There are very few things guaranteed to put me off my food; the sight of Jim Davidson, wandering through the dining room in a pair of expansive tartan trousers, is definitely one of them. The fact that both Davidson and my family should have chosen to spend the weekend at the same hotel - the rather special Calcot Manor - was deeply distressing. I don't like the idea that we share the same taste in anything. Happily, Davidson was not eating there. He, and a disturbingly large collection of self-satisfied, Bentley-driving, penguin-suited toadies were off to a party hosted by Prince Charles at nearby Highgrove. Unfortunately they were all still there the next morning which suggests none of them choked on his Highness's food. Vive la republic, and all that.
That we all managed to co-exist quite happily is proof that the hotel is a class act. While having mastered the arts of adult swank and pamper, it also markets itself at families with small children, which means full-on baby-listening, hot-and-cold running milk and a playzone, where dads like me can go to play with intricate construction toys while pretending to be entertaining their sons. By having two restaurants - a fancy place called the Conservatory, and a faux pub-style eatery called the Gumstool Inn - it manages to feed both sizes of people well. The children's tea menu, served in the Gumstool, is a model of its kind. Sure, there's fish and chips and pizza. But there's also grilled chicken breast and home-made soup, egg and soldiers and great pasta. The ingredients are uniformly good. It is a thousand miles from the school dinners drek with which most places - even some so-called 'child-friendly hotels' - insult children.
Of the two restaurants for grown-ups the most assured is the Gumstool. I can see why they need the Conservatory. They do a roaring trade in weddings, I'm sure. But, for the most part, you are paying for a lot of laundered table linen and charming French waiters straight out of central casting. The cooking is essentially prettied-up bistro fare which you might as well eat in the bistro at half the price.
I would be lying if I claimed the Gumstool was atmospheric. The acres of stripped wood have a slightly orange, honeyed glow reminiscent of a Harvester and hanging on the walls are the kind of authentic rustic artefacts that must date back to, ooh, last month at least. But the cooking is assured and the service slick and friendly. There is a long menu plus an extra list of specials from which I chose a salad of chorizo, lardons, poached egg and frisée. I have said previously that I consider frisée a waste of space, the dental floss of the salad world, but its restrained presence here was forgivable. The solid, funky lumps of chorizo had been well singed and the egg was masterfully poached so that its yolk quickly dressed the rest of the dish. Pat chose a caramelised red-onion tart with slow-baked tomatoes and tallegio. The onions could have been more caramelised but it was still a robust piece of work, the pungent cheese giving the whole a real kick.
Pat followed that with a Provençale beef stew, which was rich and intense. Clearly it had been bubbling away on somebody's stove for a very long time. I had a fried lemon soul with nutty brown butter. Fish, simply prepared, is a good test of any restaurant, and the kitchen passed this one impressively. The night before I had finished my meal in the Conservatory with a strawberry Pavlova. The meringue served there was much better than that served in a similar pudding in the Gumstool, in which the meringue had a friable, mass-produced texture.
Pricing is reasonable at around £20 a head for the food, there's a good set of wines by the glass, and Jim Davidson wasn't there to frighten the children. What more could you want?
