My old mate and former Times colleague, Guy Walters, a picture researcher on
this very magazine as long ago as 1992, later Deputy Editor (partworks) and
author of such groundbreaking articles as "Your Treehouse and the Law",
who now lives in Wiltshire and writes extremely successful books about
Nazis, has a theory: "For every ten miles you drive away from London",
says Guy, "you travel back one year in time." He's talking about
fashion, mostly. About shops and clothes and cars and food and conversation
topics. And if you look around, you will find that it's absolutely true. In
Oxford, for example, 60 miles from London, they're all showing designer
knicker elastic above the waistband of low-crotched jeans, gelling their
hair into fins, eating overrated Japanese fusion and thinking that the
biggest threat to world security is the Millennium bug.
In Portsmouth, 80 miles from London, the kids are just getting into vintage
trainers, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone is a book for
children, grown-ups still can't believe Diana is gone, and foodies dream of
a trip to Aubergine, where Gordon something or other is said to be a
frightfully good cook who, if you're very, very lucky, might come out of the
kitchen and swear at you.
And in Guy's part of Wiltshire, according to his theory, it is 1995. So one
has to assume that only the big shots have mobile phones, the kids are
terribly excited about Britpop, and foodie types are eating, gosh, I have no
idea. I absolutely cannot remember what we ate back then. I dimly recall
names like Alastair Little, Bruno Loubet and Stephen Terry. I remember that
Marco Pierre White was still, just about, cooking. But I can't for the life
of me remember what was mostly on people's plates. Best head down to Guy's
place in Heytesbury for the weekend, and take him and his wife to a
restaurant to find out.
In the first instance, Guy's theory held up. We lost mobile reception almost
as soon as we pulled off the A303, and as a result didn't see one all
weekend, and it is certainly true that he lives in a house, a very big
house, in the countreeeee (which is as far as we'll go with the Britpop
thing). But it was about the food, as we pulled up at Howard's House Country
Hotel and Restaurant, that I was most a-tingle.
And it was a tingle that I realised I would have to suffer a little longer as
we were shown into a chintzy sitting room for an aperitif soooo 1995.
Guy was in chinos with a sports jacket, loafers and red socks, just like when
I first met him in, ooh, late 1994, and I had on proper trousers and leather
shoes for the first time in ages, because that sort of kit is expected on a
gentlemen eating out in the mid-Nineties. My girlfriend, on the other hand,
was in jeans and flip-flops, as if it was 2006 or something.
I half feared an angry chef in a 3ft toque would burst from the kitchen and
throw us out. That can happen in 1995, you know.
But still I couldn't remember what we ate back then. With our drinks, the
waitress brought menus. I opened mine and does the phrase, "seared
scallops, black pudding, apple purée" mean anything to you?
Teehee. Of course. How could I have forgotten?
In every line it came flooding back: There was "barbary duck breast,
sweet corn pancake, confit shallot" and "wild sea bass with gnocchi".
And how about a spot of "fondant potato"? Oh, how we loved our
fondants and confits.
Even without quite knowing how they were different from what we had been
eating before. I could have wept for the recherche of temps perdu.
Best of all (be still my fluttering, nostalgic heart), there was: "banoffee
crumble tartlet". For pure 1995tasticness, the chef might as well have
come out of the kitchen and sung, "She came from Greece, she had a
thirst for knowledge, She studied sculpture at St Martin's college." He
might as well have said: "In Paris, you can buy a beer in McDonald's.
And I ain't talkin' about in no paper cup". He might as well have
gestured with his hand and said: "Patsy, this is Liam. Liam, Patsy."
But I am not for a moment knocking it. Food was already great by 1995, if you
remember. It's just that there was less of it around. It was still in
restaurants rather than in books and on the telly and in the newspapers.
Nigella wrote in this magazine (with pictures no doubt researched by Guy) not
about food, but about make-up. And she still had a surname. Although I can't
remember what it was.
They brought us an amuse-bouche (oh, brave new world!) of trout mousse and
melba toasts, and then some very good starters. Lentil and bacon soup was
not the chunky bowlful expected by those of us who had driven all the way
down from 2006, but my pals from 1995 were delighted by the smooth, olive
coloured velouté with its snazzy drizzle of olive oil.
The scallops and black pudding looked neatly done, but I have simply eaten
them too many times to do it again. More exciting were some sovereign-sized
slices of fillet of local pork with a dinky dollop of mustard mash (très
Nineties) and a light, foamy apple butter sauce a wacky idea for a starter
of which I rather approve, but which, I can reveal to the house (with the
benefit of having seen the future), did not catch on.
Personally, I allowed myself the rare treat of a thick slice of foie gras
roasted in a sherry vinegar caramel, a dish I would not have eaten had we
been in 2006 because almost all foie gras production is a vile and morbid
exploitation of livestock. But in 1995 nobody really cares about that sort
of thing, so I just sat back and loved it.
Now, the roasted turbot with braised oxtail was excellent and, let's be
honest, reasonably hip. Its accompanying cylinder of fondant potato was back
in period style, but none the worse for that. The cannon of lamb and the sea
bass were fine flesh properly handled and, I'll tell you what, the banoffee
crumble tartlet, straight out of the Tardis though it was, was cracking, and
nicely accompanied with a surprising little banana sorbet.
Service was utterly unclunky, each set of four dishes arriving simultaneously
in the hands of two waiters (in darkest Wiltshire they are still a long way
away, thank God, from slamming giant plates down in the middle of the table
and inviting us to share everything, "a bit like tapas"), and
there were no constant interruptions to ask if everything was OK, a habit
which started in London in, I reckon, 1999, with the sudden proliferation of
chains run by money men who don't actually give a shit how it was, but tell
their staff to ask so that you can't sue later.
As for the terribly current business of sourcing (horrendous 21st-century
coinage), this place is unfaultable, with the meat being mostly local and
the bulk of the vegetables coming from the hotel's own garden.
Guy tells me that Howard's House is in absolutely the most beautiful rural
setting imaginable, but we arrived and left in total darkness so you'll have
to take his word for it. He also says that it's near a very good prep
school, but I am going to pretend for just a little longer that it is still
1995, and that we are all too young to care about that sort of thing.
Howard's House
Teffont Evias, Salisbury, Wiltshire (01722 716392)
Meat/fish: 7
Cooking: 7
Local value: 8
Score: 7.33
Three course table d'hôte, £25.95 (very decent value indeed). Three courses à
la carte, £42
The Angel Coaching Inn & Grill
Heytesbury, Wiltshire (01985 840330)
This gastropub is owned by Antony Worrall Thompson's agent, the only other
resident of Guy's village, apart from Rod Liddle's ex-wife. When the clients
and exes are in town it must be like a stroll through the party pages of Hello!
Bishopstrow House
Warminster, Wiltshire (01985 212312)
I reviewed this place for The Independent in 2000, and enjoyed great
game and puddings. I doubt it's changed much, this being Wiltshire. (I
notice that I wrote then "Confit of duck is becoming the steak
bearnaise of the age" which shows I was trend-obsessed even then. I was
right though, wasn't I?)
E-mail feedme@thetimes.co.uk if you have a Tardis
