Shibden Mill Inn, Shibden Mill Fold, Halifax (01422 365 840). Nibbles £4–£6; starters £6–£12; mains £14–£23; desserts £7–£9. Wines from £19 a bottle. Extensive gin and whisky selection

There are many kinds of brave. Rescuing families from advancing Australian bush fires is definitely brave, as is calling out predatory men in the movie business for sexual harassment. Me, on a beach, in a tight-fitting pair of Speedos might also be described as brave, though in that instance what the word really means is: “There are things that once seen, cannot be unseen.” Bravery is about context. The bravery described in a gravy-slicked restaurant column, is unlikely to stand up well against, say, that of a man who decides a narwhal tusk will do as a defensive weapon against a homicidal maniac. But that doesn’t stop it being its own kind of brave.

The food operation at Shibden Mill Inn, tucked into a wooded, stream-babbled cleft just outside Halifax, is indeed brave. The low-slung, whitewashed collection of buildings, which originated here in the 17th century, seem to demand a certain sort of conservatism, with a small c. It’s the same inside. Ceilings are low and black-wood beamed. There are flagstones and hearths and, within them, guttering flames. I didn’t see horse brasses on the wall, but they are implied. It is by no means a gin-palace theme park, but it is very much an English country pub. On the day we visit this comes complete with a man sitting outside, with a pint of ale at half-mast and a happy, damp dog.

This brings its own food assumptions and here they all are on a section of the menu headed “Comforts”: sausage and mash, a burger, fish and chips. Jolly good. We know where we are, don’t we? Except we don’t, not quite. For there is the fierce tang of ambition at play here on Yorkshire’s West Riding, a clear desire to steer away from the obvious. I’d even call it subversive, an obstinate determination to play against type. It doesn’t always work. At some point, more in sorrow than in anger, I’m going to pick holes in a main course, because that’s the dreadful kind of man I am. Put that aside for now and focus on the list of interesting things to eat.

Consider the list of “Nibbles”: the custard tarts flavoured with cheese and the chilli-spiced poke in the ribs that is nduja, or the cheddar and ale bread with Marmite butter. Then there is the one we have – curls of cod skin, puffed up from a vigorous ride through the deep-fat fryer and offered up alongside a pot of crème fraîche mixed in with enough grated horseradish to tickle the nostrils. On top is a scoop of caviar, the cheap stuff, but enough to make its point. One salty, fishy hit, emphasises the other. It would be ludicrous hyperbole to call this the snack of 2020, what with it still being January and all. But it’s extremely encouraging and its mine and no, you can’t have any. Get your own. It’s only £4.

With the starters it’s all about the detail. A chicken liver parfait is so smooth, so whipped and glossy, it could stand in as an edible version of Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour cream. Don’t wait for your digestive system to deliver it to your cellulite. Just spread it straight on to your thighs for a lovely, glossy finish. It is rich without being cloying and comes with a generous scoop of bacon jam, a dense, sweet-savoury porky relish that makes me feel understood. It is scattered with a crumb made from crisped chicken skin. Alongside, are two golden slices of toasted brioche, cut thick enough so that the surface gives way to the sponge-cake softness of the light crumb, which puffs sweet, baked air. Another starter brings fat pebbles of cod cheek on a stew of Toulouse sausage and butter beans, loitering on a herb-flecked emulsion. Grated across the top is the deep, creamy yellow of cured egg yolk.

The mains read intriguingly. There is a fillet of coley with “potatoes poached in bacon fat, roasted cauliflower, brown shrimps, beurre noisette sauce”. The offer of bacon fat as a cooking medium appeals to someone with my pronounced tendencies, but it’s a weird call, not least because it makes what would otherwise be a pescatarian dish suitable only for meat eaters. Also, the potatoes don’t taste of bacon, which feels like a promise broken. The hunk of fish is overcooked so that ribbons of set albumen cling to it, the sauce is over salted, the cauliflower undercooked. These faults are listed in disappointment. I only want the kitchen that can make that parfait to succeed. Far better is a glazed slab of beef short rib with both soft rings of smoked onion and onion that has been pickled in the acidity of HP Sauce. All onions should be pickled in HP Sauce.

Desserts veer between the poised and the muscular. There is a precise oblong of an iced apple parfait with scattered pieces of sweet frangipane, candied almonds and blackberry sorbet. Care has been taken over the placement of each dainty item. Someone has studied this plate, just so we can destroy it with our spoons. Less care needs to be taken with a gingery block of parkin in a treacle toffee sauce the colour of Dracula’s hair. It sits proud in the centre of the plate. On the side, to lighten the load, is a brisk crème fraîche ice-cream. The crumbly parkin is apparently made with bonfire oats, which I assume are a well-known thing, only unknown to me. I Google the term, like a good boy. The one reference is here on the menu at this pub. Feel free to educate this ignorant oaf.

Because there are rooms at the inn, they must cover all bases. For breakfast – full English, £11.50 – they make their own jams and black pudding. No, you don’t have to eat those together. There is an afternoon tea with all the right sandwiches and all the right cakes for £15 a head, and a shack outside that, in the summer, knocks out boards of charcuterie, cheese and cured fish. The wine list displays a keen interest in small producers and is mostly priced at below £30 a bottle, with lots of choice by the glass and carafe. It’s all very cheery and happy to help, without getting in your face. The furniture may be dark and heavy, but there’s a lightness of touch to the service. The Shibden Mill Inn could be just another food pub. Instead they’ve had the courage to become a lot more than that.

News bites

Thirty minutes away by train from Halifax, in the Round Foundry redevelopment, Leeds, is the restaurant of former MasterChef: the Professionals runner-up Matt Healey. He takes the idea of Spanish small plates – I think we call it tapas – and runs with it. So as well as cured meats and hunks of chorizo cooked in cider, there’s the likes of squid with black-ink rice or hake with salsify, and girolles. Finish with a pear bavoirs with a pear and ginger sorbet (mhfoundry.co.uk).

A survey of British consumers’ attitudes to food use-by dates by online marketplace onbuy.com, produces some interesting results. Perhaps uncontroversially, over 70% of the 2,384 people surveyed said they would eat vegetables and pasta that were passed its use-by date. More worryingly, 25% said they would eat fresh meat that was out of date. For sake of doubt, while judgement can be applied to certain foods, fresh meat is not one of them.

Chef Michael Caines, who made his name at Gidleigh Park in Devon before opening Lympstone Manor near Exmouth, has taken over the nearby Cove, a beachside restaurant at Maenporth. It will reopen in March following its usual seasonal closure, with both a brasserie à la carte menu and a tasting menu (michaelcaines.com)

Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk or follow him on Twitter @jayrayner1