Address: Old Sodbury, Bristol
Telephone: 01454 313000
Price: Around £70 for two (with wine)
Open: Restaurant, daily, 12 noon-2.30pm and 6.30pm-9.30pm; bar food available all day.
Wheelchair access but no disabled WC.
A few years ago, I found myself sitting in a Cree teepee on the snow-covered plains of Waskaganish in Quebec, tucking into a bowl of beaver tail soup. Which I almost spat out when the chief informed me (with a perfectly straight face) that his family had traditional names, and then introduced me to his wife Crazy Bitch and her mother Cow Who Will Not Die (I think he was taking the piss, or maybe he'd just seen Les Dawson on cable TV). Even more surprising, however, were the octogenarian couple in the next tent, the interior of which was adorned with a picture of the Queen. Because, unlike the Québecois (who booed Brenda last time she had the temerity to visit), the older Cree still respect Her Maj, and dream of the day when she'll drop in unexpectedly for tea.
Being no lover of the monarchy (show me the Queen's head on a stamp and I'm in two minds about which side to spit on), I made no comment, but their dream was not an impossibility, because she does occasionally drop in unexpectedly on snow-filled locations. On December 13 1981, her car was heading along the A46 when it became trapped in a blizzard. Moments later, she strolled into the Cross Hands Hotel in Old Sodbury in search of refreshment. Although my motto has long been "strangle the last king with the guts of the last priest", even I would have been flustered if I'd worked there, because there was no time to roll out a red carpet, touch up the decor or even clean the khazis. So, for probably the first time in her life, Her Majesty must have discovered that the entire world doesn't smell of new paint.
Last month, I, too, was blizzarded into the Cross Hands, where the maître d' solemnly warned me, "I can't get you a table for half an hour", even though the place was like the Mary Celeste. So I sat on a tattered, frayed chair by a piece of ripped carpet, wondering if this was where Her Maj had sat all those years ago, and whether the decor had been deliberately left untouched for 24 years as a mark of respect. Then, as I was perusing a poster advertising a "Fawlty Towers Theme Night next Saturday ... with John Parkin as Basil Fawlty", I was handed the menu and realised that life was now imitating art. Because the fare included such irredeemably pretentious 1970s concoctions as duck à l'orange, prawn marie rose and breaded brie, all sounding remarkably similar to Basil's menu for his own gourmet night.
The restaurant's proud boast that it is "popular with golfers, motor racers and horse racing fans" seemed all too believable, but claims that it is "renowned for its excellent cuisine" could well attract the attention of the trades description people. Call me a miserable Old Sodbury, but I wasn't impressed by the bread arriving halfway through the first course, while my guest, the daughter of a fine Forest of Dean baker, was appalled by its poor quality, complaining that "it has no inner texture - it's been frozen". Her melon starter was straight out of Play School, with grape buttons almost placed in a smiley face arrangement that contrasted starkly with her own grimace as she tasted, then asked, "How can a melon be simultaneously bitter and sweet?" As for my king prawns (cooked in butter, white wine and garlic), they were covered in what looked like garlic bits, yet had not the faintest whiff of the genus Allium about them. Until they repeated on me the next day, and the day after that. Then the fragrance finally came through.
For main course, the baker's daughter had dover sole, which looked more like bait than catch ("Not worth the money: a tiddler masquerading as a grown-up fish"). I toyed with the idea of ordering "hake fillet with chisp" (just to see if they were french fries with a lisp), but instead went for "stincotto of roasted shank of pork, basted in honey and white wine". The only other time I've encountered this dish was when I was examining the output of a company called iB Food plc, which sells precooked meals to lazy, profit-seeking establishments, "supplied in an aluminium bag, with an ambient shelf life of 18 months, to be finished off under the grill or in the microwave". That might explain why mine looked roasted but tasted boiled. If it hadn't been supplied to this restaurant by a catering company, I'll eat my cat (or at least an "aluminium-wrapped feline portion").
Over the chocolate cake "with crème brûlée in the middle" I shall draw a discreet veil, but the rum log was as rum as the service, which was woefully slow (although not uncaring). By the time we left, the very idea of a Fawlty Towers theme night seemed redundant, because this place already is the shambolic institution that it's planning to lampoon and has no need of an ersatz John Cleese doing a funny walk to complete the resemblance. On the way out, I noticed two plaques on the wall, one saying "toilets" and the other stating that "the Queen took refuge here". What it didn't add was that she sensibly buggered off as soon as the road cleared, never to return.
