of Sunday lunch, meanwhile, for a man who likes to trim a decade off his 63 years, is that here he'd feel like a teenager. The faint whistling of hearing aids filled the dining room, along with the special desultory atmosphere that attends the inter-generational family meal, and despite the presence of the odd bored grandchild in the slightly twee but pleasingly cosy room (hideous carpet, abstract splodges on the walls, faddish hanging lamps, garish cockerels and terracotta crockery displayed on shelves, a serving table styled after a Crimean war gun carriage), the median age must have been nudging 85.
"Old boy, look at her eyes," whispered Nick, craning his neck for a clearer view of an astoundingly beautiful nonagenarian seated in the far corner of the room. "They're like sapphires. My God, she's exquisite. She's the Jessica Tandy of the north-east. Look at her skin - just look at her skin."
Alarmed by this nascent crush, I gently reached out a hand and steered his head back towards the reasonably priced set-price menu. To the question, "Who will have a fishy on a little dishy?" came the answer, "I will." That said, what came was a very little dishy, the starter portions being so meagre that we suspected they'd pegged us for soft southern nancies on sight. But the fishy - a piece of grilled and allegedly wild salmon with Niçoise salad and a Caesar dressing - was perfectly cooked so that the skin was crispy and the flesh supple and juicy. Nick's Northumbrian shellfish bisque, meanwhile, could have done with a dash of brandy, but it was a creamy and intensely flavoured soup all the same.
By now, our attention had wandered from the geordie Jessica Tandy to the man surrounded by children and grandchildren at the next table, who, despite being about 106, appeared to have a proceeding hairline.
"Old boy, look at his hair," murmured Nick. "Just look at his hair."
"I've seen his hair," I replied tartly, ruffling my own remaining strands in the usual doomed attempt at disguise. "For God's sake, don't bang on about his hair."
"All right. But he's only gone and cleared his plate."
This was quite a testament to the kitchen, the main course portions being as generous as the starters were mean. Nick's grilled leg of lamb, slightly lukewarm but with the proper, reassuringly fatty flavour of a well-reared animal, came in a vast serving with a remarkably good white turnip gratin and a strong rosemary jus.
My roast loin of pork came in four large discs, and was sweet and delicious, if a little tough, and was accompanied by a purée of Bramley apple and what the menu tautologically referred to as "crispy crackling" (the day a restaurant, seeking uniqueness in the quest for a Michelin star, advertises flaccid crackling is the day I throw in the towel).
Vegetables, however, rather let the side down, being a clumpingly presented collation of overcooked greenery and faintly burned potatoes. But the puddings - a warm chocolate tart with crème fraîche and a trio of seemingly homemade ice-creams and sorbets - were a welcome return to the form previously displayed by the kitchen. Chuck in a decent and fairly priced wine list, and service from smartly aproned staff that at times flirted with superciliousness but was generally good, and this is an impressive and honest restaurant by any standards, let alone by those of the British provincial hotel.
I recently met the majestic darts commentator and Cambridge history graduate Sid Waddell, and he told me that he'd recently spent a weekend at Jesmond Dene and came away liking everything about it, including the food. And higher praise than that - from an even stronger contender than David Abrahams for the title of Greatest Living Geordie - there could not possibly be.
The bill
Set lunch £23
Shellfish bisque
Leg of lamb
Chocolate tart
Set lunch £23
Salmon Niçoise
Roast pork
Ice-cream & sorbet
Drinks £29.20
Subtotal £75.20
Service @ 10% £7.52
Total £82.72
