The Chequers, Ettington, 8th November 2011
So, I’d been to see a Plastic Surgeon, sorry, Cosmetic Surgeon (don’t ask; I haven’t worked out the anecdote yet). And whether it was the fluorescent lighting or the disturbing photographs that he showed me on his little computer screen, I don’t know, but I felt the need for a drink. So, as we were leaving that place that is known as ‘Posh Birmingham’ it was decided that it would be acceptable, after checking with the babysitter, to stop off en route for supper. We decided on the Chequers; I was not up for any big surprises on that night. We’d been there before and knew the decor to be tasteful, the food to be edible.
We entered into that refuge of subtle lighting, log fire smuttiness and general bonhomie and felt instantly at ease. We were greeted at once by all the staff. Not in a kind of it-is–my-job-to-meet-and-greet way but with all the relaxed friendliness of people who find eye-contact a natural achievement; people who work in the service sector because they enjoy to serve, a sort of American idea. It was Tuesday night and so we had the choice of eating in the bar or the restaurant. I favoured bar and after a small moment of conflict with husband (who, frankly, was not attired to attend a private hospital, let alone a restaurant) we were seated near the fire in the lively bar.
How do they do it? They have triumphed with the gastro-pub formula in a way that my local pub could only dream of. It was Tuesday night and not only the bar but the restaurant as well was decently busy. Both were coexisting in a spirit of parasitic harmony; the bar giving atmosphere to the restaurant, the restaurant giving respectability to the bar. At the point of ordering drinks, let me tell you reader, I was prepared to forgive much.
I was presented with a Pinot of such icy, citrus, clarity that I felt foolish for ever thinking that Sauvignon was the only way to Essex. Husband had something fizzy and yeasty which suited his attire but is hardly worth commenting on. I did not have a starter but ordered some olives to accompany the wine. They were mostly green, too hard and swimming in a liquid that was not quite vinegar but more a cross between paraffin and washing-up liquid. Green olives inundate the market and I find that mostly, it is more reliable to buy them tinned. When tinned, they do not aspire to be a gourmet food product but they have been softened by something that at least tastes like vinegar and not detergent. Juicy, fat black olives, however, I would like to see more of. Husband had plaice goujons with mayonnaise. Admittedly, the portion was disappointing. He found them to be under-seasoned but I rather liked them; they were pleasingly crisp. Of course, they might have been light relief for me after the artificial peculiarness of the olives.
For my main course I had fish pie with greens. Comforting food indeed. It was creamy and not too fishy, seasoned perfectly and if the addition of a prawn or two would have added some variety of texture, I’m enough of a purist to appreciate the omission. The greens, however, are worthy of comment. Let us rewind to a time when vegetables in the United Kingdom were solely broccoli and carrots. It was something like when women fought for the vote; they fought on the basis of equality, understandably but then this idea of equality was applied to every form of legislation, even when it was not appropriate. And so it was with vegetables. Suddenly, we had to eat all vegetables in a nearly raw state to prove ourselves civilised. My ‘greens’ included, amongst the cabbage, some artistically arranged courgette. Let me ask anyone who cooks and enjoys food whether they enjoy the nearly-raw courgette? No. That is the only answer. Like most Mediterranean vegetables, its true flavour and sweetness is exposed after a certain amount of cooking. And NOT before. I do not want to eat soggy broccoli but neither do I want to eat raw courgette. Anyone who appreciates Ratatouille will understand my particular sensitivity on this point.
As for husband, he had Guinea fowl and mash. He claimed that the mash was under-seasoned and not quite warm enough. The latter observation has an inkling of microwave about it but perhaps that is being overly sensationalist. The under-seasoning, however, can be emoted about in a similar way to that of the greens. Once upon a time, it was decided that salt was bad for the health and that too much killed the taste buds and stopped us from appreciating real flavour. Processed food, we were told, was full of it. However, the proliferation of overly salty food is not a justification for un-tasty, under-seasoned food.
But we were happy. We tipped generously and the conversation, off the back of the nice plastic surgeon, flowed freely. I can’t recommend the Chequers enough!
