Address: Whatley Manor, Easton Grey, near Malmesbury, Wilts
Telephone: 01666 822888
Rating: 16.5/20
It was not an auspicious beginning. We couldn't find Whatley Manor. The empty country roads wound this way and that in a baffling maze. Drizzle blurred the windscreen. There didn't seem to be anyone at the hotel to answer the phone and tell us exactly where they were. Just as I was feeling the stirrings of a panic attack at the thought that we might not eat at all that night, we finally stumbled across it, more or less by accident.
Hurrah, there was a real fire. Hurrah, there was a cheery greeting. Oh dear, what was this? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. The designer had achieved a remarkable symbiosis, between the gemütlich cosiness of an Alpine chalet with lots of carved wood and the bland anonymity of corporate hoteliery with lots of, well, blandness and anonymity. And it was empty. And, what was more, I had forsworn bread, second helpings and alcohol in an attempt to rein in my corporeal lebensraum.
That self-denying ordinance didn't last long. Without alcohol, my mood would have deteriorated dangerously. I ordered a bottle of Swiss red, a rare wine on restaurant wine lists. So rare, indeed, that they were out of it, so I made do with a bottle of worthy, if dull, pinot noir from the Pays d'Oc. Oh golly, I thought, and began mentally sharpening my critical pencil. Had it not been for the cheery warmth of our French minder, evident efficiency of the service, wine list deficiencies notwithstanding, and the lure of the menu, I might have cracked altogether.
Whatley Manor is a recent arrival on the country-house-hotel horizon, and had been conceived on an ambitious scale. It was difficult to assess the scale of the place in the dank darkness of a January night, but it's no bijou conversion, to judge by the size of the car park and by the fact that it has two fully functioning restaurants. There is a fine diner, which is clearly aiming for Michelin stardom but which was closed that evening, and Le Mazot, the informal, brasserie-style eatery, which was open. The food for both come under the control of Martin Burge, ex-L'Ortolan, Le Manoir aux Quat' Saisons and Pied à Terre, classy establishments all, which suggests a man who knows what he is about.
And that proved to be the case. I would express slight surprise that three of the seven first courses contained poultry liver in the form of a parfait, a ballotine and a terrine. I am as fond of chicken, duck and goose liver as the next man, but don't expect them to crop up in every dish. That having been said, my ballotine of duck and foie gras with a purée of quince poached in vanilla was the real McCoy - full-on duck chunks bound in a substantial wodge of foie gras, with the quince weighing in as a delicately fruity foil.
Both the Chief Executive and the Deputy Chief Executive wanted ravioli of winter vegetables with Jerusalem artichoke cappuccino, and both would have happily had it again. It wasn't a version of pasta that an Italian might acknowledge, but it was very fine all the same. The sauce, in particular, was seriously classy. I am not quite such a fan of frothy sauces as the cooking world seems to be of late, but in this case puréed artichoke had been used to add body to the sauce, so that it was creamy, subtle and substantial, as well as frothy.
This measured assurance in concept and execution carried on through the main courses - braised duck leg with a lot of sauce that blended duck stock, cream and green peppercorns; braised shoulder of lamb with a crust of herbs and mustard; and a leg of rabbit stuffed with shallots, bacon and its own kidneys in a red wine-based sauce. Each was a testament to Burge's mastery of classical French idiom. There was nothing remotely (thankfully) cutting edge or outré about any of them. The vegetables - carrots, turnip, cabbage, French beans - were neatly spliced into the design of the dishes. The sauces were elegant, balanced affairs, and served with unusual liberality. The meats had been cooked with nice judgment. In short, all was tickety-boo.
My only misgiving - and this is not a criticism - is that while Le Mazot is billed as a brasserie, the food is anything but. In style, sophistication and presentation, it is pretty serious stuff, not so much a cut above as an entire class above what I would understand by brasserie grub. But I'm not complaining. The prices may be a touch above those you might expect to find in a brasserie, too - first courses run between £6 and £7.50, main courses between £12.50 and £13.50, while all puddings are £6.50. And we did have puddings, a pineapple tarte tatin with kulfi malai ice cream times two, and an orange crêpe soufflé with an orange and Grand Marnier sauce, which was as disarmingly kitsch as it was delicious. Even with the help of the puddings, our bill came to £104.25 all in, which was very nifty value for money for cooking of genuine class, and well worth the cross-country hack, panic attack and even the dubious decor.
· Open All week, lunch, 12 noon-2pm; dinner 7-10pm. Wheelchair access & WC.
