RESTAURANTS AS THEATRE
Alice Thomson
TWO THOUSAND years ago, the Ridge- way path passed through our hamlet of Lit- tle Stoke, along the River Thames, across the fields and into the village of North Stoke. As a child I would walk along the Path every day to catch the school bus. I never went into the woods beyond, but I knew that somewhere inside them lurked a three-star hotel.
For 20 years I'd heard stories about this mock-Tudor mansion. It has a swimming Pool shaped like a guitar, built by Ian Gillan of Deep Purple, when he briefly owned the house. There was a lake filled With swans. Mark Thatcher spent the first night of his honeymoon there. Michael Caine, the local celebrity, popped in for breakfast, and Kevin Maxwell, the local miscreant, for lunch. Occasionally we Would surprise honeymoon couples frolick- ing under the willows by the river; once at our rather sober midnight mass a rollicking group of guests appeared, punch still in hand. But otherwise we never met anyone from The Springs Hotel.
Two years ago we noticed more activity in the wood. Dumper trucks started emerg- ing from the trees. The local farmer had quietly sold the water meadows on the far Side to be made into a golf course for the hotel. Now every time we wandered too far along the Ridgeway, we'd bump into hud- dles of Pringle-jumpered golfers. As there hasn't been a golfer in the family for three generations, we still weren't enthused. Nor Were the other villagers when they found out they'd have to pay a sizeable member- ship fee to hit a few balls round their back Yards.
Then last month my parents' friend Vi decided we were all being ridiculous. She Was going to be the first to drive up the wooded, fairy-lit path. She came back, tri- umphant. The Springs did a very good Sun- day lunch. So my parents booked a table last Friday night.
As my father parked his old Volvo away from the Rolls-Royce and next to a golf buggy, we saw a sign on the oak door — Golfers, please take off spikes.' The mock- Tudor theme was carried on inside, with an oak-panelled lounge', large open fire and Slippery new leather seats. The wine waiter appeared, beaming. We asked for a bottle of the house champagne. `Ah, a beautiful Choice,' said the man quite sincerely. He Was right, and later we added a good Chablis Premier Cru Lablin et Fils 1995 from the short but comprehensive wine list.
We read the brochures while eating some rather good hors d'oeuvres of plump prawns with mustard on choux pastry. The golf course, built by former Ryder Cup cap- tain Brian Huggett MBE, is in 'an officially designated area of outstanding natural beauty' which I'd never appreciated. 'With- in it lie three lakes and challenging wetland areas.'
The menu sounded equally ambitious. The first starter was 'pearls of melon wrapped in Parma ham with an orange syrup and fruit sorbet'. Next were 'towers of crab', `pithiviers of duck', 'pressings of chicken' and 'symphonies of lemon'. Was the chef auditioning to be the next People's Poet Laureate? The restaurant was like sit- ting in the front row of Covent Garden. Stretched out before us was a floodlit lake, where mist swirled in the reeds and several birds hovered front-stage. 'Where are the swans?' I asked a waiter. He immediately rushed off. Three minutes later two white swans and four cygnets glided into view. 'I just gave them a quick telephone call,' the waiter winked. Then we saw another white- jacketed employee shivering in the wings, throwing bread.
The surprise of The Springs wasn't the hidden lake, or the ye olde charms swinging from the beams, it was the waiters. They were all British, a rarity in London, where serving is dismissed as servants' work, and they all looked as though they were enjoying themselves (a feat I never achieved when working at the pub down the road). They seemed genuinely interested in whether we preferred granary or white rolls, and were brutally honest in their assessment of the menu. 'Oh, I wouldn't go for the duck, sir, not today.' A chicken spring roll came with- out asking. Straight from the fryer, it was 'I like to keep a clean town here stranger... and your sort ain't welcome.' crisp and crackly on the outside, and mari- nated to perfection inside.
I chose the tower of crab, which came with scallops and cucumber. The crab was deliciously fresh, the scallops a little pusil- lanimous, the cucumber a disappointment. It was too soggy, and gave no crunch to the dish. My father insisted on the duck pithivi- er, which was in fact duck in pastry with puy lentils. The lentils he rather liked, but he could hardly taste the bird. 'It didn't sing out,' he said. My mother's terrine of chick- en was 'too anaemic', and my husband Ed could hardly eat his oak-smoked salmon. Now that smoked salmon is sold in garages alongside pork pies and pints of milk, it has to be exceptional for a restaurant to get away with it. His was slimy and came with unwelcome flecked pieces of egg and onion. The sorbet we were served next could have been peach, tangerine, or rose- water. The mint leaf was refreshing but the rest was a mistake.
My main course was wild mushroom risotto wrapped in Parma ham with basil oil, and a large green salad. The salad had been taken seriously, and was home-made rather than tipped out of a bag. The risotto was less impressive: too much butter had been used in the preparation, more oil had been poured on top, the fried mushrooms had sunk to the bottom of the glop and the bacon topping glistened with sweat. My father's Cornish brill with a lobster topping was more successful; the roasted peppers were a thoughtful vegetable, although he couldn't distinguish the lobster.
The waiter insisted we try one pudding. 'We have a very good pastry chef at the moment,' he said. 'The blackberry parfait is our favourite.' He was right. It was the best pudding I've eaten in years, a pithy sorbet, covered in warm crème anglaise. The con- versation turned from a recent trip I'd made to see the New Orleans police force in action to what we thought of the food. 'You can't discuss the food in front of the waiters,' Ed said. 'They'll guess we're doing a review.' My father, who never lowers his voice, looked unabashed. As we were leav- ing, a waiter accosted us in the hall. 'Excuse me, I couldn't help overhearing your con- versation earlier,' he said. Ed grinned — he'd obviously guessed we were reviewing the place. 'Are you all in the police force by any chance?' he asked. Ed looked crestfall- en. 'It's just that you were talking about zero tolerance and I used to be a police- man.' Why did he become a waiter? 'It's a nice change.'
I couldn't see myself coming back unless it was for a business lunch, when the polite service would be worth the f17 main cours- es, or unless in a mad moment I decided to take up golf, but then we suddenly remem- bered the track across the fields. We could all have got drunk and driven back legally.
The Springs Hotel North Stoke, Wallingford, Oxfordshire; tel: 01491 836687. Dinner for two, approximately £85 with wine.
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