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SCHOLARS of the Greek philosopher Epicurus (341-270 Bc), who held that the highest good was pleasure and that the world was a series of fortuitous combina- tions of atoms, resent the vulgar associa- tion of epicureanism with the unleashed appetites of hedonism. Those of us who are fired more by gluttony than pedantry need not worry ourselves about such things: at Epicurean I ate gloriously — better than I have at any other restaurant for the whole of this year.
Patrick McDonald, the chef-proprietor, is a young, ambitious and goodlooking rugby-playing (No 8) Geordie, whose formative years were spent in the kitchens, variously, of his grandmother, 90 Park Lane and the Dorchester. He is bound to end up as one of the celebrity chefs of the Nineties; I would put money on his being given his own television series before long. But this shouldn't put you off: it is inciden- tal to his talent, which is a singular one. Marco Pierre White, without the tempera- ment, he may be destined to become; whatever, this man can cook. No need, either, to apply the usual culinary compari- sons, to pick up influences here, borrowed flourishes there: he cooks in his own way, which is both elegant and robust, earthy and quite divine.
Inside this small restaurant next to a gift-ish shop, McDonald presents us with the first pleasant surprise. An interior of almost 18th-century elegance gracefully subverts the expected image of pretty- pretty as a picture, twee Cotswolds charm. A disappointment for Americans visiting from nearby Stratford, maybe, but a relief for the rest of us. The exposed stone suits the inky elephant grey and cream colours of carpet and draped cloths, striped chairs and limed wood. The large marbled plates may be pushing his luck a bit, but even I, with my resistance to such frou-frou finery, have to admit that the whole works; the atoms combine.
The menu is small, with about a handful each of starters and main courses to choose from, on top of a set-price, daily changing lunch or dinner. And there is none of the purple-prose padding that one has grown to accept in even the most respectable of places. The ravioli of wild mushrooms, for example, the parsley soup with scallops and oysters, are just that, tout court. No breathy explanations are needed, no lyrical
descriptions and this, I think, is partly because if he indicates only the ingredients used he is free to combine them how he wishes, when he wishes.
One of us started with the pressed leeks with foie gras and white truffle oil, which at £14 is about twice the price of any other, but what the hell: this was magnificent. The spindly, little leeks are steamed in a terrine, pressed and placed in the centre of a plate, lightly spiked with a marinade- dressing of olive oil, star anise, garlic, chervil, dill and tarragon, surrounded by just-fried rounds of pink, soft foie gras and shavings of coal-black truffles and then dribbled with white truffle oil. The intense earthiness of the leeks together with the bosky carnality of truffle and liver make a dish that is both simple and richly intense.
But the soup, that soup: I've eaten it and re-eaten it in my daydreams every day since. Again, this is actually a simple concoction, but the final result is transcen- dent. Handfuls of parsley (good old- fashioned crinkly kind rather than con- tinental flat-leafed) are cooked for scarcely a minute in fish stock bolstered with Noilly Prat and diced shallots. Liquidised with double cream, the green speckled broth is sieved, the scallops are sliced and the oysters are taken out of their shells and all are tumbled in, with the briny oyster liquor and a few beads of beluga caviar, for a few seconds heat before being brought to you. You don't eat this soup, you are seduced by it.
The main courses are no less heroic, only it's a bit like meeting someone you want to rush off with in the first five minutes of a dinner party: after the soup I passed the rest of the evening in a bit of a daze. But I remember enough to recommend the par- tridge. The bird is shot locally and, on McDonald's instructions, from behind. Back in his tiny kitchen, it is left to `I met this really tasty fellow.' marinate in red wine and white port and a sprig of rosemary for a few days. The bird sits on what would in a more precious restaurant be called a nest of grated savoy cabbage. In a sauce of reduced stock — of partridge and vegetably chicken — which is glossy like conkers but without that mar- mitey stickiness which is a familiar and fashionable product of overzealous reduc- ing, are small turnips and parsnips and strangely creamy celeriac, carved into new- potato-sized chunks, with a few, sweet, whole cloves of garlic still in their pink, boiled-sweet-wrapper-like skins.
The chicken and lobster with asparagus, tomato and basil may seem on the odd side of adventurous, but McDonald is not one of those wilful chefs, grasping after innova- tion and faux-inspiration, so trust him. This is really a luxurious variation on a pot au feu. The leg is made into a ballotine and poached in chicken stock. With wild mushrooms, a tangle of eggy pasta, a few diced tomatoes and torn basil leaves, this is what McDonald calls his Italian dish. The soup is magnificent, a real hit of shellfish behind the golden, soothing mellowness of chicken. The lobster tails are plunged in at the last minute, the white meat translucent and sweet; the fiery red markings bright and vibrant still.
For pudding, he offers a variant on the wearisome plate of ali things chocolate, an assortment of lemony puddings: a cold, white sorbet and delicate pale ice-cream, thin lemon tart and creamy wedge of pie and, at the centre of this arrangement, a lemon soufflé, puffed golden. I had the Poire William soufflé, high and proud in its dish, surrounded with tiny rounds of ice- cream as rich as butter, and slices of caramelised pears. With it, drink a glass of Poire William. Perfection.
With one glass of pear-made spirit, two of champagne and a bottle of just-right Brown Brothers dry muscat (at £17.25), our dinner for two, plus tip of about 15 per cent, came to £130. Yes, it's a lot, but it was more, much more, than twice as good a dinner in any restaurant I can think of that's half the price, which is one way of looking at it. If you want to spend less, go for the prix-fixe. The £26 set dinner the night I went included a gratis appetiser of black pudding with pommes purées and caramelised onion, in miniature — or tapas-sized (all diners get this, as they do a champagne-and-grapefruit granite after the starter), then marinated salmon with lamb's lettuce, roast pheasant with girolles and brussels sprouts, and apple tart with apple sorbet. Sunday lunch at £14 is best value. The place is closed on Monday, so the kitchen is cleared out in style. If you want to spend more, there's the £45 gourmet menu, nine courses long, decided by the chef and served to entire tables only. Next time.
Epicurean: 1 Park Street, Stow-on-the- Wold, Glos. Tel 0451-31613
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