|
From the
https://www.dailymail.co.uk By Tom Parker Bowles, 7 October 2017.
A spookily good lunch ...at a pub brimming with spirit in England's most haunted village.
The Dering Arms. The Grove, Pluckley, Kent.
Rating:
We don’t make it to the Screaming Woods, or Fright Corner, despite
their being in easy chain-rattling distance from lunch. Nor do we
bump into the Red Lady, ghostly monk, phantom highwayman or
miserable gypsy.
Nope, our trip to Pluckley, once named ‘the most haunted village in
England’ by the Guinness Book Of Records, is disappointingly spectre-free.
The only spirit we tackle is a glass of calvados, and the only thing
dying, that emaciated corpse of British summer.
But The Dering Arms, with its reassuringly solid flagstone floor,
stuffed pheasants, mounted antlers, whirring clocks and sporting
prints, is the sort of pub in which time doesn’t so much fly as
saunter and stroll.
The Dering Arms, with its reassuringly solid flagstone floor,
stuffed pheasants, mounted antlers and whirring clocks, is the sort
of pub in which time doesn't so much fly as saunter.
A sturdy Victorian hunting lodge, it’s named after Sir Edward Dering,
MP, supporter of Charles I, owner of the Dering Manuscript (Henry IV
parts I and II, and the oldest known extant Shakespearean
manuscript), and, apparently, my great grandfather, to the power of
11. Well, that’s what Wikipedia says anyway.
Now before you accuse me of ancestral nepotism, I knew nothing of
the connection. Honest guv. Not a bloody clue. Russell, fine
restaurateur, friend and new Pluckley resident, said I should come
down.
‘It was famous for being a great fish restaurant back in the
Nineties,’ he told me. ‘And it’s the sort of place where the owner,
on hearing that there were no taxis to get me home, drove me himself
in a lovely old Bentley.’
I like those sort of places. It’s a proper pub, with locals
wandering in and out for a pint, a sandwich, a gossip and chat.
Dried hops adorn the bar, and crown the doorways, while a fox’s head
(not exactly the pinnacle of the taxidermist’s art), snarls down
from on high.
Specials, mainly fish, are scrawled on the blackboard beside the
bar, while oysters, ‘to take away,’ are available at 90p each. We
order half a dozen, firm and sweet, and wallow in the civilised
silence, punctuated only by the whisper of fellow guests, the soft
tread of our waiter’s approach, the hum of the fridge and the
tick-tock of the mantle clock.
The cooking here is old-fashioned hearty, and blessedly free from
any modern affectation. Food arrives on white plates, dairy is
deployed with reckless abandon and the only foam is found atop the
local beer. Hurray. Chicken livers, cut small and still pert, are
smothered in litres of cream, a nip of brandy and piled high on
toast.
It’s gloriously, unashamedly rich, but does cry out for a dribble of
lemon and drop of Tabasco to cut through that heavy lactic embrace.
Sussex smokies, or chunks of good smoked mackerel, are blanketed in
still more cheesy, creamy mustard-spiked goo, bubbling and blistered
brown by the grill. The bowl is polished clean by wads of good
bread.
Fish is more hit and miss. Skate is as good as you’ll find anywhere,
great luscious strands falling off those gelatinous bones. With a
sharp, nutty, caper-studded brown butter sauce. Sardines are
gleamingly fresh, but have spent a moment too long under the grill.
So the flesh loses that ephemeral sweetness, and turns towards the
dry. The same goes with a generous tranche of halibut meunière,
nothing ruinous but just edging towards the overdone. Fried oysters,
though, are a welcome addition, as is a mound of butter-ravished
spinach.
Scallops, sliced in half for some reason, are well cooked but
woefully under-seasoned. And sit upon a glum, watery sludge of
crushed peas and mint. It may be based upon the Rowley Leigh
classic, but lacks essential sweetness. No such problems when it
comes to pudding, sticky toffee in particular.
The batter is light, bouncy and studded with dates, the butterscotch
sauce bold and bountiful. Then a lemon posset that just manages to
stay on the right side of overwhelming. We reckon it’s made with
clotted cream, a fine addition, but one that desperately requires
the lemon’s tart bite.
The wine list is short, but well-chosen and priced too. Although the
local Dering Arms ‘Champagne’ is certainly an acquired taste.
Service is lovely, and it’s the sort of pub where lunch could turn,
all too easily, into dinner.
So yes, there are a couple of piscine mishaps. But somehow, it
doesn’t seem to matter. This is generous, well-priced country pub
cooking with occasional flashes of inspiration. A final glass of
calvados is not so much indulgence as essential medicine, a ‘trou
Normande’ to burn through all that heft.
We totter out into the weak September sunshine, and skip the few
yards to the station. In the distance, something catches my eye,
white, spectral and fluttering in a seemly supernatural fashion. I
grab Russell’s arm, and point with shaking finger. He smiles and
shakes his head. It’s a Tesco bag, caught high up in a tree. Hey ho.
No ghosts today. But the Dering Arms has spirit to spare. |
)
