Restaurants DEBORAH ROSS My partner has bought a wood.
r) -11 DEBORAH ROSS My partner has bought a wood. Seriously, he has. He simply came home one day and said, 'I have something to tell you.' Oh good, I thought, he's leaving me. Now at last I can get on with my life. 'I've bought a wood,' he said. My partner likes the outdoor life and camping. He'll often go off for a few days, big rucksack and frying-pan bouncing off his back. I tried camping with him once but ended up sitting in the car for two days with the heater on, crying and wishing I was in John Lewis. I guess I am more the indoorsy type.
He has, it turns out, bought four acres of beech and oak in the Chilterns, Buckinghamshire Would I like to visit it? 'You bet!' I lie. It is always a testing moment when a gentleman shows a lady his wood, but it is a very nice wood, full of wood, with a view over wheatfields. 'Couldn't you look at the view forever?' he says. 'Yes,' I lie, even though I don't really get it; am thinking 'But you've seen it now, love. Move on.' He will, I know, be happy camping here with his axe and his saw and his bivvy bag and his storm kettle and all those dry things that will get wet and then will never get dry again, because that is what camping is like. (You can tell this, even from a heated car.) You may ask, in the light of all this, what has kept us together all these years, especially as the sex isn't that great. I think it's because he respects my interests while I respect his, or at least I would do if only they were more interesting and involved a lot more shopping.
Anyway, we mooch around his wood for a bit, during which I am keen to appear enthusiastic: 'Oh, look, a beech, darling. See it? It's between that beech and the other one.' I do not wish to rain on his parade, not that he minds the rain as I do. That's the other thing about camping, isn't it? The rain, which will travel thousands of miles against prevailing winds just to drench a tent. I'm sure of it. Please don't get me wrong, though. I have nothing against nature and love it on television, but nature 'au naturel?' That's a different thing altogether.
So we look about the wood, and then decide it's time for lunch. He's made up because his wood is equidistant between the Chilterns' Camra Pub of the Year and the runner-up, but I'm not convinced by their menus, which I'd looked up online and appeared to feature gammon and pineapple. (All I will say about gammon with pineapple is: why?) I suggest The Pheasant at Ballinger Common (Great Missenden), which is just a bit further up the road and looks more interesting, foodwise.
The Pheasant is beautifully situated opposite the village cricket field, and has a conservatory built alongside where the food is served, as so many pubs now do. The entrance to the pub is approached by walking alongside the conservatory, and as I look in one diner looks up from his party and that diner is Jim Davidson. Honestly, it is. My first thought is: well, if it's good enough for Jim Davidson, does that mean we should try elsewhere? Actually, that's mean, as is the way many people treat Jim Davidson these days. Seriously, anyone would think he was a racist, sexist, wife-beating, bankrupt homophobe who also seems to have it in for the disabled and was never very funny anyway. It's terrible how some people can get other people all wrong. Look at Heather Mills, the bitch.
Inside we go, where the decor is obviously striving towards chic, perhaps overly so, with slate on the walls and a chrome bar and oversized wine glasses and plates that are large and square (why does everyone seem to have a problem with round plates, all of a sudden?). There are many photographs of hats on the walls because, it turns out, the newish owner, Jane King, used to be a milliner who made it to the top, millinery-speaking, with her hats being for sale in all the big West End stores, but gave it all up to take over the Pheasant and open the restaurant, now called Hatters.
We're asked if we'd like to sit in the conservatory, or at one of the tables in the pub. 'The pub,' we chorus, quickly. This, of course, doesn't mean we have anything against Jim, who is so misunderstood, particularly by shirtlifters and poofs, who just don't get his sense of humour.
The menu is honest and true, offering good, solid pub nosh favourites — sausage and mash with red wine gravy, burger with hand-cut fries, full mixed grill with field mushrooms, all from meat sourced locally — as well as a couple of less expected offerings, such as scallops with crab risotto. We order from our waitress — the daughter of the owner, I think — who is mortified when our bread rolls turn out to be still frozen in the middle. 'I can't believe we did that. I am so embarrassed,' she keeps saying. She is so mortified that I wish I'd simply eaten them and then said, 'I do love a roll that is frozen in the middle.'
Still, in the scheme of things, a frozen roll is not a tragedy and the rest of the meal goes without a hitch. I have the sea bass served with pesto couscous (£16) and a side order of spinach. Although I can't say the pesto couscous particularly does it for me — too much chilli, and it's strangely oily — the fish is beautifully cooked, sweet and moist, as is the spinach. I never do spinach at home because I can't bear wrestling tons and tons of it into a pot only to end up with a teaspoonful. This spinach is a wonderful, vivid green, flavoured slightly with nutmeg, and not too wet. I do hate spinach that drips. My partner has the navarin of lamb (£14), a sort of lamb stew served with green beans, carrots and super-fat chips with the skins still on. He describes it as `the lambiest lamb I've had in ages; beautifully tender'.
We finish with an apple crumble, served with crème anglaise (£6) and a cheese platter (£7). The crumble is gorgeous, not too sweet, with one of those fabulous toppings that crunch for one bite and then melt in the mouth. The cheese platter comprises oatcakes, grapes and crackers as well as huge chunks of mature cheddar, a blue and a blissfully runny Brie. I should add that my partner is keen on beer and he says the beer here — Tribute, from a Cornish brewery — 'has a lovely, honey aftertaste and has been extremely well kept'.
The Pheasant is a good pub that has its heart in the right place, offering good food that isn't gammon and pineapple (why, why, why?) but isn't poncy or pretentious either. We leave, although not before Jim who, on his exit, is talked into buying one of the £10 calendars on sale to support the local kids' football team. 'Tell you what,' we hear Jim say loudly. 'I'll give you twenty for one.' No wonder he's bankrupt; he's just so generous. Like I said, it's so easy to get people wrong.
The Pheasant, Ballinger Common, Great Missenden; tel. 01494 837236.
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